Chapter 2
She closed the door behind her with a satisfying click, leaning against it for a moment.
Her heart was racing in a way that had nothing to do with climbing the stairs.
This was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous.
She'd come on this journey with a specific purpose—to get to London, to her aunt, to escape the increasingly persistent advances of Sir Reginald Thornbury, her late father's choice of husband for her.
She didn't have time for verbal sparring with mysterious strangers, no matter how intriguing their grey eyes or how amusing their conversation.
"Miss?" Martha appeared from behind the dressing screen. "Your trunk is here, but I'm afraid the blue silk is quite ruined. And the green muslin. And... well, mostly everything, really. But I've salvaged your brown wool and the grey morning dress."
"How delightfully funereal," Catherine sighed, moving to inspect the damage. "However, I suppose it's fitting. I am rather in mourning for my dignity, having agreed to share rooms with a complete stranger."
"He seems a gentleman, miss," Martha ventured, helping Catherine out of her sodden pelisse. "Very well-spoken."
"A well-spoken gentleman without a valet, traveling alone in a storm, and far too eager to throw money at innkeepers. Yes, nothing suspicious there at all."
"Perhaps he's in love," Martha suggested romantically. She was at the age where every situation could be improved by the addition of a tragic love affair. "Running away from a broken heart or toward his true love."
"More likely running from creditors or an angry husband, whose wife has had suspicious relationships with him," Catherine said practically, though something in her chest tightened at the thought of Mr. Wrentham racing through a storm toward some woman.
Which was absurd. She didn't care one whit about Mr. Wrentham's romantic entanglements.
A knock at the connecting door interrupted her thoughts.
"Miss Mayfer?" His voice came through the wood, muffled but still carrying that hint of amusement.
"I've just been informed by the estimable Mr. Hartwell that dinner has been supplemented by something he calls 'beef.
' I use the term loosely, as the meat's provenance seems questionable at best. Would you prefer to risk it or shall we attempt negotiation for something less potentially lethal? "
"Are you always this dramatic about food, Mr. Wrentham?" Catherine called back, nodding to Martha to continue unlacing her stays.
"Only when there's a genuine risk of poisoning. I've survived French cuisine, Spanish cuisine, and once, memorably, something in Portugal that I'm still not certain wasn't actually shoe leather. But Mr. Hartwell's 'beef' might be the thing that finally does me in."
"Such a tragic end for such a mysterious gentleman. I'm sure the ladies of London will mourn appropriately."
"All two of them?"
"You underestimate yourself. I'd guess at least four. Possibly five if we count your mother."
"My mother would be the first to say I got what I deserved for trusting an innkeeper's beef."
Despite herself, Catherine laughed. "Very well. See if you can convince Mr. Hartwell to provide something less adventurous. Bread and cheese, perhaps? I trust even he can't render those dangerous."
"Your faith is touching, if misplaced. I once stayed at an inn where the cheese was actually sentient. It had developed its own civilization."
"Mr. Wrentham?"
"Yes?"
"Go away. I'm trying to change, and your ridiculous commentary is distracting."
"My ridiculous commentary is the only entertainment available in this establishment, Miss Mayfer. But very well, I shall take my wit elsewhere. The stable boys, perhaps. They seem appreciative of good humour."
She heard his footsteps retreat, and something in her chest loosened—though whether it was relief or disappointment, she couldn't quite say.
"He's very amusing, miss," Martha observed, helping Catherine into the brown wool. It was depressing how dowdy it looked, but at least it was dry.
"He's very irritating," Catherine corrected, but without much heat.
"If you say so, miss." Martha's tone suggested she wasn't fooled in the slightest. "Shall I dress your hair?"
Catherine looked at the tangled mess in the mirror and sighed. "Do what you can, Martha. Though I fear it's a lost cause."
As Martha worked her magic with pins and combs, Catherine found her thoughts drifting to the man in the other room.
James Wrentham. The name didn't sit quite right, somehow.
It was too ordinary for someone with those eyes, that presence.
He filled a room without trying, commanded attention without demanding it.
She'd known many gentlemen in her life, her father had been quite social before his death two years ago, but none quite like this one.
He was hiding something. That much was obvious.
