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of hers, but he said, “To collect my sister who has been visiting your fair country for several months. Does that meet with your approval?”
    The woman didn’t answer. She had turned her attention to Miss Cabot again, eyeing her suspiciously. “And if you’re not Lady Altringham, then who
are
you? What young lady travels without escort, I ask you?”
    Roan wondered that, too, and his curiosity was the only thing that kept him from stuffing the woman’s cloth from her pail into her mouth. He glanced at Miss Cabot. Her cheeks had flushed in a way that made her look a bit guilty. Good God, she wasn’t another Aurora, was she?
    â€œOh, ah...please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Miss Prudence Cabot. And who might I have the pleasure of addressing?”
    â€œMrs. Tricklebank,” said the smaller. “And my sister, Mrs. Scales.”
    Miss Cabot peeked up at Roan. “May I introduce you to Mr. Matheson?”
    Before Roan could say a word, he was spared by the driver’s announcement that the coach would depart in fifteen minutes.
    â€œOh!” Mrs. Tricklebank cried. “Come, come, Ruth! We don’t want to miss the coach,” she said frantically, as if they were miles from the coach instead of the few feet that they were. Both women gathered their things and hurried back to the coach, clutching one another’s arms, their pails bumping against their hips.
    Roan wrapped what was left of the bread and cheese once more, a bit embarrassed by how much of it he’d eaten. “Thank you for your kindness, Miss Cabot. I’ll see to it your supplies are replenished.”
    Her smile was so sunny, Roan felt it slip right through him. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. I shall reach my destination by the end of the day.”
    â€œAre you certain? Those two might convince the driver to stop and hold an inquisition.”
    She laughed. “They’re harmless, really. I think they are much in love with the sound of their own voices.” She gave him a saucy smile and hopped off the fence railing. She stooped to pick up her valise. Roan unthinkingly took it from her hand and politely offered his arm to her.
    She kept that pert little smile as she laid her hand on his arm so carefully that he could scarcely feel it. He looked at her. He didn’t want to see a young woman of obvious privilege with the same misguided sensibilities as his sister. “Pardon, but how is it that you are traveling without escort?” he asked. “Not a maid? Not a groom?”
    Miss Cabot smiled as if his was a trifling question and averted her gaze. “Don’t you think it is interesting how people are so keen to fret over such small details?”
    Small detail, indeed
. That was precisely the sort of answer his incorrigible sister would give—an answer that answered nothing at all. “I’m not fretting,” he said. “Merely curious.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Matheson, for not fretting.” She flashed another smile at him, but this one was a bit more cautious.
    Yes, there was definitely something amiss with this beauty, he would stake his fortune on it. But he had enough trouble brewing in England to delve too deeply.
    When they reboarded, Roan noticed the boy had moved to the seats on top of the coach, still holding tight to the battered valise. Roan helped Miss Cabot into the coach, his fingers closing around the small bones of her elbow, his hand on the small of her back to guide her. He waited until she was seated, then put himself on the step, and looked inside, determining how he would fit himself onto the bench beside her and directly across from the old man once more.
    â€œWouldn’t you be more comfortable there?” Mrs. Scales asked him, pointing to the tiny bit of bench between her sister and the old man. “There’s more room, isn’t there?” And to Miss Cabot, she said, “The gentleman takes