Her gaze fell on the lane joining the road at the signpost. It wended away through stubbled fields, then entered a dense wood covering a low rise. She'd been told the lane was a shortcut, ultimately joining the Claypole Hall lane mere yards from the Hall gates. It seemed her only chance of reaching the Hall before the storm broke.

One glance at the roiling clouds growing like a celestial tidal wave to her right made up her mind. Stiffening her spine, Honoria clicked the reins and directed the grey left. The beast stepped out eagerly, carrying her past the golden fields, darkening as the clouds thickened.

A dull crack! cut through the heavy stillness. Honoria looked ahead, scanning the trees swiftly drawing nearer. Poachers? Would they be out in such weather when the game was in deep cover, sheltering from a storm? She was still puzzling over the odd sound when the wood rose before her. The grey trotted on; the trees engulfed them.

Determined to ignore the storm, and the unease it raised within her, Honoria turned to contemplation of her latest employers, and the niggle of doubt she felt over their worth as recipients of her talents. Beggars couldn't be choosers, which was what any other governess would say. Fortunately, she wasn't just any governess. She was wealthy enough to live idly; it was by her own eccentric will that she eschewed a life of quiet ease for one which allowed her to use her skills. Which meant she could choose her employers, and usually did so most reliably. This time, however, fate had intervened and sent her to the Claypoles. The Claypoles had failed to impress.

The wind rose in a bansheelike screech, then died to a sobbing moan. Branches shifted and swayed; boughs rubbed and groaned.

Honoria wriggled her shoulders. And refocused her thoughts on the Claypoles-on Melissa, their eldest daughter, the prospective duchess.