When with Spencer or alone, she’d taken to riding astride, scandalously dressed in breeches and coat. The clothes had been made for her years before; Elmina had let down the hems and remade the breeches to fit. The coat was an old one of her cousin Geoffrey’s, recut to her slighter frame but still loose enough to disguise her figure should the need arise. Now that her hair was cropped, leaving the flame-colored curls rioting about her head, she hardly needed the protection of the old tricorne that completed her highly irregular outfit. When garbed in her male attire, a hat shading her features, her sex was moot.

Today she was bound for Gresham Manor. Her closest friend, whom she hadn’t seen in years, lived quietly there with her parents. Amy had never had to go to London. She’d contracted a suitable alliance with a local gentleman of acceptable birth and reasonable fortune; that much, Kit knew from her letters. Amy’s gentleman was with Wellington’s forces in the Peninsula; their wedding would take place once he returned.

Kit rode up the long drive of Gresham Manor and directly around to the stables.

“Miss Cranmer!” The groom came running to take her horse’s bridle. “Didn’t recognize you for a minute there, miss. Back from London town, are ye?”

“That’s right, Jeffries.” Kit smiled and slid from Delia’s back. “Is Miss Amy in?”

“Kit? It is you!”

Turning, Kit barely had time to verify that the figure descending on her was indeed Amy, golden hair in fashionable ringlets, peaches-and-cream complexion still perfect, before she was enveloped in a warm embrace.

“I saw you ride past the library windows and wondered if Mr. Woodley’s sermons had sent me to sleep, and I was dreaming.”

Kit laughed. “Goose! I’ve been back only a few days and couldn’t wait to see you and hear all your news. Is your fiancé back yet?”