Not the suggestion I was expecting, but it was a good one: Weatherly’s pristine cravat seemed to almost glow in the dim light.

“Excellent thought.” I tugged at the starched cravat that finished off my riding ensemble, ripping it away from my neck with a swirl of cold air at my throat.

“Allow me, my lady.” I handed over the length of linen. Weatherly carefully folded it and slid it into his greatcoat pocket. Always the quintessential butler. He removed his own cravat, a thoughtful expression crossing his face as he considered its length.

“I do have another suggestion, my lady,” he said. “We should leave a trail for Captain Morland and his men to follow. It is not much, but it might help.”

Ah, like the old German fairy tale. I nodded my agreement. “We do not have much in terms of weaponry either, but I do have this.” I pushed my fingers up into my sleeve, found the hilt of the dagger in its sheath, and drew it out.

“Useful,” he said. “May I?”

I gave him the weapon, and after a minute or so of shredding, we had our starched linen breadcrumbs. Weatherly returned the dagger to me. I slid it back into its sheath, then gathered up the hem of my riding habit—glad of the long knitted pantaloons that gave some protection and warmth to my legs—and led the way through a close stand of ash.

Even with the trampled track made by Mulholland and his crew, our progress was hampered by the gloom and the terrain. The ground sloped or dropped without warning under its deceptive cloak of leaves and undergrowth, and twice I tripped upon a hole, only to be caught from injury by Weatherly’s strong reflexes and quick hands. Occasionally a night animal would skitter out of our way, the sound clenching my innards. It felt as if it was taking forever to push our way through, and every minute that passed was a minute that could be Evan’s and Mr. Kent’s last.

In a patch of weak moonlight, I stopped to consult my fob watch, squinting to make out the face. We had been walking for twenty minutes. Dear God. I dropped the watch back upon its chain. A plan was beginning to form in my mind. A plan I did not like, but I could see no other way. I snagged another ribbon upon a twig and forged through yet another patch of dense hazel.

Just as I was beginning to fear we had wandered away from our goal, Weatherly stopped my progress with an arm across my path.

“My lady, look,” he whispered.

Ahead—about three or four hundred feet—I saw a light and what looked to be a clearing with a flicker of movement between the eerily lit tree trunks. Then I heard it: the nicker of horses and the murmur of voices.

We had found them.