She smiled as she gazed across her crowded classroom. Overall, the Barnsley School had not been a bad place to work the last three years since she had left home. She had been able to convince Miss Martingale, the head mistress, to let her use this first floor room facing the south, so that her students might have good light for their lessons. Spring sunlight streamed through the wide windows and lit the room with a warm glow. Today it was oil painting, one of her favorite subjects. A dozen fifteen-, sixteen-, and seventeen-year-old young ladies, in sprigged muslin as bright as the jonquils outside the window, frowned at the canvasses on their easels. Their painting smocks barely concealed their blossoming charms. The Muses Hard at Work, her artist's mind supplied. For at least half of them, this would be their final project. Within the next few weeks, they would graduate and head off to London for the Season. With any luck, Hannah would be joining them, but as a professional artist, not a marriageable miss.

She allowed a sigh of anticipation to escape her. Was it truly possible that she was going to London to become a portrait painter? She could hardly believe her good fortune. Just three months ago, the Earl of Prestwick had inquired whether the school's art teacher would be willing to attempt a portrait of the dowager countess. It was well known about Barnsley and the surrounding villages that Lady Prestwick was a gentle, retiring soul, easily frightened by the world around her. She was seldom seen outside the gates of her fine estate. Hannah had been more than willing to paint the beautiful countess, who put her in mind of Elaine in the legends of King Arthur. Elaine had pinned away for her love of Lancelot, and it seemed to Hannah Lady Prestwick's sad smiles mirrored a similar melancholy. The resulting painting had been heralded by the earl and the local gentry alike as a fine work of art.

Since then, Squire Pentercast's lovely wife had requested that Hannah undertake a painting of their family. In addition, one of the more influential of the parents, the Duke of Emerson, had suggested that she paint him upon his return from Vienna. As the squire's wife was well-known in social circles, and the duke was a famous diplomat, Hannah was assured of at least the beginnings of a promising career. It was more than she had ever hoped for. She planned to finish her painting of the Pentercasts by Easter and put in her notice to Miss Martingale shortly thereafter. With the money from her two commissions and what she had saved working at the school for the last three years, she had enough to live on frugally in London for a year, building her reputation and her clientele. For the first time in her life, her dreams were within her grasp.

Her attention was drawn to a whispered debate that was rising steadily in volume. Three of her students were clustered around the easel of a fourth, and by the animated gestures and giggles, the topic did not appear to be brush strokes. Hannah frowned at them, but as usual, they paid her no heed. She cleared her throat, and several of the younger girls looked up. The four in question only became more excited. Hannah squared her shoulders.

This playing the disciplinarian was one part of her job she was not going to miss. She was aware that often she held control of the room by the slimmest of threads. She had never mastered the technique of intimidating her students with her authority that so many of the other teachers used. In truth, she suspected that most of her older students knew she was only twenty-two, barely five years older than they were. They had only to look at her five feet, four inches to see she did not tower over any of them. To make matters worse, she was cursed with a clear-skinned, oval face and large doe-like eyes that seemed to condescending smiles rather than strict obedience. She did have a small mole in the lash line of her left eye, but it was a warm brown and smooth, with nary a hair to make it formidable. Her own nose was short and pert, and her mouth tended far too often to smile. No, she had not been the most awe-inspiring of teachers, although her students did seem to learn their lessons and more than one parent had complimented her on the girls' knowledge of art.

Still, she could not allow the current debate to disrupt her class. Hannah moved quietly across the room until she was standing directly behind her students. Unfortunately, even that failed to deter them.

"I tell you it will be a week to end all weeks," declared Priscilla Tate. That Priscilla was the center of attention did not surprise Hannah. With the girl's warm blond hair and emerald eyes, she was by far the loveliest of the graduating class. She was also one of the least popular, for all her considerable family connections. Priscilla had a way of lording her beauty and accomplishments over her classmates. Hannah had long ago begun to think of her as Hera Among the Lesser Goddesses. Today did not seem to be the exception.

"And you can bring all three of us? Your aunt is beyond generous!" This from Daphne Courdebas, the most athletic of the graduates. Everything about Daphne was long and lean, from her limbs to her light brown hair. And all of it had a tendency to tangle unmercifully in her unbridled enthusiasm for life. Amazon in Training, Hannah thought.

"And her still in mourning! How kind!" Ariadne Courdebas put in. At a year younger than her sister, Ariadne could easily have been from another family entirely. She was round and baby-faced, with lank brown hair, great vapid blue eyes, and a morbid fascination with illness. Not a week passed that Hannah was not taking the girl to the nurse over some imagined disease. It was amazing how truly distressed that round face could look, like Lot's Wife on Looking Back at Sodom.

