Evan and Mr. Kent had not yet caught up to us, although I had expected them to do so about an hour into our drive. Had something gone awry? Moreover, I could not help the thought that maybe Mr. Brummell and Lord Alvanley had not dined with the ladies this evening. Or perhaps they had already done so and left, for surely two gentlemen would not lodge with the ladies but take rooms at one of the two inns in the town. So many ifs and all of them capable of ruining the plan. I shook off my rising apprehension and concentrated on finding our turn.

“There,” Julia said, pointing to the entrance of a rough track. “This must be it.”

“It is not marked,” I said, but I turned, hoping for the best.

The weary horses took the hill, climbing into dense woodland on either side. I was beginning to feel that creeping uneasiness of a wrong turn when the glow of man-made light appeared to our left through the trees.

“Thank God,” Julia said.

We drew into the short drive of a small but perfectly formed Gothic-style cottage: white walls and a Gothic wooden porch with wood-canopied windows on either side, lit by candlelight. I had heard that the Ladies of Llangollen had a penchant for carved wood and stained glass—often reclaimed from churches—and here was proof of that predilection. The front of the house and the porch were clad in heavy, bold carvings, and the two windows on the second floor were set with a magnificent design of yellow and blue diamond glass. As I halted the phaeton outside the porch, I saw the shapes of four people seated at a dining table. Was it the ladies dining with Brummell and Alvanley? I could not tell—the distortion of the old, thick glass set into small square panes obscured any detail. I did see, however, their four heads turning in unison at the sound of our wheels upon the gravel. I could just imagine the exclamations—who could this be? had something happened?—for only bad news arrived unannounced at this late hour.

And in a way, we were bad news. Or at least complicated news.

I drew the pair to a halt outside the front door. Without a footman on board, one of us would have to knock and offer our credentials. I had left my calling-card case in the saddlebag, but I suspected we were a little beyond presenting a card for the call anyway. I glanced at Julia, strained and pale. Did she have the strength to carry through her plan? I considered asking her if, indeed, she was up to the task, but I stopped myself from voicing the inquiry. I had to trust that she did have the wherewithal, just as she had trusted me over and over again.

Instead I asked, “Shall I go?”

“Yes. Please,” Julia said.