Beside me, Evan stiffened in his saddle, his breath releasing in a long, misted hiss. “Ah, this is unfortunate,” he said.

They were a good distance ahead of us. Perhaps we could go around them. Even as the thought rose to my lips, the troop stopped. One of their number had clearly noticed us and apprised his leader, for the man motioned us to halt too.

We reined in as the troop turned smartly and marched back toward us. Callista shook her head in protest at the oncoming commotion, the rattle of her tack a chiming counterpoint. I peered into the dim light. The way the leading figure ahead walked seemed familiar, as did the lankier subordinate beside him, but I could not make out the man’s features beneath the visor of his shako hat.

“Is that Captain Morland and Lieutenant Powers?” I asked Evan.

“I cannot be certain,” he said, then added in an undertone, “If they are coming for me, I will head into the woods. You must not follow me, my love.”

“But they will shoot at you!”

“Exactly why you must not follow me.”

I tightened my grip around the reins. I might not follow, but nor would I stand by while men shot at him.

The troop came to a standstill a few yards from us. They were all fully uniformed, carrying rifles with bayonets and on high alert, for most of them continued to scan the surrounding woodland.

The captain walked up to us, removing his shako. It was, indeed, Morland, his youthful features made harsher in the moonlight. Or perhaps it was the task they were on that made him seem older.

I smiled warmly at him, although it felt like a rictus.

“Ah, I thought it was you, Lady Augusta.” He gave a quick, courteous bow. “Good evening. And to you, Mr. Talbot.”

Thank God, Evan was still Mr. Talbot. His horse bobbed its head and shifted to the side, no doubt from the ease of tension upon its reins.

“Good evening, Captain Morland,” I said, and nodded a greeting to Lieutenant Powers, who had stayed back with the men. “Has something happened?”

“There’s been some Luddite activity in the area. We are looking for a young man and woman—weaver types,” the captain said. “Have you been traveling far along this road?”

“A fair way,” Evan said. “That is why we are so late on our return.”

“Beyond the junction at Ashton-in-Makerfield?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Did you see anyone on the road or the surrounds?”

I recalled the man and woman crossing the field. Not lovers, then, but Luddites.

Evan shook his head. “Not a soul.”

“No, indeed,” I added. “What have these people done?”