Shelby, only she isn’t any longer.”
Barden knew a moment of increasingly familiar disappointment. “Isn’t what?” he asked flatly. Here? Alive? At least if she was dead, he would have nothing to worry about.
“She isn’t Miss Shelby anymore,” the innkeeper’s wife said in surprise. “She’s Mrs. Christopher Halland of Gosmere Hall.”
“Oh,” he said inadequately. “Perhaps I shall run into her and offer my congratulations to Mr. Halland. Mr. Christopher Halland, you say?”
But as the innkeeper’s wife departed, Barden’s mind was spinning. Christopher Halland, once a rather wild young buck, was currently making his name as a fiery and ambitious member of the House of Commons. In short, he had embraced respectability.
And married a woman mired in scandal.
Barden began to smile. Oh, yes, he was very glad he had kept Deborah Shelby in his plan after all, for it seemed she was now worth a good deal more than her silence.
How much would she be willing to pay for her good name and smooth marriage?
*
The Monday morning post brought Friday’s newspapers from London. Deborah eyed them askance in case they contained any further repeat of the Connaught Place scandal. But Christopher did not read such newspapers. He read The London Gazette and The Morning Post.
“So, what are your plans for today?” he asked over breakfast as he spread open The Morning Post.
“I believe I shall call at my mother’s and begin the arrangements for our party. What about you?”
“I have some reading to do and letters to write. Tell me, would you rather sail from Liverpool or from Dover?”
Her eyes widened. “You mean for our wedding trip?” she asked excitedly.
“I thought I might begin to make arrangements, at least to get us as far as the continent.”
“Oh, wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I know nothing of travel. Where would be best to depart?”
“I suppose we could travel south and buy a few things in London that we’ll need for the journey.”
“Perfect,” she said happily. Providing he still wanted to go once he learned of her deceit. Well, with luck, all that nonsense would be over by lunchtime, and she could depend on his understanding. She just could not imagine what Barden had to say to her.
He looked up with a quick grin, then returned to the paper. “Tell me, what was the name of your friend who wrote to you?”
Her stomach lurched as she thought first of Barden’s letter.
“The other one of the princess’s ladies,” he said.
She laughed with relief. “Oh, Hazel! Hazel Curwen. Why?”
“She seems to have married Sayle.”
Deborah blinked. “Not Sir Joseph Sayle,” she said positively.
“Yes, Sir Joseph Sayle. Is that a problem?”
“Obviously not! She just never seemed to like him. But that is wonderful for Hazel! And she will get to travel at last with Sir Joe! As I will with you.” She jumped up and took his hand, dropping a quick kiss on it, and then hurried away before he could perceive the state of her nerves.
She could not wait for this meeting with Barden to be over. She really could not see how or why he would wish to hurt her or her family. All she could think of was some misunderstanding, for, in reality, the man had no grudge against her. Perhaps, once he saw that, he would be sorry and retract the newspaper story, giving all four of them their reputations back.
She had hope, inspired by the wonderful omen of her impending trip to Europe. She had found unexpected joy with a man she had not known when she left London. Lucy would find her way, her family were taken care of, and everything was wonderful.
Only it wasn’t.
*
She got the coachman to let her down in the village square, then walked on to the inn and entered the front door as if she had every right to be there.
I have! She threw off the guilt as best she could, and realized suddenly, she was being watched.
Mrs. Briggs stood just outside the open coffee-room door, gazing at her in surprise. Just behind her stood the easily recognizable figure of Lord Barden, also watching her, his face expressionless.
A shiver of revulsion ran up her spine.
She had an excuse ready for being there, but in truth, she had imagined this meeting would take place in a much more furtive manner, and she had no idea how—or even whether—to acknowledge him.
She decided on a distant inclination of the head without words and was about to turn to Mrs. Briggs when Barden spoke.
“Why, it is you! I do hope you remember me,