A carriage! Hannah stood in the center of the silvery-gray ribbon of road and waved her arms, praying the driver could see her, despite the misty rain. Behind her, she heard booted feet scrabbling up the cliff. If they saw her…

She shivered, feeling exposed at the top of the cliffs. The storm’s rage had lessened, and she caught the occasional voice and scrape of leather soles from the scavengers below.

“Any others?” A man’s voice echoed faintly through the growing mist.

She stumbled along the road in the direction of the carriage, gesturing more frantically.

The clatter of horses and creaking of a heavy carriage rattled above the other noises. Hannah glanced over her shoulder.

If the men on the beach heard… Were they already climbing up to the road?

The vehicle rumbled closer. She waved her arms again, stepping toward the ditch edging the road. The coach had to stop! She cast another glance at the cliff. Something dark bobbed in the darkness, barely visible. Panic tightened in her chest.

“Whoa!” At the last minute, the coachman pulled back on the reins. The four horses snorted and threw their heads up, gray puffs of warm air ringing their mouths as they stamped past her.

Hannah stumbled into the ditch and dragged herself upright as the coach rolled several yards beyond her before stopping. Lunging for the door, her hands slapped the side panel as she fell against the vehicle.

She didn’t dare look over her shoulder to see what was happening at the top of the cliff, a few hundred yards away.

“Beamish! Why are we stopping?” An imperious female voice called from inside the carriage.

“A figure on the road—the Lady of the Mist!” the coachman replied, his voice shaking.

“Lady of the Mist! Pshaw! None of that spirit nonsense—the vicar won’t stand for it if he hears you.” The occupant of the carriage thumped against the side of the carriage. “Carry on—we shall never reach Blackrock if you insist on stopping for every bit of mist.”

“Stop—please!” Hannah called, pounding the panel and grabbing at the handle of the door again.

“Who is that?” the coach occupant asked sharply. “Step away from my carriage immediately! Beamish—drive on! Now!”

Wrenching the door open, Hannah flung herself inside, her shoulder banging painfully against the floor. “Please—the ship—wrecked!” she gasped.

“Who are you? Remove yourself immediately! Beamish!”

Hannah reached out and caught at the stout figure swathed in blankets on the seat next to her. “Please, you must help me. I was a passenger on the Orion. We sank!”

The carriage jolted and shook as the coachman climbed down, mumbling under his breath.

“Please!” Hannah begged, searching the shadows for the face of the woman next to her. “In God’s name—please!”

“Who are you?” the woman asked. She was so bundled up with a large bonnet, shawls, and blankets that Hannah could barely make out the short, round shape in the darkness.

A light streamed over Hannah’s shoulder as she pulled herself up to her knees inside the coach. The golden glow flickered over the occupant’s face, revealing broad cheekbones under heavily wrinkled, sagging skin, and eyes shadowed under shaggy gray brows.

“I am Hannah Cowles—Miss Hannah Cowles, from Boston.”

The elderly lady shifted beneath her blankets and chuckled. “Well, Miss Hannah Cowles from Boston, it may have escaped your notice, but this is a private vehicle. You are intruding.” She sniffed. “And we have not been properly introduced. I am not in the habit of picking up strange women on the road. Now, if you will do me the kindness of descending from my carriage, we shall be on our way.” She gazed at Hannah with a bland expression, although, despite the shadowy interior of the carriage, Hannah could have sworn the elderly lady’s eyes held a mischievous light.

“No.” Hannah’s chin rose. “I insist you take me to the nearest…” She paused in consternation. Where exactly could she go? She had nothing… She shivered and rubbed her wet arms, wincing as seawater burned her hands.

All her clothing was in her luggage—her luggage! Her letters of introduction and more importantly, the letter to the bank, were inside her trunk. Without those documents, she truly had nothing and no way to prove who she was. Instead of arriving triumphantly in London as a rich American heiress, she was arriving destitute—completely ruined. A flutter of panic chilled her. She rubbed her arms faster.

“You are bleeding upon my upholstery, Miss Cowles.” The old lady sighed elaborately. "And I just had everything redone. What a nuisance.”

Hannah glanced down and sighed. A long gash on her right leg bled sluggishly, staining her white gown. Her sleeves were tattered, revealing cuts and abrasions on her arms and the palms of her hands.

