Chapter 3 #2
“I don’t know. She looks all right to me.” The innkeeper’s gaze travelled critically up and down Clara. “She doesn’t look like she’s on her deathbed yet. All ready to go to an assembly ball, too.”
Of all the infuriating, annoying men she ever had the misfortune to deal with, this one topped them all. “Now see here,” Evie began, but was interrupted by a crisp, sharp voice.
“She can have my room.”
Evie whirled around and faced a man who seemed to have overheard every word of their conversation.
She looked him up and down.
He was clearly Austrian. His hair was short, steel-coloured, and he had sharp grey eyes fringed with dark lashes.
The contrast made his eyes appear even sharper.
He was about Julius’s age, and the same height, which meant that the top of her head barely reached his chin.
He wasn’t exactly handsome. His face was hard, lean, all planes and angles, as if chiselled out of granite.
Granite man.
“And who might you be? We were not introduced.”
But he ignored her entirely, as if she had not spoken.
Turning to her shivering companion, Clara, he said, “Lady Evangeline Stafford-Hill?” His gaze was fixed on her with disconcerting intensity. “A private word, if I may.” A swift glance at the innkeeper caused him to step away, respectfully.
Clara shot a questioning look at Evie, then gave a hesitating nod.
Evie held Clara’s arm as she stumbled, following him to a corner of the room, where they had more privacy.
To Evie’s surprise, he suddenly switched to perfectly fluent, accent-free English. “If you are in need of a room, pray make use of mine, since there are no other rooms available.” His gaze raked over Clara’s shivering form. “You appear to be unwell.”
“Indeed,” Clara said in a voice that was no more than a whisper, “I do feel somewhat out of sorts.”
“Who are you?” Evie demanded for the second time.
The man flicked a dismissive gaze over her. “I will tell you, with the request that you keep the name I am about to reveal confidential. I am travelling incognito and do not want anyone here, particularly the soldiers, to discover who I am.”
Clara drew herself up as she swayed on her feet, her lips barely moving. “My companion is entirely trustworthy. Please speak.”
“Lady Evangeline. Forgive a precautionary measure to verify your identity. Your brother mentioned in one of his letters that you have a peculiar way of escaping from your governess. Can you confirm this to be true?”
Clara looked at him with glazed, feverish eyes full of incomprehension.
“Who on earth are you?” Evie demanded again, her voice dripping with suspicion. A spy, perhaps?
“I shall reveal that after you have answered my question.”
Clara’s gaze wandered to Evie’s. She ran her tongue over her cracked lips. Would Clara know? Evie, at the moment, could not recall whether she’d ever told her that. She might have, but would Clara remember it now? She appeared to be entirely beside herself.
“She…” Clara began, and Evie repressed a groan. Clara was too far gone. She was not about to get this right.
“You can clearly see she is ill.” Evie took Clara’s arm. “It is not fair to interrogate her when she needs nothing more urgent than a bed.”
“I regret the necessity.” His voice was quiet, and his gaze did not leave Clara’s face. “But without confirmation, we cannot proceed.”
“Now see here, sir,” Evie flared up.
“Rose trellis.” Clara’s voice was barely audible. “Climb through the window, down the rose trellis. Tore up the dress.”
Evie exhaled. She’d remembered the tale.
He gave a curt nod. “That is correct. Lady Evangeline, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, though long overdue. Hartenberg is my name. Georg von Hartenberg.” He paused for an infinitesimal second, before continuing, his eyes fixed wholly on Clara. “Your betrothed.”
Evie’s jaw dropped.
She must not have heard right.
Hartenberg? It was entirely impossible!
The elusive man she’d thought about with a vengeance all these years, with curiosity, resentment, and worry, had suddenly manifested in front of her like a phantom conjured by the very mention of his name, in the unlikeliest, dingiest inn she’d ever set foot in.
He did not, in the least, match the likeness she’d created in her imagination.
He was far too young, for one. Austere. Edgy.
Weathered. Unyielding. And, and…manly. There was an intensity in his sharp, grey eyes that was disconcerting.
Nothing about him was soft, with a forbidding, commanding presence that left no doubt as to what he was: a military commander.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, her grip on Clara growing slack.
Clara moaned, swayed and crumpled.
She would have collapsed on the ground, if Hartenberg had not swept in and caught her swiftly.
Her face was bloodless, her lips were as white as the wall, so still she might have been dead.
“Clar—I mean, Evie!” Evie choked. This entire trip had, truly, been too much for the poor girl. She had complained about a cold when they’d set out from Vienna, and her condition had rapidly deteriorated as the trip went on. Evie would never forgive herself if she were to lose her.
“Please don’t die!” She shook her arm, but Clara hung like a limp, motionless doll from his arms.
“Call a doctor,” Hartenberg snapped at the innkeeper, who had rushed forward when Clara fainted.
“Jessas na, I refuse to be responsible if she dies in my house,” the innkeeper muttered.
Hartenberg carried her up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, as though she weighed nothing at all.
Evie looked after him. There he goes, she thought numbly.
My betrothed.
He believes Clara to be me.
Now what?