"Triple," he said, still looking at the innkeeper.
"Have you completely taken leave of your..."
"Now, now," Mr. Hartwell interrupted, raising his hands in a gesture of peace that fooled absolutely no one, least of all Catherine, who recognized shameless profiteering when she encountered it. "Perhaps we might come to some... arrangement. The corner room is quite spacious, as I mentioned.Two bedchambers, connected by a sitting room. In weather such as this, with Christian charity in mind..."
"Absolutely not," Catherine said.
"Out of the question," the gentleman agreed.
They stood there, united in their refusal, while the storm howled through the still-open door behind them, sending gusts of rain spattering across the flagstone floor. The inn's other occupants, a motley collection of merchants, travelers, and what appeared to be half a regiment of cavalry officers, watched with delighted interest.
Catherine's maid, Martha, chose that moment to stumble through the door, looking like she'd been pulled backward through a hedge, then thrown in a lake for good measure.
"Oh, my lady!" she gasped, then caught herself. "I mean, miss. Oh, miss, the coach has sunk near to its axles, and Robert says the horses can't pull it free, not in this muck, and one of the wheels is making a most terrible sound, like it might come clean off, and..."
"Thank you, Martha," Catherine interrupted, acutely aware that every ear in the vicinity had pricked up at the maid's near slip. She turned back to Mr. Hartwell, drawing herself up to her full height—which, while not insignificant for a woman, still left her staring at the stranger's excellently tied, if waterlogged, cravat. "The corner room, if you please. I trust you'll have someone see to my luggage."
"Now see here..." the gentleman began.
"I believe the lady was first to accept your offer, Hartwell," Catherine said sweetly, though the effect was somewhat spoiled when she had to pause to wring water from her skirts. "Before you began this motley auction."
"That's not precisely how I recall..."
"Furthermore," Catherine continued, warming to her theme, "I have my maid with me, who requires accommodation. Surely you wouldn't suggest that a young woman of good reputation should be forced to seek shelter elsewhere whilst a gentleman, and I use the term with considerable reservation, takes rooms clearly more suited to a lady's requirements?"
The gentleman's eyes narrowed. They were, she noticed against her better judgment, quite an unusual shade of grey—like winter skies just before a storm. Rather fitting, really.
"Your maid could share your chamber," he suggested. "Thus solving the reputation issue you seem so concerned about."
"And where, pray tell, would you sleep? The stables? Though I confess the company there might suit you better."
"Children, please!" The voice that rang out belonged to an elderly woman Catherine hadn't noticed before, seated in a chair by the fire. She was dressed in the height of fashion from approximately thirty years ago, complete with an impressive purple turban that had somehow remained pristine despite the weather. "You're giving me a frightful megrim with all this shouting. Mr. Hartwell, you're a scoundrel and a profiteer, and we all know it. These two young persons are clearly both gentle-born, whatever games they're playing at with their names and lack of proper introductions."
Catherine felt heat rise in her cheeks. The stranger, she noticed with interest, had developed a sudden fascination with the ceiling beams.
"The solution is obvious," the woman continued, producing a quizzing glass from somewhere about her person and fixing them both with a magnified eye. "Share the chambers. The young lady and her maid in one bedchamber, the gentleman in the other, and the sitting room between them as neutral territory. Like the Low Countries."
"But..." Catherine began.
"Unless," the woman's voice took on a sly note, "either of you would prefer to share with myself? I confess I snore something dreadful, and my dog, Mr. Bellingham, has the most distressing digestive complaints during thunderstorms."
As if to punctuate this statement, a small, wheezing creature that Catherine had taken for a footstool raised its head and produced a sound that suggested the old woman's description had been, if anything, understated.
The gentleman looked at Catherine. Catherine looked at the gentleman. Thunder crashed overhead, shaking the very timbers of the inn, and somewhere in the inn, someone's drink fell off a table with a crash.
"The sitting room door locks from both sides?" Catherine asked Mr. Hartwell, not breaking eye contact with the stranger.
"Oh aye, miss. Solid oak, iron bolts. You could hold off an invading army from either direction."
"Then I suppose, given the exceptional circumstances..." She let the sentence trail off, raising an eyebrow at the gentleman.
He sighed—a long, put-upon sound that suggested he was making a great sacrifice. "I suppose I have no objection. Provided, of course, that we establish some rules of engagement."
"Rules of engagement?" Catherine couldn't help but laugh. "How military of you. Are we at war then, Mr...?"
"Wrentham," he supplied, after a pause just long enough to be noticeable. "James Wrentham. And you are?"
"Miss Mayfer," Catherine replied, matching his pause with one of her own. "Catherine Mayfer. And yes, Mr. Wrentham, I believe some boundaries would be prudent. For instance, the sitting room should be considered occupied if one party is already present."
