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prove a copy of my Lady Edingale.”
    As if to underline this statement, when they had walked not ten yards from the smithy and were about to cross the bridge, they ran into a pair of middle-aged women coming the other way. Either of whom, Ottilia instantly decided, could have walked into a roomful of eccentrics and no questions asked.
    The taller of the two, clad plainly in a greatcoat dress of brown linen and an unadorned beaver hat, walked with a mannish stride, while the other, despite her obvious span of years, was the picture of femininity in a sprigged gown, a beribboned straw bonnet, and a voluminous shawl of some diaphanous fabric clustered about her shoulders. They had clearly espied the strangers, and Ottilia took immediate advantage of the situation.
    “Pardon me, if you please,” she said in a friendly way, going towards them, “but could you direct us to a suitable hostelry?”
    She was treated to a frowning stare from the taller female, but the other’s glance went from Ottilia to Francis and back again.
    “Goodness, how did you come here?” she uttered in a manner that betrayed an avid curiosity.
    “Only one decent inn,” said the other, turning to point across the green. “That’s it over there. Take the right fork.”
    “Thank you,” Ottilia said pleasantly and turned to the one more frivolously dressed. “We came on foot. Our carriage broke down on the post road.”
    At this, the first woman addressed herself to Francis.
    “What happened? Wheel off? Or a broken trace?”
    If Ottilia was surprised, it was plain her spouse was astonished.He concealed it well, however, merely replying, “My groom believes it is the axletree.”
    “You’ll be wanting a blacksmith, then.” She waved a hand towards the ruined forge. “No use hoping for ours, as you can see. Fellow was killed last night.”
    “So we have been informed,” said Francis.
    “Gracious, who told you? I thought you must have been looking at the smithy, but I could not conceive—”
    “Evelina!”
    The sharp tone had the effect of making the other woman colour up, and Ottilia felt her sympathies stirred. She smiled and played her trump card.
    “You are perfectly right, ma’am. But do forgive me. So rude of us not to make ourselves known to you. Allow me to present my husband, Lord Francis Fanshawe.”
    Ottilia had already noted the appreciative look cast upon her personable and lean-figured spouse by the more feminine member of the duo. She could not blame the woman, for she had herself been somewhat bowled over at first sight of his strong countenance with its aquiline nose and high-planed cheeks, his deep dark eyes, and the rich brown hair tied in the nape of his neck. But the name, as she had confidently expected, exercised an even more powerful effect.
    “Fanshawe? Gracious! I do believe—or no, perhaps I should not—”
    “Evelina, do be quiet,” snapped her mentor. She tapped herself on the chest. “I am Miss Beeleigh. My friend here is Mrs. Radlett.”
    Ottilia replied suitably and watched Francis make his bow. There could be no doubt that the story of last year’s events had penetrated even this backwater. The name of Fanshawe had appeared alongside that of Polbrook in more than one newspaper column. Only initials had been used, of course, but the scandal that had rocked the family had been widespread, and anyone who paid attention to such things would have known immediately who was meant by Lord F— F—.
    Her new acquaintances were exactly what Ottilia needed, and she lost no time in consolidating her advantage.
    “I hope we may meet again. I fear it will be a tedious wait until our coach can be repaired.”
    “Won’t matter,” said Miss Beeleigh. “Hannah Pakefield will be only too delighted to put you up. She can do with the custom, poor woman.”
    “Oh yes,” agreed Mrs. Radlett, “for there are few travellers through Witherley. We take coffee at the Blue Pig nearly every day. To help poor Hannah, you