Leighton-on-the-Wold, Yorkshire, 1876

Perched on her trunk, her nose numb, her toes paralyzed, the January cold burrowing bone deep, Emma Brimley huddled on an empty train platform agonizing over her decision to leave London for Yorkshire. She hadn’t considered the hazards of living in such a remote wilderness, nor had she planned for the tardy arrival of a carriage.

The muffled thud of horses’ hooves and the distinct rattle of wood and metal wrested her from her makeshift seat. A lantern swayed in the distance.

“Over here,” she called, shaking off the settled snow. Relieved that she hadn’t been forgotten, she waved her arms frantically overhead, even though she suspected it was too dark to be seen.

The light stilled, then moved in her direction, unleashing new anxieties. What if it wasn’t someone from Pettibone? In the dark, an unaccompanied woman was vulnerable to any miscreant or footpad. Her heart lurched into a fierce rhythm. She quickly lifted the leather flap of her traveling bag and fumbled for the only weapon on her person: her prized volume of sonnets.

“Would tha’ be the new teacher for th’ Pettibone School for Young Ladies?” A gruff voice called.

“Yes.” She relaxed, dropping the book back in her bag. “I’m Mrs. Brimley.” The words hung in a cloud of moist vapor. “They told me someone would meet me, but I was beginning to worry.”

“Aye. Tha’ld be me. I come as soon as I could. Hurry along now. I’ll get tha’ things.”

She hurried to the end of the platform, eager to escape the elements. Too eager to question the appearance of the well-appointed carriage, and too impatient to wait for the assistance of the driver stowing her trunk, she grasped the door handle herself.

“Don’t mind his lordship, Ma’am. He’s mos’ likely sleeping it off. He won’t even know he has company.”

“His Lordship?” She released the handle as if it were blazing hot and not icy cold. No mention had been made of titled gentry in her correspondence with the school.

“Aye. Hissel’ is why I missed th’ train, late as ‘twas. But I’ll have thee at Pettibone in a wink.” The well-bundled driver stepped to her side, opened the door, then helped her into the pitch-black interior. The door slammed shut behind her before the trapped warmth could escape. She had barely gained a seat before the lenses of her spectacles fogged beneath the protection of her black lace veil. The carriage lurched forward.

She sensed, rather than saw, the stranger’s presence. His body heat transformed the shared air of the interior into something earthy and forbidden. Her heart raced. The polite world would never sanction an unmarried woman alone with a man in such confined, private quarters.

In a bit of a panic, she dug her fingers beneath the sleeve of her heavy pelisse, searching for her mother’s handkerchief. She removed her spectacles, squinting in the dark to the opposite bench.

“My Lord?” she inquired, her voice barely above a whisper.

A slumping bundle occupied inordinate space on the seat across from her. She swabbed her lenses with the recovered handkerchief, relaxing at his lack of response. Probably some old harmless member of the gentry who’d be more concerned with his hounds than an unattended woman. She slipped her eyeglasses back on the bridge of her nose, but the dark interior obscured details regarding the other passenger.

No matter, she sighed. Even if the man was awake, her widow’s weeds afforded her a small measure of privilege as well as anonymity. As quietly as her petticoats allowed, she slid away from the slumbering stranger to the far end of the padded bench.

Pulling aside the window curtain, she gazed with curiosity on what promised to be her new home. The moon had risen, its feeble light magnified by reflecting snow, revealing a forlorn, bleak landscape, so different from her familiar London, yet intriguing in a fundamental way.

“I have looked out in the vast desolate night--” she recited.

“In search of him.” A slurred voice completed the line.

He spoke! Her heart slammed into her rib cage. Emma tore her gaze from the window, yet continued to hold back the curtain, allowing the moonlight to slip through the glass to the opposite seat. Her breath caught. She almost let the curtain drop, yet his face held her captive. Far from the old codger she’d expected, her companion was young, probably within a decade of her own twenty-three years. His fashionable clothes pegged him for an affluent gallant, right down to the silver-topped walking stick loosely trapped within his hand.

A dandy, she thought with a pang of disgust. She knew about dandies, those pompous, empty-headed peacocks who would cruelly snub someone like herself just to win favor with her pretentious cousin. This fashionable stranger probably only knew enough about literature to win a wager or two at some gentlemen’s club.