All of that paled in comparison to her dress. Her best evening gown—her only gown at this point—was ruined.

She’d wanted to look her best for their last supper on the Orion, so she’d had Lizzy take out her white satin with its pale pink gauze overdress and bodice sewn with pearls and white silk roses. Oddly enough, her pearl earrings, necklace, and bracelet had survived her ordeal and felt warm against her chilled skin.

But her skirts were torn and smeared with mud. Only one white satin slipper remained, freezing into a sodden mess on her left foot. A long strand of blackish seaweed hung off one of the pearls in the center of her neckline. She plucked it off and, after a moment’s hesitation, flung it out of the door over the coachman’s bulky shoulder.

“I do apologize,” Hannah replied coolly. “It is a nuisance, indeed.”

“Lady Blackwold?” Beamish asked, holding his lantern up to peer at the elderly lady. He glanced from her to Hannah and back, clearly reluctant to drag Hannah out of the carriage by force.

A distant yell caught her attention. Hannah stared into the darkness beyond the coachman’s shoulder. The wreckers—that black shape rising above the edge of the cliff—she’d forgotten them. If they discovered her now, they’d know she’d escaped them.

She opened her mouth to warn the coachman about the men on the beach and to beg them to move on. She glanced at Lady Blackwold. The older woman was watching her, wearing a strange grin, as if she were well aware of Hannah’s predicament and found it amusing.

A stab of mistrust made Hannah snap her mouth shut. The storm was sufficient to explain what had happened to the Orion and her own condition. No need to mention the wreckers or what she’d seen.

Maybe they’d let her live if they thought she hadn’t seen anything.

Lady Blackwold’s smile widened. She shifted, poking around on the seat beside her. Finally, she picked up a gray bundle and tossed it to Hannah. “I dislike sacrificing a perfectly good woolen blanket, but your lips are blue, and I like that even less.”

“Oh dear, blue lips are très chic in Boston. I felt sure they would inspire a new fashion when I arrived in London.” Hannah shook out the blanket and wrapped it gratefully around her shoulders.

“Lady Blackwold?” Beamish asked again from the door, his gruff voice rising as his confusion increased.

“Oh, do be quiet, Beamish,” Lady Blackwold said. “And close that blasted door. You are allowing that filthy night air into the coach, and you know how unhealthy that is.”

He stared at her, his mouth sagging open. “Lady Blackwold?”

“Drive on, you fool! Drive on to Blackrock!” Lady Blackwold unearthed a cane from her bundle of blankets and pushed the tip into the center of his chest, forcing him away from the door.

“Lady Blackwold!” Beamish gaped, the lantern swinging wildly in his gloved hand as he tried to maintain his balance by grabbing the door with his other hand.

“Go on and be quick about it!”

“Yes, Lady Blackwold!” Beamish regained his footing and slammed the door shut, though Hannah could hear him mumbling an assortment of rich curses that proved the coachman’s dull appearance belied his vast and impressive knowledge of the English language.

The carriage jerked and dipped down as Beamish climbed into his perch, and with another wrenching jolt, it surged forward. The clatter of horse hooves made it impossible to hear if anyone shouted from the cliffs.

“Well, Miss Cowles, I cannot comprehend how you came to be wandering the roads at night, dressed like that,” Lady Blackwold said, clearly determined to catch Hannah out in a lie.

Hannah smiled blandly. “I wanted to look my best for my last evening aboard the Orion. We were to dock in Liverpool tomorrow morning, but the storm blew us off course. The ship wrecked—I was lucky to escape alive.”

“You are the only survivor?”

“I sincerely hope not,” Hannah replied, thinking again about Officer Trent’s kind smile. Sadness pulled at her, and she tightened the blanket around her shoulders as another sick tremor wracked her. She swallowed several times, her lips pressed together.

What of her companion and maid?

Poor Lizzy hadn’t wanted to come—she was afraid of the water and couldn’t swim—but Hannah had only joked about her maid’s fears as they boarded the Orion in Boston. Now, she wondered if Lizzy had had some notion of what was to befall the packet, barely eighteen hours before they were to dock.

“Did you see anyone else?” Lady Blackwold persisted, her round wrinkled face hidden in the deep shadows beneath her large black bonnet.

