"What a night," Martha breathed, moving to the window. "It's like something from one of those novels. You know, the ones where the heroine gets trapped in a castle with a dark, mysterious gentleman who turns out to be..."
"A bore who talks about nothing but his horses and his hunt?" Catherine suggested.
"I was going to say a duke in disguise."
Catherine snorted. "This is the Great North Road, Martha, not a Gothic novel. Mr. Wrentham is probably a merchant or a land agent or something equally mundane."
"With those shoulders?" Martha sighed dreamily.
"Martha!"
"I'm just saying, miss. I've seen a lot of merchants in my time, and none of them looked like that."
Catherine had to admit, if only to herself, that Martha had a point. There was something about the way he moved; controlled, alert, dangerous even. Like a man who'd seen battle and lived to tell about it. Or didn't tell about it, in his case.
Another knock at the door, this time from the hallway.
"Supper, miss!" a voice called.
Catherine opened the door to find a young boy with a tray, trying valiantly not to stare at her state of relative undress; she'dforgone stays entirely, opting for comfort over propriety, and her hair was still only half-pinned.
"Thank you," she said, taking the tray quickly and closing the door.
The tray held bread that looked reasonably fresh, cheese that appeared to be quite edible, some cold ham, and what might charitably be called apple tart. There was also a pot of tea that smelled strongly of bergamot—good tea, expensive tea. Not what she'd expect from a coaching inn.
"That's interesting," she murmured.
"What is, miss?"
"The tea. It's of the expensive ones. Very fine quality. Where would Mr. Hartwell get this kind of tea?"
Before Martha could respond, they heard Mr. Wrentham's voice through the wall, though the words were muffled. He seemed to be having a heated discussion with someone. Catherine found herself pressing closer to the connecting door, trying to make out the conversation.
"...absolutely not acceptable..."
"...told you not to follow, Peters."
"...your safety, Your..."
The voices cut off abruptly, as if realizing they might be overheard.
Catherine stepped back quickly, her mind racing. 'Your' what? Your lordship? Your honour? Your excellence?
"Miss?" Martha was watching her with concern. "Is everything alright?"
"Yes, of course." Catherine forced herself to move away from the door. "Just... the storm is making me nervous."
But it wasn't the storm. It was the growing certainty that Mr. James Wrentham was no more a simple gentleman traveler than she was a simple miss. The question was: what was he? And more importantly, did it matter? After tonight, they'd go their separate ways, never to meet again.
The thought shouldn't have been as depressing as it was.
She sat down to her supper in the shared sitting room, trying to focus on the really quite decent bread and not on the man in the next room. She was halfway through a slice of cheese when she heard music; someone was playing a violin, the sound drifting up from the public room below. It was a melancholy tune, something Irish perhaps, and played with real skill.
Without quite meaning to, Catherine found herself moving to the connecting door.
"Mr. Wrentham?" she called softly.
"Miss Mayfer?" His response was immediate, as if he'd been standing near the door as well.
