He should have listened to Horace that morning, much as he hated to admit his error. His friend had warned him that the weather was about to take a turn for the worse.

"Take m' word for it," Horace Reed had said, folding his hands across his large stomach and nodding his head against his chest so that his two chins doubled in number. "I always know when bad weather's on the way. M' feet swell and m' legs ache and I lose m' appetite." He had patted his mouth with a linen napkin and thrown it down onto his empty breakfast plate.

Merrick had grinned. "Was it three eggs or two you ate with your sausage and bacon and kidneys?" he had asked innocently.

Horace's chins had returned to normality as he raised his head. "Laugh if you like, Alex," he had admonished his skeptical friend, "but it will surely rain before the day is out. Or snow, more likely, at this time of year. You'd better stay another day or two, old boy. Better here than in some country inn, where you won't get a decent feed or a comfortable fire."

But Merrick had resisted. Even if he had had faith in his friend's unorthodox manner of forecasting the weather, he probably would have held to his plans, he reflected now. He pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and huddled down inside it until the garment threatened to push his beaver from his head. Old Horace had been a close friend since their university days, when he had attached himself to the more attractive and charismatic viscount with a loyalty bordering on hero-worship. Not that it had been a one-sided friendship. Horace had been an intelligent and sensible student who helped Merrick develop his own mind and ideas. And they had remained friends. When news that Reed's father had died suddenly reached Merrick in London, he had ridden the two-day journey with the sole purpose of offering comfort and support.