“You are familiar with Lord Byron’s poetry?” she asked, just to be certain she had not imagined his response. As she waited, watching the moonlight wash over his handsome features, a bit of unanticipated yearning tugged at her heart. How would it feel to be desired by someone like him? To be asked for a dance just once ahead of all the wealthy, gossiping debutantes who couldn’t tell a verse from a stew recipe? To be envied and not looked down upon for circumstances not of her making?

Although his eyes remained closed, a half-smile tilted his lips.

“Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda-water the day after.” Slight slurring aside, his fluent elocution proved familiarity with Byron’s work.

“That is not my favorite verse, sir.” She frowned, disappointed by his choice. Still, he had recited more than she had anticipated and the prospect of conversation after her long trip from London proved too great a temptation.

“You are obviously a man of learning and appreciation,” she said, releasing the curtain. She slid back to her original seat. “Do you share my passion for the great poets?”

A soft snore was her only reply. Whether he had truly been awake, or only dreaming, she knew not. That he slept now emboldened her beyond the realm of etiquette. A flash of excitement shivered down her spine. In spite of her general dislike of dandies in principle, she admitted a certain curiosity about one so well-made who knew his way around a poem or two.

She leaned close to see more detail of his face, only to be repelled by whiskey fumes. Still, she had glimpsed black hair curling gently on his brow, lending him a cherub’s sweetness, that was challenged by a masculine thin sweep of mustache and a day’s growth of stubble. A dark angel with a devilish brand, she decided, worthy of a poem himself.

Excited by the thought, she rummaged in her bag for a stub of a pencil and a scrap of paper but stopped abruptly. His eyes, fringed with long black lashes, opened with apparent difficulty. He blinked several times before squinting at her.

“Am I dead?”

An odd question, but then she remembered her mourning attire. “No sir, you are not.”

He relaxed a moment, then turned his head slightly as if searching for other passengers. His brows dived in a scowl.

“Am I married?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer. His kid gloves hid any evidence of his matrimonial state, but his expression of instantaneous alarm and regret suggested he was referring specifically to her. An old ache stirred in her bosom. Even in his drunken state, he could ascertain that she was no beauty.

“No sir, we are not.”

“ ‘Sgood.” He closed his eyes, and settled back in slumber, leaving her with a vague sense of insult and disappointment.

The carriage slowed, then turned. They must be approaching the school. With a bit of regret, she took a last long glance at his lordship, wondering whether to credit his pleasant countenance or his obvious command of the romantic poets for the piqued interest fluttering about her rib cage.

Silly girl, she could well imagine her uncle saying. It’s your stays that are too tight. No man with his looks would be interested in the likes of you.

She banished the thought with a shake of her head. She had left both Uncle George and her cousin Penelope behind in London. If only she could leave her memories of them behind as well.

The carriage slowed to a halt. In a moment, the opportunity to share words with this handsome stranger would vanish. She took a deep breath.

“Thank you for your company, sir. I wish we--”

His audible snore scattered her words. Before she could gather them again, the carriage door opened. The sturdy arms of the driver helped her out.

“Mrs. Brimley.” A stout woman with graying hair tucked neatly under a lace and ribbon cap waved enthusiastically from the steps. “We’ve been so anxious for your arrival.”

Surprised, yet pleased by the warm welcome, Emma smiled. Perhaps her plan to come to Yorkshire had not been so flawed after all. The bulky pyramid of wool and petticoats rushed forward. Beneath heavy matronly lids twinkled eyes like those of a young child on holiday.

“We’ve been . . . oh, my goodness!” The woman’s jowls dropped.

“Is something wrong?” Emma asked, trying to ignore the stab of alarm beneath her stays.

“You’re so young. We were expecting a much older woman.” Concern clouded the woman’s features, then rapidly dissipated. “Never mind. My sister will simply have to adjust.” She turned her attention to the driver. “Henry, take Mrs. Brimley’s belongings upstairs, if you please. Cook prepared a basket for your troubles.”

A cloth-draped basket passed Emma’s nose on the way to the driver--warm hearty scones by the smell of it. Her mouth watered. Fleeing her uncle’s household had left no time to fill her stomach with anything more than fear and anticipation.

“Come along, dear. Cecilia would like a word with you before you settle in.” The older woman practically hauled Emma up the stone steps to the front door. Just before entering, Emma stole one last look at the carriage. She could have sworn she saw the flash of a silver-tipped walking stick holding back the curtain a moment before it fluttered back into place.

Her brows lifted. Had he truly been asleep? A man like that couldn’t possibly be as intrigued with her as she was with him. Could he?

