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What is it? Part of her wanted to shout. Did she have a toadstool growing on the tip of her nose? Or green horns growing out of her forehead? It made her self-conscious, but she doggedly refused to turn her head to meet his stare, and she stubbornly kept looking out of the window.

It rained. She decided to count the raindrops sliding down the windowpane to while the time away, and to give her something to focus on other than that man’s stare.

Then, she must have dozed off once more, for suddenly her head dropped aside, and was there someone catching it before she bumped it against the windowpane? A hand, supporting her head. No, she must have imagined it. It was a pillow after all, she thought drowsily. A satin one. It was soft and altogether lovely.

Anna slept.

She awoke sometime later when it had grown completely dark. The horses’ hooves were still clattering in regular rhythm, the carriage was still swaying, and Phoebe was still sleeping. The carriage interior was cast into a shadowy darkness as the lamp outside did not reach the corner where St John sat. She squinted her eyes in the darkness. At least she assumed the dark, shadowy shape emitting panting and wheezing sounds was he.

It sounded positively ghastly.

Anna shot up straight, bumping Phoebe’s head off her shoulder. She mumbled something, then rested her head against the carriage wall on the other side.

There it was again.

Another ghastly sound.

All the little hairs on Anna’s arms stood on end.

Mon Dieu! What was that! She’d never heard such a horrible sound in her entire life. Was he in the process of transforming himself into a ghastly monster? A vampire, maybe? Or a werewolf? She’d heard about both monsters from stories a laundry maid once told her, who’d relished lurid stories about ghosts and other supernatural beings. Anna did not believe in such nonsense. But when it was dark, she couldn’t help but think about those stories, especially when one was locked in a swaying carriage with none other than the mad earl.

There, another such sound.

It sounded more like a whimper.

Of someone in great pain.

She squinted in the darkness, but the light from the coach lamp that swung outside wasn’t strong enough to illuminate the entire interior of the coach.

“St John,” she whispered after some hesitation.

No answer.

“My lord,” she tried again, “are you quite well?”

He responded with a gasping, wheezing sound that did not sound at all well.

“Sir!” Anna raised her voice in alarm. “What is the matt⁠—”

“Quiet!” he roared in a voice so loud that she winced. “Just be quiet. Please. Tell Bilkins to stop at the next house that comes across our path.”

“A house? Any house? What if it is a simple farmer’s cottage⁠—”

Another groan.

“Very well. I will tell Bilkins.” She rapped sharply against the interior panel to alert the coachman, but he did not seem to hear her, so she pounded harder. As she lifted her fist for another pound, St John grabbed her hand, tightly, so that she emitted a squeal of surprise.

“No,” he groaned.

“But I am to alert the coachman.”

Since he did not reply, she lowered the window and shouted out, “Bilkins, stop at the next house that we come across.”

“Any?” Bilkins shouted back.

“Any?” Anna asked St John, but he did not reply. “I suppose so,” she muttered.

“What?” Bilkins shouted. “I didn’t hear what you said.”