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trying to avoid the dirt. He was small and narrow shouldered with a thin, pointed face and shifting, close-set eyes. Little tufts of mousy hair stuck out beneath his hat and, as a tap-boy greeted him and tried to take the leather case, he gathered it to him protectively, his teeth bared in a snarl that made the unfortunate lad step back a pace. His master broke off from barking orders at the stable boys to yell across the yard.
    ‘Damn you Miesel, get inside and bespeak me some brandy!’
    The effect upon the little man was startling: he darted towards door and Lucasta lost sight of him. She turned from the window with a chuckle.
    ‘Miesel – I think he would be better named weasel! What a funny little man.’ The viscount looked up, one brow raisedin enquiry, and she explained. ‘A gentleman has arrived with his servant: his valet, rather than his groom. I should think that denotes someone who cares more for his appearance than for his horses.’
    He laughed.
    ‘Jacob Potts would agree with you! Come, if you have finished your coffee, we should be on our way. Here.’ He walked up to her and pulled her hat more securely onto her head. ‘Let me look at you?’ His hand beneath her chin forced her to meet his fierce scrutiny and Lucasta found herself growing warm. She was convinced that her cheeks were bright red, but the viscount did not appear to notice. ‘Hmm, that will do. Now go out and wait in the curricle while I settle up.’
    Pulling her cloak tightly about her, Lucasta hurried out of the room. She was so intent upon keeping her head down that she did not notice the driver of the yellow carriage striding towards the doorway and as she stepped out of the inn she collided heavily with him.
    ‘Damnation, why can’t you look where you are going!’ A string of coarse oaths followed, drowning Lucasta’s apologies . As she tried to step away she found her arm caught in an iron grip. ‘Not so fast, you young cub! Do you think you can jostle me and get away with it?’
    ‘Sir, I have said I am sorry—’ Lucasta struggled in vain to free herself.
    ‘Well, sorry ain’t good enough,’ bellowed the man, raising his riding crop. ‘What you need is a good whipping!’
    ‘Touch the lad and you will have me to answer to!’
    The viscount’s voice cut like steel across the yard. Everyone stopped what they were doing and fell silent. Lucasta had braced herself to feel the slash of the whip, but she peeped up now and saw that her assailant was slowlylowering his whip hand and glaring at the viscount with a look of profound dislike upon his heavy features.
    ‘And what has this to do with you, Kennington?’
    ‘The boy is travelling under my protection. If you have a quarrel with him, then you had best take it up with me.’
    Lucasta stared at the viscount. She had not realized he could look so menacing. His many-caped driving coat enhanced his already broad shoulders and he filled the wide doorway to the inn. His usually smiling eyes were dark and hard as granite, his mouth a thin line of determination. The grip on her arm slackened and she pulled herself free. Lord Kennington stepped out from the inn doorway and beckoned her to join him. A few strides took her to his side and she felt the immeasurable comfort of his arm placed protectively around her shoulders. ‘Well, Bradfield? I heard the boy apologize : will you accept that?’
    For a long moment the two men stared at each other, the man called Bradfield glaring angrily, but Lord Kennington’s expression had not changed, he still wore that hard, implacable look. She shivered. Eventually Bradfield looked away. He shrugged.
    ‘His apology is accepted, but keep the young cub on a leash, Kennington. If he crosses my path again I’ll not be so lenient.’
    Obedient to the pressure on her shoulder, Lucasta accompanied Lord Kennington to the curricle where Potts was waiting for them. Silently they climbed up.
    ‘I am sorry,’ whispered Lucasta, as the viscount