"She's no doubt destitute in sorrow from the loss of her husband and stepson," put in Lady Emily Southwell. The Priestess of Delphi, Hannah thought, her artist's mind painting the picture. Lady Emily would have made such a marvelous seer. Her deep-set brown eyes, black frizzy hair, sallow complexion, and pinched nose were perfectly matched to her dismal view of the world. She even wore the dark colors and austere tailoring, like the brown silk gown that was nearly as depressing as Hannah's stiff black bombazine uniform. Nonetheless, Lady Emily was one of Hannah's favorite students, for she was the only student who had shown the least promise as an artist at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies. Hannah was sure that it was her own recognition of Lady Emily's promise, as well as Hannah's talent, that had resulted in Lady Emily's father, the Duke of Emerson, suggesting that Hannah paint him as well.

"Girls," Hannah spoke up firmly. "That is enough. Return to your lessons."

Daphne jumped, and Ariadne looked abashed. Lady Emily turned willingly to her painting, a dark rendition of the crucifixion. Priscilla rolled her emerald eyes and pouted.

"You don't understand, Miss Alexander. My aunt, Lady Brentfield, has invited us to stay until Easter with her. We have a number of important preparations to make."

Hannah hid a smile at the girl's imperious tone. "No doubt you do. And no doubt they can wait until class is dismissed. Return to your easel, Miss Tate."

"Oh, honestly," Priscilla snapped, flouncing back to her place. The ruffles on the hem of her sprigged muslin gown danced about her legs. Even annoyed and annoying, the girl managed to look graceful. Hannah shook her head and watched until Ariadne and Daphne returned to their places as well.

She had hoped that would be the end of the matter, but they remained in their places only for a few moments, and then Daphne skirted back to Priscilla's easel to begin frantic whispering again. Hannah disliked raising her voice to her students, so she strode back to their side once more, this time with far less charity.

"I tell you we cannot go without a chaperone," Daphne was maintaining heatedly as she approached.

"It's only a day's drive to the estate," Priscilla replied, tossing her golden curls. "Surely your mother would allow you to go that far."

"My mother wouldn't allow me to go as far as the dining room without a chaperone," Daphne argued with a martyred sigh. "Can't your aunt send someone?"

"I'm not going to ask her for favors after she agreed to let the whole lot of you come with me," Priscilla chided. "Besides, she sent a letter of instruction to Miss Martingale. Perhaps she asked for a chaperone."

"Girls," Hannah warned, stepping forcefully between them.

Priscilla muttered something that did not sound the least like an apology and steadfastly returned her gaze to the few blobs of paint she had managed to affix to her canvas.

Daphne started to turn away, then whirled back so quickly she almost upset Priscilla's easel. "I have it!" she cried as Hannah caught the veering canvas. "Miss Alexander can be our chaperone!"

A lead brick seemed to crash from Hannah's throat to her stomach. Her, a chaperone? Mixing with the aristocracy in social matters far beyond her ken? Delaying her own plans by weeks? It was unthinkable. "That is enough, Miss Courdebas," she managed, finding it difficult to breathe at the very thought. "I am not a chaperone. Return to your work or I will set you to cleaning paint pots during your free time."

Daphne, who was known to prefer riding during her free time, blanched and hurried back to her spot. For once, the stern look on Hannah's face was enough to deter further conversation for the rest of the class period.

She managed to put the distressing incident out of her mind until she was called to the headmistress' office later that afternoon. She went expecting some information on her role in the upcoming graduation ceremony. In the past, she had had the ignoble job of painting signs to show the parents the direction of the retiring rooms. This year her one friend at the school, the literature teacher Eleanor Pritchett, was in charge of the event this year, and Hannah had hopes she of a more meaningful role. Miss Martingale had other thoughts on her mind.

"Priscilla Tate's aunt, Lady Brentfield, has graciously invited some of the girls for Easter holiday," she proclaimed without roundaboutation. "I need you as chaperone."

Hannah felt herself pale but forced her dutiful smile to remain in place. She had always been able to reasonably discuss things with her employer. Surely Miss Martingale would not send her off simply to gratify the whims of four students. "But I know nothing about deportment, Miss Martingale," she pointed out. "As you know, I was raised quietly in the country."

The large, dark-haired woman shrugged. "That is not important. Lady Brentfield can be counted on to enforce the social niceties. I need someone to chaperone them in the carriage on the ride to and from the estate, and Lady Brentfield has requested that we provide someone to assist her in monitoring the girls' activities when she is unavailable. So busy a woman as Lady Brentfield cannot be expected to watch them every minute. She has an estate to manage."