“This way, dear.”

Emma followed her new employer to a small sitting room decorated with an overabundance of needlework doilies and lacy antimacassars, some the bright white of recent work, others with a yellowish tint of years past. Oval photographs of serious young girls covered the green walls. Emma studied their solemn yet fresh faces.

“Those are graduates of the Pettibone School for Young Ladies.” A sharp voice, laced with pride, spoke from behind her. Emma turned to see a tall, stern-faced woman dressed entirely in black.

“You must be very proud of them,” Emma replied. Another widow, she supposed. They must migrate to schools like this, the women without husbands and means to live in more fashionable locations. Perhaps that would explain why the school insisted its new teacher be a widow as well.

“Mrs. Brimley, I am Cecilia Higgins, headmistress of the Pettibone School for Young Ladies.”

Emma rendered a slow and proper bow.

The headmistress nodded approval, then motioned her to sit before settling herself in a chair directly opposite. “Please remove your veil, Mrs. Brimley. I wish to get a closer look at you.”

Emma worried her lip and complied. Although pleased to rid herself of the gauzy nuisance, the black lace had shielded her from close scrutiny. As she pulled the barrier back over her hat, she feared discovery of the fraud she portrayed.

The headmistress leaned forward, squinting. “Beatrice mentioned that you were much younger than we had anticipated. Sometimes my sister leaps to wild conclusions, but in this instance, I can see that she is correct. When exactly did your husband depart, Mrs. Brimley?”

“He died in a tragic carriage accident nearly eighteen months ago. We married young, but alas, we were not married long.” Although she had rehearsed it well, the lie still warmed her cheeks. Emma dropped her gaze. With luck, the headmistress would interpret her blush as something else entirely.

The woman waited a moment, touching the tops of her steepled fingers to thin, dry lips. “The length of your marriage is not important to us, but as I explained in our correspondence, it is mandatory that our new teacher have experienced marriage in her lifetime. Perhaps the girls will relate to a young widow more than they would to an older one.”

The woman’s frown lessened, which Emma interpreted to signal acceptance. Her own smile born from relief threatened to surface, but Emma suppressed it, sensing it would not be appropriate.

The older woman rose from her chair and strode to her desk. “You have already met Beatrice. She teaches needlework and the French language. I teach proper etiquette, grooming, and household management. You will be responsible for--”

“Proper elocution and literature befitting young ladies,” Emma interjected, the suppressed smile bubbling to the surface. “Indeed, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yes . . . well . . . there is one other subject you will be expected to teach. One that I did not mention in my letter but that should not be a problem given your experience.”

The older woman avoided eye contact. Observing her uneasiness, Emma felt anxiety as well. Perhaps, if she reassured the headmistress as to the versatility of her own instruction, the conversation would return to its former easy discourse.

“Mrs. Higgins--”

“Miss Higgins,” the other woman corrected. “Neither my sister nor I ever married. That is the crux of our difficulty.”

Confused, Emma mentally revisited her own education, trying to imagine how spinsterhood might prove difficult in the conduct of a school. “I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”

“Pettibone School for Young Ladies serves clientele of the first order,” the spinster said. “The wealthiest merchants and industrialists in the area send their daughters to us to mold into fine young women suited for marriage to gentlemen of the highest quality.”

“Yes, yes, you mentioned that in your letters, but I still don’t understand.” Emma’s concern blossomed into foreboding. The headmistress was clearly uncomfortable with this topic. Why would this unsettle her so?

“One of our patrons has suggested, quite correctly mind you, that the Pettibone School provides little in the way of instruction to prepare the girls for the intimacies of marriage, particularly the wedding night. Our patron quotes Mr. Copland’s definitive work on practical medicine that successful procreation can only be achieved if both parties are . . . well . . . agreeable to the process.”

High color stained Miss Higgins’s cheeks. Fortunately, the older woman seemed oblivious to Emma’s own distress.

“As the generation of heirs is a desired goal of marriage, we must prepare our girls for their ultimate responsibility.” Cecilia brought her gaze in direct line with Emma. “And teaching this, therefore, will be your responsibility.”

Emma’s foreboding exploded to full-blown panic. “But what if--”

“I must say that I am not in favor of this course of study,” the headmistress interrupted with a frown. “I believe certain behaviors”--she waved a hand in the air, as if to dismiss them--“should remain unmentioned in polite society. However, our patron was quite emphatic. Therefore, I must insist that if you are not agreeable to teaching this subject matter, we will make arrangements to send you back to London.”

