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in York and that would be worth any discomfort, any long and tedious journey. Just thinking about someone other than herself always cheered Hannah, and so her thoughts turned easily from Mrs Clarence to Yvonne Grenier. There was something badly wrong with thiscoachload, rumbling its way northwards in the failing light; a marquis who had claimed to be ordinary Mr Giles; and a Mr Smith who frightened Yvonne and who had been joined by his foppish friend, Mr Ashton.
    By the time the coach jolted its way into Grantham, where they were to spend the night, Hannah had decided to question Yvonne further.
    Here was an attractive French girl and here was an aristocrat, and a very handsome one, too. Of course he might be as impoverished as he claimed to be, although Hannah, wise in the ways of the world, knew an aristocrat’s idea of poverty was a far cry from that of the wretches of the rookeries in London. If there was something about Mr Smith to fear, then perhaps that might rouse the knight-errantry in the marquis. Feeling quite warm from all these interesting speculations, Hannah alighted with the others at the Bull and Mouth in Grantham.
    The Bull and Mouth was not only a coaching-house but a posting-house as well, which meant it catered for a grander type of customer, and coach passengers were usually relegated to a small dark pit of a dining-roomat the back of the inn. Thanks to the magnificence of the Marquis of Ware, they were ushered into the main dining-room and a good bill of fare was set before them instead of the usual repast of pork in various shapes and sizes.
    Monsieur Petit decided to use the supper-time to find out what he could about Miss Pym. If that spinster lady were to get too close to Miss Grenier, then he wanted to know whether she was a creature of consequence who would make a difficult adversary or a pretentiouswoman who was aping her betters by having some relative dress up as a footman.
    Over the soup, he fixed her with his pale eyes and asked, ‘You are from London, Miss Pym?’
    He got a brief nod in reply.
    ‘Which part of London?’
    ‘The West End,’ replied Hannah with a faint lift of her eyebrows, as if to imply that such as she could hardly be expected to live anywhere else.
    ‘It is odd to see a lady accompanied by a footman on the stage-coach,’ pursued Monsieur Petit. ‘Particularly a footman who is allowed to travel inside.’
    Hannah smiled but did not offer any explanation.
    ‘I have never travelled on the stage before,’ said Mr Ashton pompously. ‘Usually take m’own carriage.’
    ‘And what brought you on the stage this time?’ asked the marquis.
    ‘Heard my friend Mr Smith was bound north, so decided to join him.’
    A large roast fowl was placed before the marquis. He carved off the wings first and offered them to Yvonne. The wings were the favourite part, something that was to drive Lord Byron into sulks, for he could never understand why such delicacies should be given to the ladies. Yvonne indicated Hannah, but Hannah refused, saying she preferred a slice of the breast instead.
    Monsieur Petit had been racking his brains as to how to find out more about Hannah. ‘The Season will soon be over,’ he volunteered.
    ‘Do you not regret missing it?’ asked the marquis with a cynical gleam in his eye. ‘Are not the ladiespining at ball and saloon, asking where, oh where, is our Mr … er … Smith?’
    ‘You jest, my lord. I do not frequent the Season. But Miss Pym, surely …?’
    He allowed his voice to trail off and looked at Hannah encouragingly.
    Hannah smiled at him again and again did not reply.
    To Mr Petit’s annoyance, there was an interruption. A fashionable party entered the room, an elegant man with a finely dressed lady and two young girls. The lady saw the marquis and sailed forward, hand outstretched. ‘My dear Ware,’ she carolled. ‘What are you doing in this common inn?’
    ‘Like yourself, I am travelling, Lady Abbott. Allow me to make you known to