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with her bonnet and recalcitrant hair, when the old “coachman” hurried over, crying out: “How-de-do! I do beg your pardon, ma’am. A most unfortunate miscalculation. No-one hurt, I trust?”
    “That no-one has been hurt is due more to good fortune than anything else,” said Truthful sternly. “I intend to report you to the relevant Authorities at the next town. Bribing mail coachmen to let you drive and crashing a mail coach into another conveyance is surely a most serious crime.”
    “Oh, the authorities know all about me,” said the old man cheerfully. “Besides, I
am
the authorities in these parts. You could report me to me, I suppose. No? I would prefer it if you allow me to assist you on your way, and make some slight amends for the trouble I’ve caused. Who do I have the honour to address?”
    “I am Lady Truthful Newington,” said Truthful, rather taken aback by the man’s cheerfulness and obvious good breeding, even though he wore strange clothes and had the trace of some peculiar accent. “My father is Admiral the Viscount Newington. And you, sir?”
    “Charmed,” replied the old man. “I’m Otterbrook, don’t you know.”
    “Oh,” said Truthful. “It is an honour to meet you, my lord Marquis.”
    She had read about Lord Otterbrook, the fourth Marquis of Poole. He was known as the “colonial peer”. A rank outsider for the title, he had been a remittance man in the Americas, the Orient and finally the colony of New South Wales, succeeding to the title only when the main line of the family managed to get themselves killed in various land and naval battles and hunting accidents. It was said the last Marquis had died of apoplexy at the thought that his eccentric cousin would inherit after all. Particularly as his successor was merely an indifferent diviner, rather than possessing any of the more socially acceptable magics of glamour or persuasion.
    “What seems to be the damage, hmmm?” enquired the Marquis, pacing around the carriage to look at the underside. “Ah, a broken axle. And your leaders lamed? I shall have to convey you myself, Lady Truthful. My curricle should be along shortly.”
    Truthful felt a blush rising across her neck at his words. Here was someone old enough to be her grandfather, trying to compromise her reputation before she even arrived in London!
    “Oh no, that won’t do, will it,” added Lord Otterbrook suddenly, seeing her colour. “Forgot. Respectability and all that. Couldn’t fit your maid anyway. Bye the bye, where is your maid? Or respectable aunt, or whatever. Must have one tucked away somewhere, what?”
    “Oh dear!” exclaimed Truthful. “My maid. She’s still inside. Agatha! Are you all right?”
    There was a deathly silence for a moment, then Agatha’s voice came grumbling out the open door.
    “I might be better if we weren’t a-going to Lunnon — and perhaps we ain’t.”
    “Quick, Tom, Smith — help Agatha out. Oh, I am sorry, Agatha!”
    She turned around just in time to see the glint of yellow metal, and the two men pocketing something. They ducked their heads guiltily at her, and climbed back into the carriage to assist Agatha.
    “Just a little ointment for their hurts, physical and spiritual,” said Lord Otterbrook, chuckling. “Gold works wonders for anything short of broken bones. Even broken bones, sometimes. I have decided that I shall send a post-chaise back from Maidstone for you, though it may take some little while.”
    “You are most kind, sir,” replied Truthful, somewhat stiffly. She still felt it was all his fault that she had been delayed at all.
    “I know, my dear,” commiserated Lord Otterbrook. “You think I’m a silly old fool who’s quite queered your entire journey. Well, I shall have to make my amends. What can I—”
    The sound of horses on the road, and the blast of a horn behind him interrupted the old man, and he turned to look over his shoulder. A curricle rounded the bend with a pair of