Emma’s panic plummeted into despair. London, she knew, was not an option. This was not the time, she supposed, to confess she had no more knowledge about the subject of intimacy than the girls she was expected to teach.

“I am shocked,” she stalled, trying to order her thoughts. “You never suggested in your letter…”

The woman winced ever so slightly. “I was afraid you would not make the journey to Yorkshire if I had confided the true nature of your responsibilities. I apologize for my deceit, but it was necessary under the circumstances.”

Emma glanced at the headmistress who stood as unwavering as the Dover cliffs. They apparently shared a common thread of deceit. Would that make Miss Higgins’s more accepting should her own hidden truth emerge? Emma squashed that thought before it could fully develop. The consequences of admitting her lack of experience remained too severe to chance confiding in Miss Higgins.

“Will I be teaching elocution and literature as well?”

“Yes, of course. Pettibone will profit from a teacher of your background and training.”

Emma worried her lower lip. No training had ever prepared her for this situation. She took a breath, then glanced at the gallery of faces on the wall: kind, friendly faces. She’d need their kindness and friendship if she was to succeed.

“When do my classes begin?”

Miss Higgins’s shoulders sagged in obvious relief. “I suppose you will need a day to organize before assuming your duties. I will alternate your classes with those of the dance tutor. Let us begin the day after tomorrow.”

Miss Higgins picked up a little bell. “Now that the matter is settled, I shall ring for tea. Beatrice shall join us, and we will all become better acquainted.”

The day after tomorrow! That didn’t allow much time, Emma thought, fighting back rising alarm. Her fingers sought out her mother’s wedding band and the sense of calm it conveyed. She had one day of reprieve. Every day away from London allowed her trail to grow a little colder. She’d use the day to think of something. Although she wasn’t at all sure what.

The moment Miss Higgins opened the door, Beatrice stumbled in with all the tea elements on a silver tray. One side of her face had reddened as if it had been pressed against the door.

Emma suppressed a grin.

“We anticipated your need for nourishment after such an arduous trip,” Beatrice explained in a rush.

“Mrs. Brimley has agreed to the teaching arrangement we discussed.” Cecilia poured a cup of tea, then handed it to Emma. “I thought she might have some questions about Pettibone that we might answer.”

“That is wonderful news.” Beatrice’s gray curls bobbed with approval. “Lady Cavendish’s letter of reference praised your credentials to such high extremes, we would have been disappointed if you had declined our offer.”

Emma smiled faintly, relieved that her forgery had been accepted as genuine, but still ashamed to have resorted to such deceitful measures. Fortunately, the likelihood that the true Lady Cavendish would learn of her transgression was as remote as Leighton-on-the-Wold itself.

“I’m so pleased to be here,” Emma said, shaking her head to turn down an offer of sugar and cream. “I do have one question, although it’s not specifically about Pettibone.” Steam from the hot liquid warmed her nose and fogged her eyeglasses.

“What might that be, dear?” Beatrice asked.

Emma sipped and smiled, letting the languid heat spread from the inside out. “What can you tell me about the man in the carriage?”

“Henry, the driver?” Beatrice asked, sounding surprised.

“No, the gentleman in the carriage.” Emma sipped a bit more of the fortifying liquid. Nothing could be so horrid that a good cup of tea couldn’t improve. “The driver referred to him as ‘his Lordship.’ ”

Cecilia’s cup clattered to the saucer. “Chambers was in the carriage?” She directed a glare toward her sister as chilling as the snow piled outside.

Beatrice wrung her hands. “Henry didn’t say anything about his lordship. I didn’t know he was there.”

Cecilia turned to Emma. “Did he offend you in any way? What did he say?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did he touch you?”

Alarmed by their reaction, Emma placed her cup and saucer carefully on a side table. “Indeed no. He slept almost the entire ride. Is something wrong?”

“Pettibone School has been built on the most stringent standards of respectability.” Cecilia rose to pace the small room, wringing her hands. “Association with Lord Nicholas Chambers could place our pristine reputation in jeopardy. His behavior is not consistent with that of a gentleman.” She stopped in front of Emma. “Did anyone see you enter the carriage?”

“He’s an artist,” Beatrice explained. “A painter. Tavern women come and go from his estate at all hours of the night.” Her twinkling eyes widened with excitement and her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “They say he’s extremely handsome. Did you think so, Mrs. Brimley?”

