all curiosity. Sommers wore a pained expression.
“Sommers, did I not tell you, plain as plain, what I wanted?”
“Indeed Your Grace did, and it grieves me to see Your Grace in this—this—” Sommers shook his head. He waved a hand, taking in Ashmont’s stubbly jaw, the coat hanging crookedly on the chair, the wrinkled neckcloth, shirt, and trousers. The manservant’s eyes glistened, boding tears.
Sommers was a brilliant valet. He took his work perhaps a trifle too seriously.
“No weeping,” Ashmont said.
“No, Your Grace. But it’s most vexing.”
“I agree.”
“His lordship your uncle sent for me, Your Grace, or else I should have been here an hour ago or more.”
“He told you to bring me nothing. He told you to hire a post chaise.”
“Yes, Your Grace. He’d already ordered it. The vehicle arrived while I was at Beckingham House. I had barely time to catch my breath before his lordship sent me on my way.”
“Dammit, Sommers.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. It is most distressing.”
Ashmont read the note again. He walked to the fire. The faint glow told him nothing.
He walked to the window, which looked out onto the gallery, as did those of the other rooms in this part of the inn. Each had a door as well, opening onto the gallery. Where she’d left him hanging.
The rain still came down, less fiercely at the moment.
He opened the door and stepped out into the gallery. The courtyard was deserted.
You were never there.
The narrow walkway offered poor shelter from the downpour. The capricious wind blew the rain this way and that across the courtyard’s open space while Ashmont mentally turned the message this way and that, cursing his uncle.
He wished Blackwood were here. Ripley, too, confound them both. They were better at riddles.
A small closed carriage rattled into the courtyard.
A footman climbed down from the back, opened an umbrella, let down the step, and opened the door. A lady stepped out into the umbrella’s shelter and hurried into the inn, a female servant close behind her.
Distantly Ashmont wondered what would bring a private carriage out in this weather, so late in the day.
But the main part of his mind wrestled with the message. He read it again and again. It took a while, but at last he understood, as he should have done instantly. There it was, as plain as the horses being led away to the stables.
Pay whatever is necessary.
Money—enough of it, and he surely had enough—performed magic and miracles. He still wasn’t clear about what this would accomplish, but his annoying uncle, no doubt, would explain.
To Cassandra’s consternation, Mrs. Nisbett arrived with her maid.
She was in poor health, and she’d come out in the storm, in spite of Cassandra’s written assurances that all was in hand.
“You can hardly pass the night in a public hostelry unchaperoned,” the former governess said. “I am not so frail as to be unable to lend you countenance at least, until Keeffe is well enough to travel.”
Though Cassandra knew her reputation couldn’t possibly survive the day’s events, she was glad to have the company of a sensible lady.
Matters seemed to be improving somewhat.
The nurse had turned out to be not only sober but also more competent than average. With Mrs. Nisbett here, Cassandra might leave Keeffe in trustworthy hands from time to time and take some rest.
She took the time not long after her governess arrived, and went to a room the innkeeper’s wife had made ready for her. There she found a lady’s walking dress, in a deep purple, and all the necessary undergarments. She wasn’t sure the color suited her, and it wasn’t a perfect fit by any means, but it would do well enough until one of the maids could thoroughly dry her own clothing and make it relatively presentable.
This was more than one could say of the contents of her overnight case, which had been trampled, run over, and rained on.
The purple dress showed no signs of wear, likewise the undergarments. Both were of good quality. Perhaps a traveler, pressed for time, had left the clothing behind and failed to claim it? She told herself this wasn’t her worry. Her concern was looking after Keeffe, a task she couldn’t perform if she developed a lung fever. She’d asked for dry clothing. Someone had found it for her. That was all she needed to know.
She summoned a maidservant, stripped, and washed. With the maid’s help, she dressed.
She felt no qualms about her demands on the innkeeper and servants. She knew Ashmont’s influence was at work here. He’d