The question was what, and whether it was something that should concern her.
After all, she had her own secrets. The fact that she was actually Lady Catherine Mayfer, daughter of the late Earl of Westmont, fleeing an unwanted betrothal to a man old enough to be her father, with her mother's jewelry sewn into the lining of her trunk and enough money to establish herself independently in London—if she could get there.
Thunder crashed overhead, making both women jump.
"What a night," Martha breathed, moving to the window. "It's like something from one of those novels. You know, the ones where the heroine gets trapped in a castle with a dark, mysterious gentleman who turns out to be..."
"A bore who talks about nothing but his horses and his hunt?" Catherine suggested.
"I was going to say a duke in disguise."
Catherine snorted. "This is the Great North Road, Martha, not a Gothic novel. Mr. Wrentham is probably a merchant or a land agent or something equally mundane."
"With those shoulders?" Martha sighed dreamily.
"Martha!"
"I'm just saying, miss. I've seen a lot of merchants in my time, and none of them looked like that."
Catherine had to admit, if only to herself, that Martha had a point. There was something about the way he moved; controlled, alert, dangerous even. Like a man who'd seen battle and lived to tell about it. Or didn't tell about it, in his case.
Another knock at the door, this time from the hallway.
"Supper, miss!" a voice called.
Catherine opened the door to find a young boy with a tray, trying valiantly not to stare at her state of relative undress; she'd forgone stays entirely, opting for comfort over propriety, and her hair was still only half-pinned.
"Thank you," she said, taking the tray quickly and closing the door.
The tray held bread that looked reasonably fresh, cheese that appeared to be quite edible, some cold ham, and what might charitably be called apple tart. There was also a pot of tea that smelled strongly of bergamot—good tea, expensive tea. Not what she'd expect from a coaching inn.
"That's interesting," she murmured.
"What is, miss?"
"The tea. It's of the expensive ones. Very fine quality. Where would Mr. Hartwell get this kind of tea?"
Before Martha could respond, they heard Mr. Wrentham's voice through the wall, though the words were muffled. He seemed to be having a heated discussion with someone. Catherine found herself pressing closer to the connecting door, trying to make out the conversation.
"...absolutely not acceptable..."
"...told you not to follow, Peters."
"...your safety, Your..."
The voices cut off abruptly, as if realizing they might be overheard.
Catherine stepped back quickly, her mind racing. 'Your' what? Your lordship? Your honour? Your excellence?
"Miss?" Martha was watching her with concern. "Is everything alright?"
"Yes, of course." Catherine forced herself to move away from the door. "Just... the storm is making me nervous."
But it wasn't the storm. It was the growing certainty that Mr. James Wrentham was no more a simple gentleman traveler than she was a simple miss. The question was: what was he? And more importantly, did it matter? After tonight, they'd go their separate ways, never to meet again.
The thought shouldn't have been as depressing as it was.
She sat down to her supper in the shared sitting room, trying to focus on the really quite decent bread and not on the man in the next room.
She was halfway through a slice of cheese when she heard music; someone was playing a violin, the sound drifting up from the public room below.
It was a melancholy tune, something Irish perhaps, and played with real skill.
Without quite meaning to, Catherine found herself moving to the connecting door.
"Mr. Wrentham?" she called softly.
"Miss Mayfer?" His response was immediate, as if he'd been standing near the door as well.
"Do you hear the music?"
"Hmm. One of the cavalry officers, I believe. He's quite good."
"It's beautiful. Sad, but beautiful."
"'The Last Rose of Summer,' I think."
"You know it?"
"I had a... friend who used to play it." There was something in his voice, a weight of memory.
Catherine pressed her hand against the door, imagining him on the other side, perhaps doing the same. "A lady friend?"
"Why, Miss Mayfer, are you fishing for information about my romantic past?"
"Merely making conversation. We are trapped here together, after all."
"By choice, if you recall."
"Your choice to bid against me."
"Your choice to arrive at the exact same inn at the exact same time."
"Yes, how dare I flee the storm like every other sensible traveler."
"There's nothing sensible about you, Miss Mayfer."
She should have been offended, but something in his tone made it sound like a compliment. "You don't know me well enough to make that assessment."