She should have ignored the man, obviously. No lady fell into conversation with complete strangers at roadside inns and most certainly not with tall, raffish ones. And by definition, as this one had addressed her uninvited, he was not behaving as a gentleman should.

Laurel turned her head to give him a fleeting glance, although the fine mesh of her veil blurred his features a trifle. She had looked more directly earlier, of course, when she was certain she was unobserved. She was female after all and, at twenty-five, not quite a dried-up spinster on the shelf yet, whatever her stepmother liked to imply. She had a pair of perfectly good eyes and a functioning pulse and the stranger was a good looking man if you liked tall, broad-shouldered blonds with overlong hair. And a tan—another indication that he was not a gentleman, although to be fair she supposed he might be connected to the East India Company or have just arrived home from the West Indies.

She had been sitting at a table in the public room of the Beckhampton Inn sipping tea with her maid, Binham, primly silent at her side, when he had sauntered in. He ordered porter which he drank with one elbow propped negligently on the bar as though this were some common ale house and not a highly respectable posting house on the Bath Road.

‘I am used to the postilions I hire knowing the way to circumnavigate obstacles, sir,’ she said now. ‘I do not expect them to throw up their hands and declare that they must make an exceedingly lengthy detour simply because a tree is down and blocking the road at Cherhill.’

They were now standing in the yard and it was becoming unpleasantly crowded with the stage just in and three other post-chaises beside her own jostling for space and changing horses. In the midst of the bustle the guard from the London Mail was standing, the post bags slung about him and the reins of one of the abandoned Mail’s team in his hand, ordering a riding horse to take him on to London while fielding agitated queries as to just how bad the blockage was three miles ahead.

‘As I told you, ma’am, we can go south to Devizes and then Melksham and get to Bath that way round.’ The postilion who had brought her the unwelcome news shot her a resentful look. ‘By all accounts the only thing that’ll get round that big old oak is a rider on horseback. The Mail’s stuck on the other side and if they can’t get the Mail through, they can’t get anything on wheels past.’

‘And I explained to you when we set out that I require to call in at Pickwick on the way.’ Laurel opened the route book that she had tucked in her reticule and ran one finger down the column for roads to Bath. ‘As I thought. If we go via Melksham, which is what you are suggesting, then it is a significant detour to reach Pickwick.’

‘No other way to do it, ma’am.’ The wiry little man stood firm.

Laurel sighed, more at herself than at him. The past few weeks she had lost both her patience and her sense of humour and she knew it. None of this was life and death—nothing actually felt very important any more, if she was honest. If they had to make a long detour and were late reaching Aunt Phoebe’s house, then that was the risk one took in making a journey. Stepmama was right, she was turning into an old maid before her time, crotchety and intolerant.

‘Very well. I am sure you know best.’

‘Or possibly not,’ the stranger remarked, brazenly intervening in the conversation again. ‘What about the old road by Shepherd’s Shore and round over the flank of the Downs to Sandy Lane?’

‘The turnpike trust gave up maintaining that road more than fifty years ago, sir.’

‘It is still there, is it not?’

‘Aye, sir, and I’m sure it is fit for farm carts and riders, but not for the likes of Quality in a chaise.’

‘The ground is dry, there is little wind and you have a team of four.’ The man turned to Laurel. ‘I am on horseback, so I can lead the way. It will be rutted and it’s a long pull, but it bypasses Cherhill and Calne and you will be able to re-join the road to Chippenham and Pickwick without having to turn back on yourself.’

Laurel studied him, wondering why he seemed vaguely familiar, but unable to pin down why. One man could hardly be a danger to her, she told herself. She had an escort of a maid and two postilions, albeit sulky ones. There was the risk of breaking a wheel or an axle and finding herself stranded on top of these godforsaken Downs, of course, but she wanted to get to Bath badly enough to take that chance.

‘Thank you, sir. I am obliged.’ She turned to the postilions. ‘You heard the gentleman, we will follow him to Sandy Lane.’

They turned and went to the horses without comment, although if backs of heads could speak Laurel thought they would be saying, You’ll be sorry. Or possibly, Women!

‘Ma’am, excuse me, but have we met before?’

He feels it, too?

The stranger was staring as though he hoped to penetrate her veil. He had blue eyes and dark, dark lashes.

‘I hardly think so, sir.’ She did not trust blue eyes, however attractive, and it was unwise to be drawn into conversation which was doubtless a handy ploy for scoundrels. Before you knew where you were you were revealing information about acquaintances and locations that would give a confidence trickster or a seducer valuable insights. Not that she thought him either, but presumably if such people were obvious they would not be very successful.

‘No,

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