He couldn’t hear a blessed thing over the roar. Donovan gestured for him to go out, and they retreated from the public house and jogged back to the waiting carriage.
Hollis threw open the door for them from inside. “Well?” she asked eagerly as they climbed inside and closed the door, shaking the rain from their hats. “What did you find?”
“Nothing,” Donovan said. “The bloke said they haven’t had soldiers of any sort, but to try the Wilbur Arms. Said he’d heard of them congregating there. The only thing was, he couldn’t say where the soldiers were from. They could be British soldiers.”
“We carry on, then,” Hollis said, and looked at Marek for confirmation.
Marek nodded.
Donovan stuck his head out the window and yelled the direction to the driver.
By the time they’d reached the Wilbur Arms, the torrential rain had lessened to a slow patter, but a cold north wind was settling in. Once again, Donovan and Marek went inside. Once again, no one knew or had seen four Weslorian soldiers.
By the time they returned home later that afternoon, they’d gone to four public houses, a brothel, and a dilapidated inn with an enormous green wooden fish hanging on the outside wall. No one had seen the Weslorian soldiers. Marek hadn’t believed the story of the soldiers to begin with, but he found that he was disappointed that it was proving not to be true. He had hoped for something—anything—that might help him uncover the truth.
Donovan left Marek and Hollis in the drawing room to warm before the hearth and returned minutes later with wine and ale. But he’d brought only two glasses.
“Shouldn’t there be another—”
“No,” Donovan said. “I’m going out. I’ve someplace to be and you’re not to fret.”
“I think I’ve earned the right to fret, given what happened.”
Donovan smiled. It was a soothing smile, and Marek could see how the man’s charm could work on a person. “You’re still not allowed, madam. Mrs. Plum has laid out supper. Invite Mr. Brendan to dine.” He nodded to Marek. “Good evening, sir,” he said, and strode from the room with Hollis staring after him.
At the sound of the front door closing behind him, Hollis sighed and looked at Marek. “I’m not to fret,” she said, resigned. “Will you dine with me?”
“Will it not be remarked, you dining alone with a mysterious male guest?”
Hollis laughed. “No more than the fact that I live here quite on my own with a manservant everyone believes is my lover.” She leaned across the space that separated them and pushed a bit of damp hair from his temple. “I don’t care what anyone says anymore, Marek. I’m not to fret, and I should very much like you to dine with me. Will you?”
Years of being inordinately careful completely evaporated from him. He decided he didn’t care what anyone said about it, either. “Je,” he said. Anything you want. Anything. “I would like that very much.”
* * *
HE WAS A bit surprised there was no one to serve them in what looked like a sitting or garden room. It was quite small and there was no hearth. A small, round table with four chairs sat in the center of the room.
A jovial Mrs. Plum greeted him warmly and asked after him, as if they’d all become great friends the night he’d dragged Donovan upstairs. She put platters of food on the table, then removed her apron and bid Hollis a good-night.
“Thank you, Mrs. Plum. My regards to Mr. Plum!”
“As always!” Mrs. Plum said cheerily and went out the door from which she’d appeared.
Hollis went to the sideboard and returned with a decanter of wine. She poured two glasses and invited Marek to sit. She removed the silver dome from the platter and revealed a succulent roast beef and fingerling potatoes. His stomach rumbled at the smell of it.
“Mrs. Plum is an excellent cook,” she said, and held out her hand for his plate. She heaped quite a lot of food onto it and then heaped almost as much onto hers.
Marek was famished, and probably dug in to the meal with a little too much enthusiasm. But so did Hollis. There was nothing delicate about her, really—he was beginning to see that in spite of her refined appearance, she was a lusty woman. He liked that. He thought it nice, dining like this. It was cozy. Intimate. It felt familiar, but new at the same time. It was something Marek could very much get used to.
“This is divine,” she