“Or raining,” the outrider put in.

“Or snowing,” said the maid.

The lady speared her with an annoyed glance. “Really, Sally, that's hardly likely at this time of year.”

The maid shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. After all, who would have thought we'd have lost a wheel the way we did. And this being the most expensive carriage money can buy.”

Caroline smiled and edged away. Clearly these people were unhurt, and the rest of their traveling party would be back soon with help. Better to keep her presence a secret. The fewer people who knew she was here in Bournemouth the better. After all, what if this lady was a friend of Oliver's? It wasn't likely, of course. The lady seemed to have a sense of humor and a modicum of taste, which would immediately eliminate Oliver Prewitt from her circle of friends. Still, one couldn't be too careful.

Ironically, that was exactly what Caroline was saying to herself—still, one couldn't be too careful—when she took a false step, landed on a rather dried-up twig, and broke it in half with an extremely loud snap.

“Who's there?” the lady immediately demanded. Caroline froze.

“Show yourself immediately.”

Could she outrun the outrider? Unlikely. The man was already walking purposefully in her direction, his hand on a bulge in his pocket that Caroline had a sneaking suspicion was a gun.

“It's only me,” she said quickly, stepping out into the clearing.

The lady cocked her head, her gray eyes narrowing slightly. “Good day, ‘me.’ Who are you?”

“Who are you?” Caroline countered.

“I asked you first.”

“Ah, but I am alone, and you are safely among your traveling companions. Therefore, common courtesy would deem that you reveal yourself first.”

The woman drew her head back in a combination of admiration and surprise. “My dear girl, you are speaking the utmost nonsense. I know all there is to know about common courtesy.”

“Hmmm. I was afraid you would.”

“Not to mention,” the lady continued, “that of the two of us, I am the only one accompanied by an armed servant. So perhaps you ought to be the first to reveal her identity.”

“You do have a point,” Caroline conceded, eyeing the gun with a wary grimace.

“I rarely speak just for the sake of hearing my own voice.”

Caroline sighed. “I wish I could say the same. I often speak without first considering my words. It's a dreadful habit.” She bit her lip, realizing that she was telling a total stranger about her faults. “Like right now,” she added sheepishly.

But the lady just laughed. It was a happy, friendly sort of laugh, and it put Caroline right at ease. Enough so that she said, “My name is Miss…Dent.”

“Dent? I'm not familiar with that name.”

Caroline shrugged. “It's not terribly common.”

“I see. I am the Countess of Fairwich.”

A countess? Good gracious, there seemed to be quite a few aristocrats in this little corner of England of late. First James, now this countess. And Blake, although not titled, was the second son of the Viscount Darnsby. Caroline glanced up toward heaven and mentally thanked her mother for making sure that she taught her daughter the rules of etiquette before she died. With a smile and a curtsy, Caroline said, “I'm quite pleased to meet you, Lady Fairwich.”