his nostrils flare like a stag scenting a hind. Did she realize she was in danger of being ravaged? His voice, when it emerged, was rougher than he’d intended it to be. “What is it? I hope it won’t take too long.”
Color flooded Miss Morland’s cheeks, and she immediately took a step back. She pleated her fingers tightly together at her waist. “No. No, it w-won’t,” she murmured in a breathless rush. “It’s about Tilda. Well, her mother, at least. A small clue, perhaps?”
Curiosity spiked inside Hamish. “Yes? Did the child tell you something useful?”
Miss Morland nodded, then shared what she’d learned about Tilda’s mother’s appearance. “Although she’s young, Tilda’s manner of speech also suggests to me that her mother is well-spoken. And all her clothes are of good quality too. She was well cared for.”
“Aye, I agree,” remarked Hamish. He sighed. Tilda’s mother—who might have light brown, naturally curly hair—probably hailed from the middle classes. And aside from being literate, at some stage she’d been in possession of an adequate amount of money. It still wasn’t a lot to go on, but he supposed it was better than nothing. In the morning, he’d dash off a letter to his man of affairs and ask him to pass on the additional information to the inquiry agent.
“If . . . if Tilda tells me anything else,” said Miss Morland softly, “I’ll be sure to inform you straightaway, my lord.”
Hamish inclined his head. “Thank you. And in case I haven’t said it before, I appreciate everything you’re doing. For me and for Tilda. So . . .” He opened the door and forced himself to step into the hallway. “I bid you good night again, Miss Morland. Be sure to lock your door after I leave. And I hope you sleep well. On the morrow, we’ll depart at eight o’clock.”
“Yes, my lord. And I hope you sleep well too.”
Now, that would be a bloody miracle. Hamish turned on his heel and all but raced for the stairs before he could change his mind about seducing Miss Morland. If the innkeeper didn’t have an illicit stash of whisky somewhere, he was sure to have brandy or port.
Maybe when he’d emptied a bottle or two, he’d at last reach that much-sought-after state of total oblivion he so badly needed yet rarely found.
CHAPTER 6
The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the awfulness of her situation.
Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
The Hart and Hare Inn, Kendal, Cumberland
September 18, 1818
Even though Olivia was exhausted from traveling—and pretending to be someone she wasn’t, much to her shame—her sleep was fitful. The unfamiliar bed was lumpy. She was alternately too hot and then too cold, so she kept tossing her covers off or dragging them back on. And most annoyingly of all, strange noises kept jolting her awake whenever she did manage to slip into a doze. The wind wailed about the eaves, and rain hurled itself at the bedchamber window until well past midnight. Fellow guests stomped down the hall, laughing and chatting and slamming doors, and in the inn yard below, departing patrons called out to each other.
So when an anguished, unearthly cry shattered the relative quiet of the early hours—the storm had at last abated—Olivia immediately sat bolt upright in her bed.
Her heart pounding, she held her breath, listening. Had the sound come from Lord Sleat’s chamber? Surely not. But when a strangled moan filtered into her room again, Olivia knew it was coming from the corner suite next door.
Good Lord. Was the marquess hurt? In any case, something was terribly wrong. Her gaze darted to Tilda, but she was still sound asleep and tucked up snugly in her pallet.
Another cry, rather like an agonized sob, penetrated the stillness, and Olivia slid from her bed. Where on earth was Hudson, the marquess’s valet? Shouldn’t he be attending to his master? Unless Lord Sleat had dismissed him for the night . . .
The fire had died down, but the lingering glow of the coals helped Olivia to locate her woolen shawl on the cold, bare floorboards by the end of her bed. Wrapping it about herself to cover at least some of her flannel night rail, she tiptoed quickly to the door in her bare feet and peered into the hallway. It was dark and deserted and utterly quiet except for the intermittent sounds of distress emanating from Lord Sleat’s room.
After carefully closing and locking her