One of the footmen stood rattling the door to her carriage, and requested that the occupants unlock it. The carriage rocked violently back and forth, emitting periodic oaths and half-shouted exclamations that surprised Carlisle. What the devil was in that carriage? A bull? An elephant? Several elephants? The footman repeated his request, but it was lost in the cacophony from within. Curiosity drove him closer.

“If you would just move your leg, cousin…”

“Well, I’m trying, Char, but you’re on my gown and I can’t move. Argh!”

“Sorry, my elbow slipped…”

“Nick, darling, would you climb over…ow! Charlotte!…would you climb over Erp and slither through the window? I believe…Charlotte, if you poke me once again, I swear I’ll…”

“Bloody hell!”

“Charlotte!”

“Well, you’d swear too if your lovely blond lace just ripped off your sleeve.”

“Nick, you’re standing on my hand…ah, thank you. If you would try the window…oh, dear. Dickon, will you stop shouting at us, we’re trying. The door seems to be stuck! Blast!”

“Gillian!”

“Oh, don’t Gillian me in that tone; you’re the one who swore first. Will you kindly remove your elbow from my kidney, cousin?”

“Here, Nick, let me give you a little boost through the window, shall I?”

“Charlotte, if you hurt my child…”

“I shan’t hurt…that was my hair!”

“Sorry. My hand slipped.”

“I shan’t hurt him, but I will push the little blighter through since you seem to be incapable of it.”

“Ow! Was that absolutely necessary?”

“My hand slipped.”

“Ha!”

Half of a small boy suddenly emerged from the carriage window. Lord Carlisle, watching with the same sort of fascination that sweeps over those who pass by hangings, accidents, and other gruesome sights, stood mesmerized. How many people were in there? And what was an Erp? Was the child alive, or had he been ejected for other purposes? It was difficult to tell whether he was flailing his arms of his own accord, or if the footman, attempting to assist, was bobbing the lad around.

“Nick, darling, if you could push all the way through, I would be most appreciative. It’s not easy dodging your feet.”

“Ow!”

“You see, dearest? You just clipped your cousin Charlotte on the chin.”

“That little rotter! He did it on purpose! Scoot over, I’ll push him through the bloody window.”

“Charlotte, if you lay one finger on him…oh, dear God.”

The carriage suddenly stopped rocking. Carlisle leaned forward, a chill running down his spine upon hearing the dread in Lady Weston’s voice. What had happened? A sudden illness? Had the boy, who, if the footman’s unsuccessful attempts to tug him through the window were any indication, was stuck, collapsed? Had something happened to the lady named Charlotte, the one with the torn blond lace? Only a calamity of the most heinous kind could be responsible for the tones of horror echoed in Lady Weston’s voice.

“Dickon? Crouch? Will someone get the bloody door open right now? I think Piddle is going to be sick!”

The hairs on Lord Carlisle’s neck stood on end at the bloodcurdling scream that rent the air at Lady Weston’s pronouncement, but in the end, its owner was responsible for the resolution of the situation. After several loud wallops to the side of the carriage—Lord Carlisle assumed the lady Charlotte was kicking down the door—it popped open, and only the quick action of the footman named Dickon saved the small boy from crashing into the side of the carriage. Moments later the boy was pushed backward through the window, and two large, slobbering dogs shot out of the carriage, followed immediately by Lady Weston and a woman with, he couldn’t help noticing, an extremely wrinkled gown.