So she stayed quiet, knowing it was mad, willing the coachman not to notice her, listening to the sound of the wheels and the horses’ hooves as the coach moved north.

Hours later, when the sun had set, it had become clear that Sophie was out of her element. She’d thought that wearing a footman’s livery, masquerading as a boy, and riding on the outside of a coach would be the most difficult parts of the charade, only to realize that those bits were, in fact, nothing in comparison to the arrival at the posting inn.

She watched from the driver’s block as the coachman climbed down to arrange space in the stables for the horses and, ostensibly, for storage of the carriage itself.

The thought gave her pause. Where did carriages go when they weren’t in use? It was a question she’d never had cause to consider.

“Are you going to sit up there like a lord? Or are you planning to come down and do some work?”

The words startled her from her thoughts, and she looked down to find the coachman staring up at her, his earlier exasperation edging into something else entirely. Suspicion.

Well. She couldn’t have that. Not now, at least, before she’d decided the next steps of her plan.

Plan was something of a misnomer for this outrageous situation. Disaster was a better descriptor.

“Where are we?” she asked, deliberately lowering the tenor of her voice—she couldn’t have him realizing that she was a woman now—and scurrying down from the carriage, willing to wager that, while she did not know what a footman did at this exact moment, descending to earth was an excellent first step. Once on the ground, she bowed her head and just barely caught herself before she sank into a curtsy. Footmen did not curtsy. That part, she knew.

“All that matters is that we are here before the marquess.”

“Where is he?” The question was out before she could stop it. She did not require the cold, critical gaze of the coachman to know that she had overstepped her bounds, but he provided it nonetheless.

“I don’t know what is wrong with you, boy,” he said, “but you had better set yourself straight. Servants don’t question their masters’ whereabouts, nor do they ask questions to which they don’t need answers. Servants serve.”

That was just the problem, of course. Sophie had no idea how to begin doing such a thing. “Yes, sir. I shall do just that.”

He nodded and turned away, tossing over his shoulder, “See that you do.”

She had no choice but to call after him, “That said . . . what . . . what shall I do?”

He stilled, then turned around slowly. Blinked at her. Then spoke as though she was a child. “Begin with your job.”

That wasn’t helpful.

She took a deep breath as he turned back to the horses, considering all the things she’d witnessed footmen doing in the past.

Her gaze flickered to the great black coach, empty. Except, it would not be empty. Eversley wouldn’t have traveled such a distance without having prepared for it. There would be bags. Luggage.

And footmen collected luggage.

With renewed purpose, she opened the door and climbed into the carriage, prepared to collect whatever items the marquess had left for his servants to shuttle into his rooms, before she stilled in the darkness, the sounds of the bustling inn from outside muffled as she considered the inside of the massive coach. Massive, indeed. It was one of the largest private coaches she’d ever seen—bordering on conspicuously enormous—one that might boast three rows of seats without effort. But it didn’t. There was a single row of seats at the back of the conveyance, leaving a great, yawning chasm of space inside, large enough for a man to lie flat. For several men to lie flat.

There were no men in the space, however. Instead, it was filled with great wooden wheels. There were ten of them, perhaps twelve. She couldn’t take an exact count in the dark space, but she paused nonetheless, considering the cargo. Why was the Marquess of Eversley shuttling carriage wheels? Did they lack wheelwrights north of London?

Indeed, the only evidence of the Marquess of Eversley was a pile of formalwear—clothing that she’d watched float down from up on high when he escaped his pursuing earl.

Where had he gone?

“Boy!”

Sophie let out an exasperated sigh. The coachman was quickly becoming an unwelcome companion. Through gritted teeth she called back, “Yes, sir?”

“You’re no more useful inside the coach then you were atop it!”

And then, shockingly, a hand came to her bottom, grasping the waistband of her trousers and yanking her, bodily, from the carriage. She let out a wild squeak as the coachman stood her on her feet and closed the door with a perfunctory click. After all, it was not every day that she was manhandled quite so . . . well . . . handily.

When the coachman rounded on her, she knew she was done for. Indeed, it was best that Matthew was to be employed by her father, as she felt certain that the house of Eversley was about to sack him. Also handily. “Have you lost your—”

The man’s assessment of her mental faculties—or lack thereof—was cut off by the noise—a near-deafening clattering, punctuated by wild hoofbeats, the heavy breathing of horses, and exuberant male shouts. She turned just in time to see the first of the curricles bearing down on her with speed that would break both axles and necks, as though they were on a long stretch of clear road instead of a crowded posting inn drive.

With a cry, Sophie leapt backward, pressing herself to the outer wall of the coach, eyes wide, as the lead curricle tipped on one wheel, dangerously close to toppling before it slammed down, one wheel spoke flying across the yard as the driver executed a perfect half turn to face the vehicles following behind. The driver stood tall on legs that should have been tired, but instead seemed incredibly strong, towering over horse and vehicle, arms akimbo as he faced his no-doubt maniacal comrades. Much of his face was obscured by the low brim of his hat, but the light from the inn was drawn, nonetheless, to his wide, wicked grin.