To him, those elements made Honoria leagues better than Chloe, sight unseen, regardless of intelligence or character. Honoria was highborn and legitimate. Chloe was a Whitechapel foundling. In Faircliffe’s eyes, a castoff like her wouldn’t belong in a reading circle, much less hobnobbing with the ton. Although Bean had ensured his fostered children had their debuts, he couldn’t force high society to accept them.
“We’re here.” She pulled the horses to a stop.
A crease lined Faircliffe’s perfect brow. “We’re where?”
At an inn the duke and his ilk would never frequent.
Rather than answer, Chloe leapt from the driver’s perch, basket in hand, and tossed the reins over a post.
“Wait,” he called in obvious alarm. “Where are you going?”
“To repent the naïveté that led me to this moment,” she replied with a straight face. “My deepest apologies, Your Grace. You were right, as you are in all things. Compromise is a poor way to secure a husband. I see my error, and you are free to return home unbetrothed.” She waved. “With luck, we shall never see each other again. I bid you adieu.”
“Miss Wynchester—”
But she was walking, running—flying—up the steps and into the front door of the Puss & Goose. She would escape through the back door with the precious canvas while he drove himself back to fashionable Mayfair—
“Why did you come here?” His voice came from right behind her.
She stopped and spun around in shock. Was hedaft?
Faircliffe was not fleeing as expected. He was standing in the reception room of the Puss & Goose looking imperial…and utterly confused.
“Are you renting rooms?” He glanced about the humble inn with obvious distaste. “I thought you lived at Baron Vanderbean’s estate. Has something happened? Are you in trouble?”
God save her from the good intentions of overly helpful men!
Mrs. Halberstam, the proprietress of the inn, swept into the reception area.
“Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “Is that—”
“One room, please,” Chloe interrupted, before Mrs. Halberstam could ask questions that were better left unanswered. “For a single woman, no guests.”
No guestswas code to mean anyone she was with could not be trusted.
“Of course, miss.” Mrs. Halberstam provided Chloe a pencil for the guest book as if this were nothing more than a routine transaction. “Sign here, please. Do you prefer a window facing the east or the west?”
Eastmeant all was well.Westmeant a note should be dispatched at once to Chloe’s family.
She gave a bland smile. “West, please.”
Mrs. Halberstam handed her a key and whispered, “Number four.”
Perfect. Chloe closed her fingers about the key. All she had to do was climb a single flight of stairs, lock herself in the safe room, and wait to be rescued. By now Graham would have realized what had happened. He was likely to arrive here before the note found its way home.
She turned back to Faircliffe with her best expression of abject embarrassment. “I apologize ever so much for having misappropriated your time. I shan’t waste a single minute more.”
Before he could respond, she hurried up the stairs to the first floor and freedom.
He was right behind her the moment she opened the door to the room.
“Pardon the observation,” she said politely, “but if you were worried that our being together in a carriage on a public street might lead to compromise, might I point out that voluntarily entering a private sleeping room in the unchaperoned presence of a Wynchester—”
“I am sorry I insulted you.” His soulful eyes even looked as if he meant it, damn him. “Let me summon you a hack.”
She held up the room key. “No, thank you. I have an untenable megrim and cannot rest at home because our house is under repairs. I shall lie downalonefor an hour or two and leave once I am recovered.”
“Then I shall send you a maid as chaperone,” he said firmly, “and a footman to escort you. Your actions were rash and imprudent, but I want you to arrive home safely.”
