Chapter 2
She closed the door behind her with a satisfying click, leaning against it for a moment. Her heart was racing in a way that had nothing to do with climbing the stairs. This was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. She'd come on this journey with a specific purpose—to get to London, to her aunt, to escape the increasingly persistent advances of Sir Reginald Thornbury, her late father's choice of husband for her. She didn't have time for verbal sparring with mysterious strangers, no matter how intriguing their grey eyes or how amusing their conversation.
"Miss?" Martha appeared from behind the dressing screen. "Your trunk is here, but I'm afraid the blue silk is quite ruined. And the green muslin. And... well, mostly everything, really. But I've salvaged your brown wool and the grey morning dress."
"How delightfully funereal," Catherine sighed, moving to inspect the damage. "However, I suppose it's fitting. I am rather in mourning for my dignity, having agreed to share rooms with a complete stranger."
"He seems a gentleman, miss," Martha ventured, helping Catherine out of her sodden pelisse. "Very well-spoken."
"A well-spoken gentleman without a valet, traveling alone in a storm, and far too eager to throw money at innkeepers. Yes, nothing suspicious there at all."
"Perhaps he's in love," Martha suggested romantically. She was at the age where every situation could be improved by theaddition of a tragic love affair. "Running away from a broken heart or toward his true love."
"More likely running from creditors or an angry husband, whose wife has had suspicious relationships with him," Catherine said practically, though something in her chest tightened at the thought of Mr. Wrentham racing through a storm toward some woman. Which was absurd. She didn't care one whit about Mr. Wrentham's romantic entanglements.
A knock at the connecting door interrupted her thoughts.
"Miss Mayfer?" His voice came through the wood, muffled but still carrying that hint of amusement. "I've just been informed by the estimable Mr. Hartwell that dinner has been supplemented by something he calls 'beef.' I use the term loosely, as the meat's provenance seems questionable at best. Would you prefer to risk it or shall we attempt negotiation for something less potentially lethal?"
"Are you always this dramatic about food, Mr. Wrentham?" Catherine called back, nodding to Martha to continue unlacing her stays.
"Only when there's a genuine risk of poisoning. I've survived French cuisine, Spanish cuisine, and once, memorably, something in Portugal that I'm still not certain wasn't actually shoe leather. But Mr. Hartwell's 'beef' might be the thing that finally does me in."
"Such a tragic end for such a mysterious gentleman. I'm sure the ladies of London will mourn appropriately."
"All two of them?"
"You underestimate yourself. I'd guess at least four. Possibly five if we count your mother."
"My mother would be the first to say I got what I deserved for trusting an innkeeper's beef."
Despite herself, Catherine laughed. "Very well. See if you can convince Mr. Hartwell to provide something less adventurous. Bread and cheese, perhaps? I trust even he can't render those dangerous."
"Your faith is touching, if misplaced. I once stayed at an inn where the cheese was actually sentient. It had developed its own civilization."
"Mr. Wrentham?"
"Yes?"
"Go away. I'm trying to change, and your ridiculous commentary is distracting."
"My ridiculous commentary is the only entertainment available in this establishment, Miss Mayfer. But very well, I shall take my wit elsewhere. The stable boys, perhaps. They seem appreciative of good humour."
She heard his footsteps retreat, and something in her chest loosened—though whether it was relief or disappointment, she couldn't quite say.
"He's very amusing, miss," Martha observed, helping Catherine into the brown wool. It was depressing how dowdy it looked, but at least it was dry.
"He's very irritating," Catherine corrected, but without much heat.
"If you say so, miss." Martha's tone suggested she wasn't fooled in the slightest. "Shall I dress your hair?"
Catherine looked at the tangled mess in the mirror and sighed. "Do what you can, Martha. Though I fear it's a lost cause."
As Martha worked her magic with pins and combs, Catherine found her thoughts drifting to the man in the other room. James Wrentham. The name didn't sit quite right, somehow. It was too ordinary for someone with those eyes, that presence. He filled a room without trying, commanded attention without demanding it. She'd known many gentlemen in her life, her father had been quite social before his death two years ago, but none quite like this one.
He was hiding something. That much was obvious. The question was what, and whether it was something that should concern her. After all, she had her own secrets. The fact that she was actually Lady Catherine Mayfer, daughter of the late Earl of Westmont, fleeing an unwanted betrothal to a man old enough to be her father, with her mother's jewelry sewn into the lining of her trunk and enough money to establish herself independently in London—if she could get there.
Thunder crashed overhead, making both women jump.
