If not for Lady Georgina, he would’ve ridden a horse from London to her estates in Yorkshire. He would’ve arrived a day ago at Woldsly Manor. Right now he would be enjoying a hot meal in front of the fire in his own cottage. Not freezing his baubles off, standing in the middle of the high road in the rain with the light fading fast. But on his last trip to London to report on her holdings, Lady Georgina had decided to travel with him back to Woldsly Manor. Which had meant taking the carriage, now lying in a heap of broken wood in the ditch.

Harry swallowed a sigh. “Can you walk, my lady?”

Lady Georgina widened eyes that were as blue as a thrush’s egg. “Oh, yes. I’ve been doing it since I was eleven months old.”

“Good.” Harry shrugged on his waistcoat and coat, not bothering to button either. They were soaked through like the rest of him. He scrambled down the bank to retrieve the rugs from inside the carriage. Thankfully they were still dry. He rolled them together and snagged the still-lit carriage lantern; then he gripped Lady Georgina’s elbow, just in case she was wrong and fell on her aristocratic little arse, and started trudging up the gorse-covered hill.

At first, he’d thought her urge to travel to Yorkshire a childish fancy. The lark of a woman who never worried where the meat on her table or the jewels at her throat came from. To his mind, those who didn’t labor to make their living often had flighty ideas. But the more time he spent in her company, the more he began to doubt that she was such a woman. She said gormless things, true, but he’d seen almost at once that she did it for her own amusement. She was smarter than most society ladies. He had a feeling that Lady Georgina had a good reason for traveling with him to Yorkshire.

“Is it much farther?” The lady was panting, and her normally pale face sported two spots of red.

Harry scanned the sodden hills, looking for a landmark in the gloom. Was that twisted oak growing against an outcropping familiar? “Not far.”

At least he hoped not. It had been years since he’d last ridden these hills, and he might’ve mistaken where the cottage lay. Or it might have tumbled down since he last saw it.

“I trust you are skilled at starting fires, Mr. P-pye.” His name chattered on her lips.

She needed to get warm. If they didn’t find the cottage soon, he’d have to make a shelter from the carriage robes. “Oh, yes. I’ve been doing it since I was four, my lady.”

That earned him a cheeky grin. Their eyes met, and he wished—A sudden bolt of lightning interrupted his half-formed thought, and he saw a stone wall in the flash.