So, Hannah was just supposed to be a nebulous body, at the beck and call of the socially astute Lady Brentfield. If the assignment had had any appeal before, it had none now. Hannah had only met Lady Brentfield a few times when the lady had visited the school, usually when she was fetching or returning Priscilla from some event. But Hannah knew that her ladyship was a powerful influence. Miss Martingale gloated over her least kindness, and many of the teachers watched from the upper windows of the school to catch a glimpse of the latest styles the woman wore. Hannah could not imagine anything more mortifying than having to flutter about in the wake of this fashionable woman, her own lack of polish and ignorance of the upper class showing with each movement. "Lady Brentfield will surely want someone with whom the girls are comfortable," she protested. "I barely know them."

"That is as it should be. You know my policy that students and teachers should not fraternize. I have observed that you keep a distance from your students, which I applaud. I have also observed that they tend to ignore your commands. This trip will give you an opportunity to practice your discipline skills."

Practicing her discipline skills was the last thing on Hannah's mind, as was spending a week in close company with her students. The distance Miss Martingale had noted was there for a reason. She was trying to hide the fact that her students scared her not a little. Her fear was easy to hide when she could focus on art, but she was sure they'd see right through her if she was forced to interact with them socially. Besides, spending a week at the Brentfield estate would delay her commission.

"But I've just agreed to paint Squire Pentercast and his family," she explained to Miss Martingale, hoping the mention of the local landowner would inspire sufficient respect to allow her to remain. "I'm sure one of the other teachers would love to go."

"Most have arranged to go home to their families," Miss Martingale replied, her considerable bulk beginning to tremble in indignation that Hannah continued to question her judgment. "And I cannot spare Miss Pritchett; she is needed to finish the preparations for the graduation ceremony. Besides, Lady Brentfield was most emphatic about the type of teacher she wanted: quiet, unassuming, dutiful. I was certain you fit that description."

Nearly every teacher at the Barnsley School fit that description, but Hannah could see by the steel in Miss Martingale's eye that further argument was useless. She considered for a moment tendering her resignation right that moment, but she needed her final two weeks of salary and all of her commission money if she was to have enough to live in London.

She poured out her frustrations that night after the girls were in bed to Eleanor, who with her long elegant body and light brown hair would have been so much more suitable as the chaperone. Hannah had always thought Eleanor should be painted as Joan of Arc or perhaps the goddess Athena. She was certainly clever and capable enough to manage some great feat far more challenging than serving as the literature teacher at the Barnsley School.

"I've had my fill of great houses," Eleanor had assured her when she had confided her problem. "As I told you, I spent a summer with the Earl and Countess of Wenworth tutoring their son, and that was quite enough for me. I'm sorry to say that I agree with Miss Martingale, but there is an undefinable line between the aristocracy and those of us who work for a living, Hannah. When we cross that line, everyone suffers."

Hannah frowned. "Is the gulf between us so wide? My grandfather always said that all men are equal before God."

Eleanor smiled. "Your grandfather was a minister, if memory serves. He is supposed to think well of everyone. And you are just like him. I promise you, there is a tremendous gulf. It is one thing to teach the appreciation and application of art to the daughters of the aristocracy. Being their chaperone will be much more difficult, I fear."

"Am I to follow them about like a lap dog?" Hannah sighed. "And my commission! I wrote to Mrs. Pentercast, but I can only hope she will forgive my delay."

Eleanor's honey-colored brows drew together in a frown of obvious concern. "I hate to add one more thing to your list of worries, my dear, but you must know. Farmer Hale, who brings the milk, told me the most awful thing about Brentfield."

"What?" Hannah asked, feeling that brick sinking through her again.

Eleanor bent closer. "You know that Lady Brentfield is widowed? Her husband the previous earl and his heir were killed in a coaching accident eight months ago. Farmer Hale told me that he heard from one of the tenants of the estate that it was no accident. When the grooms investigated, they found the carriage had been tampered with. Charles Talent, Earl of Brentfield, and his son Nathan, Viscount Hawkins, were murdered."

Hannah gasped. "Were there no investigations? Did no one come forward with evidence?"

Eleanor reached out a hand and squeezed Hannah's. The warm touch did nothing to ward off the chill Hannah could feel running through her. "Farmer Hale said it was all hushed up. There wasn't any reason for murder, you see. Lord Charles and his son were well liked, and there wasn't a great deal of available money. There wasn't even another heir in England, and when the solicitors traced the family lineage, the fellow they found to inherit was so far removed that he couldn't possibly have planned a murder. I heard he is a Yank, of all things. I don't know what to think, Hannah, but I want you to promise me you'll be careful. This work could be dangerous."