He simply stared, unable to conjure a single word.
She smiled as if delighted with herself. “In actuality, Lady Woodville is a character fromThe Law and the Lady, a novel I read recently.”
He could not think of a single thing to say to the woman. She was utterly mad.
“Since you asked,” she continued, arching a sardonic brow, “in the novel, Lady Woodville, having discerned how the bungling and inept authorities have mismanaged a case of probable murder involving her husband, decides to take on the investigation herself, and thereafter solves the mystery.” She preened. “I thought her an appropriate choice for my alias.”
“No doubt.” He supposed that answered one question, then.Shewanted him in for questioning.
“In any case, I should think it would look far more suspicious, not to mention, ill-mannered, for you to dump your dear, departed cousin’s widow at a lowly inn in the middle of a snowstorm rather than put her up for the night.”
It would look bad either way. And the truth was, much as he disliked her, he did not feel right about leaving her to fend for herself at the local village inn. Not that the area teemed with villains, but if she was to be believed, she had already been accosted by pistol-toting criminals who may, or may not, have crossed the flats after her.
Much as it vexed him, honor demanded he put her up for the night. He could only pray the weather improved come morning enough to transport her back to Fenwick—and that no one would work out her true identity in the meantime.
In reality, the chance of that happening was extremely unlikely.
Still, some perverse need not to capitulate to her demands quite that easily urged him to say, “And what of your dress, Lady Woodville? You rather missed the mark, there.”
“My…dress?” She looked down at the pretty blue travel gown she wore, which had the unfortunate consequence of inviting him to do the same, something he’d been avoiding doing by sheer force of will. The watered silk, with its extremely low-cut bodice and body-hugging corseting showed her figure off to perfection.
“It’s hardly widow’s weeds,” he said, annoyed with the unwelcome sexual awareness sparking through him. Perhaps he’d been too long without a woman’s charms.
“Oh.” She gave a ladylike snort. “If, on the extremely unlikely chance, any of the rustics inhabiting this desolate corner of the North know enough to ask, tell them I’m no longer in high mourning. As it happens, I spent the last ten months swathed in black and I find I no longer have a taste for it.”
Though she’d probably looked mouth-wateringly delicious even in that severe color, he thought, dourly.
He finished his brandy and rose from the chair. “The hour grows late and, thanks to your unanticipated arrival, I haven’t had my supper. I’ll show you to your chamber,my lady.Afterward, if you wish, you may join me in the dining room for the evening meal.”
“Thank you,” she said stiffly.
He started for the door. “I’ll send Nell with some water and towels for you, but I warn you now: Don’t expect to be waited on hand and foot, princess. I’ve a skeleton staff here, and they have tasks aplenty as it is.”
“Oh? I wonder why. Something to do with your spontaneous decision to relocate here ten months ago? Just why did you leave London with no word to anyone where you were heading?”
He reached the doorway and shifted to face her. “You raise an interesting point, Lady Montrose. I did not broadcast my destination. How did you come to know where I’d gone?”
She sauntered toward him, not stopping until she stood less than an arm’s reach from him. A feminine scent, elegant, and fresh despite her all-day journey wafted up at him. The same he’d noted when he carried her in his arms.
She lifted one shoulder in a graceful shrug. “When you answer my question, I’ll consider answering yours.”
***
Annabelle followed after the surly, long-legged viscount who did not bother to curtail his stride as he climbed the stone spiral staircase, two flights up.
She refused either to chase after him or admit his petty, ungallant behavior irked her, as he no doubt intended for it to do. Instead, she took her time, silently congratulating herself on clearing the two important hurdles: Although nothing had gone according to plan, including the loss of her so-called chaperone, she had tracked her quarry, and had convinced him not to toss her out in the cold.
The latter bought her time to accomplish her ultimate goal of dragging him back to London for questioning by Scotland Yard in regard to his involvement in her brother’s suspicious death. Appealing to his honor had proven a miscalculation on her part. No matter. She would come up with something else.
By the time she reached him leaning one broad shoulder against the doorjamb in the open doorway to the guest chamber, he bore the distinct look of a man short on patience.
She sent him a triumphant smile, and swished past him. Inside, she made a show of inspecting the quaint chamber, her nose in the air.
“This will do,” she finally said, then glanced toward the doorway.
Theemptydoorway.
Odious man. He’d left without a by-your-leave.
