A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)
Reading was half an hour behind them. They’d made good time from Avening, and Jack had suggested they should travel on, only to stop a little farther along in the much smaller town of Twyford.
Taking her arm, he turned her toward the inn’s door. “I rather think this place will be more comfortable for us.” He caught her eye, faintly raised a brow.
She realized. “Oh.” She looked ahead and allowed him to guide her up the steps.
“Indeed.” His voice was low, pitched just for her. “The fewer who see us, the less chance of being recognized.”
She’d forgotten that by tonnish standards, an unmarried female of her station traveling alone with a gentleman such as he would be fodder for scandal. Having turned her back on tonnish life she truly didn’t care, but given her intention of appealing to her family, avoiding further scandal at that point would unquestionably be wise.
Absence from society had made her rusty; she made a mental note to exercise greater care.
Ostlers were unharnessing the horses; two boys had hurried out to fetch their bags. The innkeeper, beaming, swung his door wide and bowed them through. She swept in, then turned to speak with the innkeeper—only to hear Jack, charm to the fore, smoothly engage the man.
“I’m Warnefleet. My wife and I require your best room.”
She managed to keep her jaw from falling. Jack didn’t even glance her way, but kept his persuasive gaze fixed on the innkeeper.
“Of course, my lord.” Short, rotund, and irrepressibly genial, the innkeeper bowed to them both. “My lady. Our best chamber is always kept ready and aired, and my wife will be pleased to serve you dinner. We have a private parlor if you wish?”
Clarice thought of the lack of any ring on her left hand, then remembered she was wearing gloves. She nodded regally, and found her voice. “That will suit admirably. I wish to wash away the dust of the day. We’ll be ready to dine in an hour.”
“Excellent!” The innkeeper gestured to a set of well-polished stairs. “If you’ll come this way?”
Clarice followed him up the stairs, supremely conscious of Jack climbing steadily after her. The inn was on a side street off the London road; although the large room the innkeeper led them to was set above the front of the inn with wide windows looking out on the cobbled street, with only trees and fields beyond, it was quiet.
It was also comfortably furnished with a dressing table, dresser, washstand, wardrobe, and a large four-poster bed.
Clarice swept across the room and set her traveling reticule down on the dressing table. The ewer and basin on the washstand were spotless, as were the towels neatly folded on the dresser. Tugging the ribbons of her bonnet loose, she turned to the innkeeper. “This will do nicely. If you could have some hot water sent up?”
“Of course, my lady.” The innkeeper bowed low. “At once!” He turned to Jack.
Jack nodded easily. “Dinner in the private parlor in an hour.”
“Indeed, sir. I’ll have your boxes brought up immediately.” Beaming, the innkeeper backed out of the door, closing it behind him.
Clarice caught Jack’s eye. “Wife?” She kept her voice low.
He shrugged, all graceful elegance as he crossed the room. “Do you have a better idea?”
She didn’t, not one that would pass muster. Setting her bonnet on the dressing table, she sat before the mirror to tuck the wayward strands of hair that had escaped through the long day back into her chignon.
A knock on the door heralded the boys with her traveling trunk and Jack’s large bag. He let them in, then shut the door behind them. Shrugging out of his greatcoat, he dropped it on a straight-backed chair by the wall, then crossed to the armchair angled before the windows and dropped into it with a sigh, stretching out his long, booted legs.
Going to her trunk, Clarice unbuckled the straps, then opened the lid.
“We’re not dressing for dinner.”
She cast him a repressive glance. “Of course not. One doesn’t dress for dinner at an inn. But I do want my brushes, and one or two other things.”
She’d wrapped her brushes and comb in her nightgown; she pulled out the bundle and set it on the dressing table.
“No point dressing for bed either.”
She glanced at him again, then looked at her nightgown. “That’s as may be.”
He snorted softly; she ignored him.
A tap on the door announced a maid with a pitcher of steaming water. Clarice relieved her of it, and assured her she didn’t require any assistance, then or later.