“Beatrice!” Cecilia hissed. “How many times must I warn you that such talk does you no credit. He is a dissolute rake who uses women.”

Beatrice quailed before her sister, clearly chastised.

Cecilia turned to Emma. “Answer me, Mrs. Brimley. I must know if we are ruined.”

“No one save the driver saw me enter, and it was extremely dark in the carriage. If I hadn’t heard his breathing, I would not have known he was there at all,” Emma said, quickly determining that her conversation with the attractive gentleman, as innocent as it had been, had best remain private.

Cecilia sighed, “Good. Henry knows to hold his tongue.”

Beatrice leaned toward Emma. “His estate borders ours, barely a mile distant through the woods.”

“It is bad enough that we have need to borrow his conveyance on occasion. We should not be forced to endure his person as well.” Cecilia sniffed, as if to suggest the demon lord had selected his estate for the sole purpose of taunting innocent Pettibone women.

“My sister believes Lord Nicholas Chambers allows us use of his carriage because he relishes the thought of decent folk sitting on cushions that have witnessed all sorts of debauchery.” Despite Cecilia’s earlier rebuke, Beatrice’s eyes shone bright with curiosity.

The suggestion of debauchery, mentioned in connection with the man in the carriage, sent a ripple of interest deep through Emma. She shifted, uncomfortable with the foreign feeling, and tried to shift her focus as well. Still, the man’s lazy half smile refused to abandon her thoughts.

“Needless to say,” Cecilia said, raising her hand to interrupt her sister, “I will not allow that man’s close proximity to influence our girls. Now that you understand the danger, Mrs. Brimley, I am sure you will be ever vigilant and do the same.”

Emma nodded. As difficult as it might prove to forget the intriguing lines of Lord Nicholas Chambers’s face traced in moonlight, or the unexpected thrill of their brief clandestine journey, those experiences were more in tune with those of a heroine in a light novel. Such flights of fantasy rarely touched her reality.

It was just as well. A man who spoke poetry even when not in full possession of his wits could prove only a distraction to her immediate problem. She must obtain sufficient intelligence to portray a convincing widow, else she’d be back on her uncle’s doorstep. And that was completely unacceptable.

Emma met the girls at the school the next day--too many to remember all the names and faces. They swirled around her in pretty frocks, giggling and whispering. Emma suspected she was the subject of those poorly hidden discussions. In her black bombazine and horn-rimmed glasses, she felt like a weed in a flourishing cottage garden.

She was introduced to many of the serving staff, none of whom appeared to be married. She’d find no font of knowledge in those quarters.

Emma set out to explore the great manor that housed the school. With luck she hoped to discover a library with a text that might offer enlightenment on intimacy. She was proceeding down one hallway when her name, uttered in a low conversation, floated through the very air.

“Have you seen the new teacher?”

Surprised, she stopped just short of a turn in the hallway. As a new teacher, she probably should scold the girls for such vulgar behavior as gossiping, but curiosity got the better of her. She flattened herself against the wall paneling and listened. She couldn’t see faces, but their voices carried clear and close around the near corner.

“She speaks funny,” a younger voice said.

“That’s because she’s from London, you silly goose. They all sound like that, all hoity-toity down there.”

One voice lowered to a near whisper. “I heard she arrived in a carriage all alone with Lord Bedchambers.”

Emma’s cheek heated against the cool paneling. How could news of her unorthodox arrival travel so quickly? Surely the Higgins sisters had not publicized the circumstances.

“If her belly starts to grow,” the first girl said, “we’ll know it’s not from Cook’s meals.”

“Fanny, you are so wicked!” Laughter echoed off the walls.

“Girls!” Beatrice’s voice interrupted the merriment. “Have you no better place to be?”

Emma shriveled inside. The years should have toughened her hide to the hurtful prickings of the privileged, but the unkind laughter still struck deep.

Emma silently tiptoed back down the hall before rushing to the opposite wing of the house. Embarrassed by the overheard conversation and by her equally improper eavesdropping, she pushed through the first door she encountered and stumbled into the library.

Her pulse raced from her hasty flight, while the girls’ taunts still echoed in her ears. She sank onto a wooden chair and braced her forehead with her hands. She had come all this way yet still remained an object of ridicule. How foolish to run away from home, thinking to escape the whispers and scorn.

