I passed her the reins, flexed my cold, stiff fingers, and climbed to the ground.

A saint of some kind glared at me from the center of the heavily carved door. I rapped upon the wood, then took a step back. The door was opened almost immediately; the footman had clearly been waiting on the other side, his face stiff from the struggle of suppressing his curiosity. The warm air from the hallway brought the smell of roasted beef and horseradish, the savory combination striking at my innards. I had not eaten for some time.

“Good evening,” I said. “Is this the residence of Lady Butler and Miss Ponsonby?”

“It is,” the footman said, his eyes darting across to the phaeton.

“Please tell your mistresses that Lady Augusta Colebrook, Lady Julia Colebrook, Lady Hester Belford, and Miss Grant have arrived and wish to speak to them most urgently on a matter of”—I hesitated but decided I would not be overstating the case—“life and death.”

The footman bowed. “If you will wait, I will—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, let them in,” a female voice called from farther up the hallway.

The footman opened the door to reveal a dim corridor and the heavyset silhouette of a tall woman. She strode forward. “Lady Augusta, is it not? I am Lady Eleanor. Do come in. All of you. It is a freezing night.”

She had a brisk manner, her face built on strong bones, with the skin slackened by age. Her gray hair had been cropped short like my own style, but powdered in the old-fashioned way. Also like myself, she wore a dark, well-cut riding habit. If I was of a whimsical nature, it might have been a look into my future.

“I am afraid Lady Hester is currently incapacitated,” I said. “Would it be possible for your man to assist Miss Grant to carry her inside?” Miss Grant would not like the assistance of another man—especially a stranger—but practicality had to win out again. Otherwise we would not get Lady Hester into the house.

Lady Eleanor waved her footman outside. “Of course, of course. We will take her directly to a bed upstairs.” She raised an eyebrow. “It seems you come with quite a story, Lady Augusta.”

“We do indeed. I am sorry to intrude upon your evening and your—”

My apology was cut short by another female voice. “Did I hear that Lady Julia Colebrook is here?”

A smaller, slightly slenderer version of Lady Eleanor emerged from the room on the left, the dining room, if I was not mistaken. Without a doubt, this was Miss Ponsonby, her features more delicate than her companion’s but her hair and habit in exactly the same style. Following her came the lean figure of Mr. Brummell and, behind him, the wider dimensions of Lord Alvanley, both impeccably dressed for dinner in black jackets and white silk knee breeches.