The third disaster of the day occurred when Lady Helen Jeffries found herself stranded in an unseasonal blizzard.

Shivering outside the broken coach, she clutched the ermine-trimmed hood tighter around her blond hair. The wind plucked at her crimson cloak. Specks of ice peppered her cheeks. Heedless of her own discomfort, Helen waved a cheerful farewell to her footman as he rode off into the blinding snow.

For a moment she stood there, gripped by cold and fright. It was mid-afternoon already. Even if Cox reached the village before dark, would there be time for a rescue party to set out?

Possibly not. She and Miss Gilbert and the injured coachman might be forced to spend the night here with no fire to warm them. The spare horse, tethered in the shelter of the rocks, could not carry all of them to safety.

And this predicament was her fault.

Heartsick, she climbed into the coach, which lay tilted in the ditch. At least the plush blue interior felt marginally warmer than outside. M'lord yapped excitedly. Helen scooped up the little brown-and-white dog and took comfort from his warm body.

Miss Gilbert had tucked a spare blanket around the coachman's hurt leg. With her arms fluttering beneath her cape, she looked like a plump brown wren. "Oh, my lady," the old governess chirped, "whatever are we to do? Poor Cox will freeze to death. And so shall we!"

"It's not as bad as all that," Helen said reassuringly. "He'll ride to that hamlet we passed a mile back, and then we'll be rescued in a trice. Mr. Abbott, are you in pain?"