Deep in the recesses of her mind, she heard laughter, her uncle’s laughter. The mere thought of him sent an icy chill tripping down her spine. Determined to rid herself of the memory, she pushed herself from the chair. She had managed to escape London without his notice. If she was to stay hidden, she’d best get to work.

The upper portion of three walls in the library were lined with bookshelves, more empty than full. Emma found a few dusty novels, mostly by the late Mr. Dickens, Mrs. Beeton’s thick tome on household management, and several collected volumes of fashion magazines and needlework patterns. Just as she resigned herself to needing an alternate strategy, she spied a volume on a high shelf beyond her reach. It lay flat so as not to be obvious to the casual observer.

Pulling a small step stool into position, Emma stretched to her full height to retrieve the book, a sizeable medical text, and looked at the title: Mr. Copland’s “A Dictionary of Practical Medicine.”

“There you are, I’d been hoping you’d be here.” Delighted with her find, she stepped off the stool and took the volume to a nearby table. The book opened a bit too naturally to worn pages marking the discussions on conception. Although she readily discovered Mr. Copland’s assertion regarding enjoyment of intimacy, she could find no mention on how that enjoyment was to be obtained.

Belatedly, she realized that had the information been so available, Miss Higgins could teach the class as well as she.

“Have you found what you’re searching for, Mrs. Brimley?” Cecilia asked, startling Emma from her examination of the text.

“Miss Higgins! Yes . . . I was checking to see what books I could use in my literature sessions.” She readjusted her eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose. “Your novels complement my volumes on poetry. These shall do quite nicely.”

Miss Higgins glanced at the open text. Her brow raised.

“Do you plan to discuss female hysteria in your literature class?”

Emma closed the book. “I was curious as to the ailments listed. I suppose in a remote location such as this, doctors are difficult to obtain. How far is the nearest village?”

“You rode through it last night.”

Emma recalled passing a handful of buildings, a church, and at least one tavern.

“But if one of the girls is seriously ill, we send word to Hull or York. It may take several hours but we are not without medical resources.” Cecilia cocked a brow. “Are you planning to need the assistance of a doctor?”

“No, I was just curious,” Emma replied quickly, although she certainly wished for a doctor’s knowledge at present.

Cecilia gazed about the library. “I think this room will do well for your classes. Naturally, I’ve selected only a few of the older girls to receive instruction.” She nodded to herself, apparently pleased with her decision. “I’ll let them know to meet you here tomorrow, and Mrs. Brimley”--her gaze leveled on Emma--“I believe I will attend your first class.”

Emma stared at Cecilia’s retreating back. Tomorrow! Her heart raced. In the space of a night and day, she could easily be unmasked as a fraud and sent packing.

She paced the room, trying to calm her frantic thoughts. Her needs were immediate, her resources were not. She paused, removing first a handkerchief from her cuff, then her spectacles from her nose.

“Cleaner vision means clearer focus,” she recited, allowing her mother’s familiar words and the repetitive action of polishing her lenses to calm her nerves. “Sharp focus on any problem leads to possibilities.” She pushed the cleaned glasses back in place. “Possibilities lead to . . .”

Her gaze lingered on the title of a small treatise lying on a low table, “The Art of Arranging Cut Flowers.”

The word “art” reminded her of “artist.” A memory of the dark angel stirred her thoughts. Only an educated man would have recognized Lord Byron’s poem. An educated man would surely have books, and as an artist who painted the human figure, he might keep texts that addressed anatomical issues, as well.

“Possibilities lead to solutions,” she murmured, completing her mother’s familiar stanza. A flame of hope ignited deep inside. Miss Higgins had mentioned that the distance to Lord Nicholas Chambers’s estate was not far.

Miss Higgins. The tiny flame sputtered, uncertain. Emma recalled Miss Higgins’s prohibition of association with the man in the carriage. She bit her lip. Calling on him might prove just as disastrous as not calling on him. Her stomach twisted in turmoil.

She resumed her pacing, mentally weighing the alternatives. It wasn’t as if she was a complete bumbler. After all, she had managed to leave London with none the wiser. Surely she could do it again here at Pettibone.

A memory of Chambers’s sweet face, rocking gently in the moonlight with the motion of the carriage, stirred her thoughts. Perhaps after he had provided the necessary materials, maybe they could again exchange a few more poetic verses. A quiver of anticipation tingled her nerve endings.

She took a deep breath, drawing confidence from her decision. She’d make a clandestine call upon Lord Bedchambers . . . er, Lord Nicholas Chambers. Tonight.