There was always the nunnery. They were supposed to specialize in fallen women, weren't they?

By the time they stopped in Croydon to change horses, Henrietta was in such a state of miserable tension that she welcomed the diversion. The courtyard of the Greyhound was already teeming with a variety of equipages, from a crested carriage to a green and gold accommodation coach, and the Swan was scarcely less busy.

Assessing the mob with an experienced eye, Miles shook his head, and eased his horses along the High Street.

"We'll try the Potted Hare," he announced. "They might be less crowded."

Henrietta couldn't decide whether he was talking to himself or to her, but she decided that some response was probably a good thing.

"That would be nice."

Under the brim of her bonnet, Henrietta grimaced at the stilted words. How, after eighteen years of fluid bantering and bickering with Miles, had she been reduced to this? She had enjoyed more scintillating exchanges with Turnip Fitzhugh — and Turnip, like the vegetable for which he was named, was not chiefly known for his conversational talents.

Miles, noticing the grimace, drew another conclusion entirely, and drew the horses up with unnecessary force as he drove into the courtyard of the Potted Hare. Flinging the reins to an ostler, Miles jumped down to hand Henrietta out of the carriage.

Instead of moving aside to let her precede him, he stood, frowning down at her. A black traveling chaise scraped to a stop behind them, nearly clipping Miles in passing, and disgorging a dandy in the latest cut of coat, who paused to rearrange his already immaculate cravat. A busy coaching inn, Miles admitted to himself, wasn't the best place to conduct a conversation of a private nature. But something had to be said, and soon, because all the uncharacteristic silence was destined to drive him straight to Bedlam. Pygmalion had contrived to turn a statue into a living, breathing female. He, thought Miles glumly, had somehow managed to turn a living, breathing female into a statue.

"Hen — " he began earnestly, taking her by the shoulders.

"I say! Dorrington!" Whatever Miles had been about to say was lost, as a familiar voice hailed them. Without waiting for his coachman to bring his carriage to a full stop, Turnip Fitzhugh tumbled out of his chaise. "I say! This is a spot of luck, finding you here. Would have gone on to the Greyhound, but I saw your curricle in the yard, and thought, I'll dine with Dorrington. Can't abide to dine alone, you know."

Clearly, the powers that be took very negative views of a man seducing his best friend's sister, and had wasted no time in exacting punishment. Miles tried to catch Henrietta's eye to share a glance of commiseration, but what little could be seen of her face beneath her bonnet was flung as deeply into shadow as though she had been wearing a veil.

"Fitzhugh," groaned Miles, dropping his hands and turning to face his old schoolmate.

Turnip gave a start as he noticed Henrietta for the first time, a state of affairs not altogether surprising, as Miles's large form had blocked her from his view.

"Lady Henrietta?" He glanced from Henrietta to Miles with a puzzled expression on his good-natured face. "Didn't see you there! Devil of a fine day for a drive, ain't it?"

Miles held out his arm to Hen, wishing the amiable Turnip to perdition. "Shall we see if we can secure a parlor?" he asked resignedly.

"Capital idea!" enthused Turnip. He turned courteously towards Henrietta's bonnet. "What brings you here, Lady Hen?"

"We were just — " began Miles.

" — in Sussex. With Richard," Henrietta broke in, the tone of her voice forbidding further elaboration.

Miles looked sharply down at Henrietta, but received a poke in the eye from an impudent feather for his pains. He could learn to hate that bonnet.

"What are you doing here?" he asked Turnip with no good grace, as their small group progressed through the door of the inn. Behind them, a steady stream of vehicles, pausing on the journey from Brighton to London, continued to crowd into the yard of the coaching inn, in search of fresh horses and a respite from the rigors of the road.

Turnip beamed and waved his carnation-hemmed handkerchief. "Been in Brighton. With Prinny, you know. Devil of a crush at the Pavilion this weekend."

"When isn't there?" asked Miles, gesturing expansively at the innkeeper, in the hopes that the sooner Turnip was fed, the sooner Turnip would leave. Behind them, a queue of cranky travelers was beginning to form, headed by the slender man who had nearly run Miles down in the yard. Judging from the width of his lapels and height of his shirt collar, he was clearly another one of Prinny's hangers-on, fresh from Brighton. That consideration added extra force to Miles's voice as he grumbled, "I don't know why you subject yourself to it."

