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nodded. ‘And what about Lord Thingummy?’
    ‘A lazy penurious aristocrat? I would we could take him as well. How many of his tenants, think you, had he beggared before he ran into debt?’
    ‘As long as he’s no threat, then he can beggar the lot, for all I care,’ replied Mr Ashton. ‘That’s the trouble with your lot. Always hot and bothered about something .’ 

3
    It is not easy to persuade an Englishman to talk about his illicit amours; for many of them this is a closed book the mere mention of which is shocking.
    Hippolyte Taine
    Mr Ashton was to travel with them, much to Hannah’s dismay, for she had taken the young fop in dislike. He began by letting the other passengers know that he thought he was a cut above stage-coach travel. There was enough straw on the floor, he said acidly, to hide a whole covey of partridges, and he kept picking bits of straw fastidiously from his clothes.
    Monsieur Petit added his complaints. He could not understand why inns did not offer napkins to the guests, so that they had to wipe their fingers and mouths on the table-cloths, and he considered the custom of offering slippers to new arrivals a filthy one.He had refused to wear them. You never knew who had worn them last.
    Yvonne looked out at the passing scene and tried to forget the presence of Monsieur Petit and his friend. A good night’s sleep, not to mention the bracing company of Hannah Pym, had done wonders for her spirits. The more she thought about that letter, the more she became convinced that it was a fake, or rather a fake in that Monsieur Petit had pretended to have recently received it. Perhaps it was one her father had written to him before the Revolution, for her father had been friendly with him then, that she knew. Monsieur Petit wanted her to keep her distance from Miss Pym. Well, she would not. There was something comforting about Hannah’s strength and the amusing devil- may-care cockiness of her servant, Benjamin. Yvonne wondered whether to confide in Hannah. For when she got to York, she had no intention of leading Monsieur Petit to her father, not until she had seen her father first, and she felt that Hannah might offer help in enabling her to slip away.
    She turned her eyes from the landscape outside and met the silvery-grey eyes of the Marquis of Ware. There was an oddly speculative look in his eyes. Her senses sharpened by danger, Yvonne began to worry about him for the first time. He did not look down at heel. He had given up the pretence of being Mr Giles and was now dressed like a marquis. She saw enemies everywhere and prayed for the day when they would arrive in York. Her father was brave and resourceful. He would know what to do. But Mr Petit did frightenher. She shivered and Hannah pressed her hand. Yvonne gave her a shy smile.
    Mr Petit caught that smile and had noticed that press of the hand. Something would have to be done about Yvonne Grenier before they reached York. Then there was the upsetting presence of the Marquis of Ware. His clothes had undergone a change. He seemed to be making no effort to appear impoverished. He would discuss the situation with Mr Ashton when they stopped for the night.
    Hannah Pym looked out at the passing scene but with diminished enthusiasm. As they rumbled their way through towns and villages, heads popped out of casement windows to survey the one excitement of the day – the sight of the Flying Machine.
    York suddenly seemed a long way away, much longer than its one hundred and ninety-nine miles from London, almost at the edge of the world. The monotonous creak, creak, creak of the coach was beginning to get on Hannah’s nerves. She began to feel like a jaded traveller whom nothing can surprise. A tinge of homesickness crept in on her. What on earth was she doing in this still-damp coach travelling to the ends of the earth when she might be in her little flat in London, awaiting the arrival of Sir George?
    But perhaps she might come across Mrs Clarence