Hannah shook her head. “I managed to cling to a piece of wood and barely made it to shore. It was all I could do to climb up to the road. I hoped to find a village—assistance.”

“Is there any point in notifying the authorities? A Custom Officer, perhaps?”

“Oh, yes, the authorities must be informed,” Hannah said, trying not to shiver. “There may be others—and my trunk. I must have my trunk.” Her fortune depended upon the documents in her trunk.

Despite the scratchy folds of the heavy woolen blanket, she still felt frozen. Her body shook uncontrollably, and although she was wary, she had difficulties concentrating. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. She sat up with a jerk and blinked furiously.

The wheezy sound of Lady Blackwold’s muffled laughter aroused a brief, hot flash of anger in Hannah.

“You amuse me, Miss Cowles. You may be, as I suspect, an adventuress setting out to fleece an elderly lady who should know better, but at least you are no mealy-mouthed sycophant.”

“I am not an adventuress!”

“Of course not,” Lady Blackwold agreed with another laugh.

“I am an heiress—I booked first class passage on the Orion.”

“Of course. It is unfortunate, though, that unless I miss my guess, you can prove none of this?”

“I—my trunk…” Hannah sputtered to a halt.

“Naturally. The missing trunk. So very convenient,” Lady Blackwold murmured.

“It is not at all convenient! I’ve lost everything—all my letters of introduction, the letters to the bank and my London lawyer—everything!”

Lady Blackwold’s large bonnet dipped as she nodded.

“I could hardly have known that your carriage would be passing by at that particular moment. It would have been the height of foolishness to plan on such a thing. I could have died of exposure in the rain before anyone came. I may be an American, but I’m not that much of a fool.”

“No. Anyone could see that,” Lady Blackwold agreed dryly.

Hannah bit the inside of her cheek to avoid the sarcastic reply hovering in her mouth.

“What are your plans now, Miss Cowles?”

“Now? Why I—” Her grip on the blanket tightened. She slipped her left hand over her hip and felt the lumpy pocket still tied at her waist.

She was not without resources, but that was truly a double-edged sword. If she sold her jewels, she’d have funds, at least until they ran out. And then what? The very presence of the jewelry gave some credence to her claim to be an heiress. Without them, she was just a woman making unsubstantiated statements.

And the diamond and emerald necklace had been her mother’s. Could she really sell that?

“Yes?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to consider what I should do. If I could find my trunk and my papers, I could travel on to London as I’d planned. There is a lawyer there who expects me, and funds have been transferred to a bank—”

“But you have no papers, my dear. Have you met this lawyer?”

Hannah shook her head and blinked rapidly. She was so cold and tired—she couldn’t think anymore, didn’t want to consider the difficulties ahead of her. She just wanted to close her eyes and let go. Sleep.

Another chill shook her and her grip on the blanket tightened to keep it from slipping off her shoulders.

“Have you been introduced to anyone in London? Anyone in England?”

“No.” Hannah jerked upright.

“Pity.”

“If I could find my trunk—”

“Of course. Well, I am sure if it exists, it may float to shore with all the other flotsam and jetsam.”

Hannah nodded, too tired to parry Lady Blackwold’s verbal thrust.

“I have found it very boring of late,” Lady Blackwold commented when Hannah remained silent. “It would amuse me if you would be my guest.” She chuckled. “At least until this mysterious trunk is found.”

“Thank you.” Her shoulders drooped in relief.

“I have a great dislike of gratitude, so if you experience that emotion, I hope you will have the good sense to keep it to yourself.”

“Yes, Lady Blackwold.”

“And meekness. I was never given to understand that American girls suffered greatly from meekness. Was I mistaken?”

“No, Lady Blackwold.” Hannah tried to invest as much spirit as possible in her reply.

“I hope I will not be given cause to regret my generosity.”

“I suppose that will depend on just how generous you intend to be.”

Lady Blackwold’s chuckles turned into a cough, but she waved Hannah back when she leaned forward in concern. “I don’t know if I have any faith in this trunk of yours, but perhaps you will be fortunate and there will be a long delay in finding it.”

“Yes,” Hannah replied dryly. “That would be fortunate, wouldn’t it?”

With that, Hannah leaned back, shut her eyes, and pretended to fall asleep.