"You're joking, right, Dorrington? Can't say I care much for the sea, but the prince's entertainments are all up to the crack. Even had an opera singer perform this weekend! Accompanied by some Italian chap, name that sounded like a noodle. Deuced fine — er." Turnip glanced uneasily at Henrietta and broke off. "Er, singer," he finished with relief. "Deuced fine singer."

Even Turnip looked relieved at the intrusion of the innkeeper.

Wiping his hands on the large white cloth tied about his waist, that worthy waxed exceedingly apologetic, explaining that his private parlor was already spoken for; as they could see, his inn was full to overflowing due to the prince's entertainments that weekend in Brighton; if the lady and gentlemen did not object, there were still places in the coffee room… ?

No one objected: Miles, because he didn't care where they sat, so long as they eventually left; Turnip, because he was still talking; and Henrietta, because she wasn't saying anything at all. Miles was very tempted to tap on the top of that confounded bonnet to inquire if anyone was home, but decided that in her present frame of mind, Henrietta; was highly unlikely to respond favorably.

The coffee room was swarming with other travelers tucking into pork pie, brace of duck, and large platters of mutton and potatoes, but Turnip, dint of some cheerful rearranging, secured them a small table in the corner of the room, and dusted off a seat for Henrietta with his handkerchief, all the while expounding volubly on the beauties of Brighton — female and architectural — the dashed fine singer who had entertained them on Friday night, and the wonders of the prince's waistcoats.

" — with real peacock feathers! Seat, Lady Henrietta?" Turnip flourished the recently dusted chair in the direction of Henrietta.

"Pity the peacock," muttered Miles in the direction of Henrietta, but she didn't so much as chuckle.

Henrietta shook her bonnet in the direction of the proffered chair. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, I need to repair the ravages of travel."

At least, thought Miles, she hadn't lost her vocabulary along with her voice. He just wished she'd use it to speak to him.

On a sudden impulse, Miles reached out a hand and grabbed her gloved wrist. Turnip was mercifully distracted, waving his arms in an attempt to attract the attention of a serving maid and acquire a flagon of porter.

"Hen — " he began.

"Yes?" Henrietta's eyes flew to his, suddenly alert.

Miles sat there, mouth half-open, unable to think of a single thing to say. "You aren't planning to climb out a window, are you?" wasn't really an option. "I hate that bonnet" would be honest, but largely unhelpful. And "Why aren't you speaking to me?" wasn't really something that could either be asked in the presence of Turnip, or that could be furnished with a satisfying answer.

"Would you like me to order some lemonade for you?" he finished lamely.

Henrietta's bonnet brim dropped again. "No, thank you," she said politely. Damn.

Miles subsided into his seat, cursing the vagaries of human communication, Henrietta's milliner, and Turnip and all his descendants unto the end of time.

As Turnip bantered with the serving maid, Miles watched Henrietta edge her way around the man who had driven in behind them, a pink of the ton in tan pantaloons, a leviathan of a cravat, and collar points higher than the Tower of Babel. The dandy paused in the door to stare after Henrietta, the stiffened tails of his coat brushing against the wall. Miles scowled openly at the fellow in the doorway. What business did he have staring at Henrietta? She was taken, quite, quite taken, and if that foppish fellow didn't stop ogling her soon (Miles had a fairly firm notion of what "soon" entailed), Miles would have to make sure he knew it. For a moment, the fop looked like he might actually be about to follow Henrietta — Miles's hand went instinctively to where his sword would have been, were he wearing it — but thought better of it, a decision that Miles silently applauded, and instead strolled over to the fire.

Relaxing his vigil, Miles turned back to Turnip, who was engaged in a merry monologue about the wonders of the Prince of Wales's collection of chinoiserie, in which peacocks seemed to figure significantly. Miles wondered if this meant that Turnip was finally going to stop swathing himself in Pink Carnation paraphernalia, and decided that the image of Turnip as a giant peacock was too alarming a concept to contemplate.

"Copied down the name of Prinny's new tailor for you," Turnip said expansively, extracting a small piece of paper from his tightly fitted waistcoat. He beamed fondly at the little scrap. "You wouldn't believe what that man can do with a waistcoat."