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  Still, she wasn’t going to dwell on that. If ever there was a time to make a swift exit then that time was now. She needed to get decently dressed, as fast as was humanly possible, and out of this room before the gigantic, angry, naked man changed his mind about letting her go.

  She untangled her chemise and pulled it on over her head. Reached for her stays. And considered. It would take some time to wriggle it into a comfortable position and do up all the laces. Better just to get her gown on and get out of here.

  When she peeped out through the bed hangings she saw that he was sitting on a chair, stamping his feet into a pair of scuffed, rather baggy boots.

  Which reminded her. Shoes. Where were her shoes?

  There. Right by the door. Next to each other, although one was lying on its side.

  She grabbed her stays and waited until the man—the no longer naked man, since he’d pulled on some breeches and a shirt—reached for his second boot. He didn’t look like the kind of man who’d sacrifice his dignity by hopping after her. So as he started easing his foot down the leg of that boot she made a dash for the door.

  As quickly as she could, she thrust her feet into her shoes, and went to open the door.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  She tugged and tugged at it, but no matter how hard she pulled, or how frantically she turned the handle, she simply couldn’t get it open.

  And the man must have got his second boot on. Because she could hear him walking across the room. He was coming in her direction.

  In panic, she dropped her stays so she could tug at the handle with both hands. But she wasn’t quick enough. He’d come right behind her. Was reaching up. Over her head.

  And drawing the bolt free.

  The bolt. In her panic to escape she’d forgotten all about the bolt.

  ‘Allow me,’ said the man, opening the door and making a mockingly courteous gesture with one hand.

  Before putting the other on her back.

  And shoving her out onto the landing.

  The beast. The rude, nasty, horrible man! He hadn’t even let her pick up her stays! Not that she really wanted to be seen running round an inn with her stays in full view in her hands.

  But still— Her lower lip trembled. If she’d had a drop of moisture in her parched body she was sure tears would have sprung to her eyes.

  She rubbed at them, but got no relief. The gesture only made the landing spin, and then sort of ripple—the way the surface of a pond rippled when you threw in a pebble.

  And there was something else odd about the landing. It all seemed to be the wrong way round. True, she hadn’t spent much time exploring the place when they’d arrived, but it had been such an odd little space, up under the eaves, that it was bound to have stuck in her mind. The owner of the inn had made clever use of his attics, fashioning three rooms around three sides at the top of his property, with the head of the stairwell and a broad landing taking up the fourth side. Last night, when she’d come up the stairs, she’d had to go right round the narrow gallery which bordered the stairwell to reach her room. But now she was standing right next to the staircase, which meant she hadn’t been in her room just now.

  But his.

  Why had she been in his room? Could she have stumbled, sleepily, into the wrong room last night?

  No...no, that wasn’t it. She distinctly recalled starting to get ready for bed and her aunt coming in with a drink of hot milk.

  A sound from inside the room she’d just shared with a total stranger made her jump out of her skin.

  She shouldn’t be loitering here. Who was to say he wouldn’t change his mind and drag her back inside?

  With legs that felt like cotton wool, she made her way round the gallery. She passed the door to the room where her aunt and her... She shook her head. She still couldn’t think of her aunt’s new husband as her uncle. He was no relation of hers. It was bad enough having to share her home with him, let alone address the old skinflint as though he was family.

  She stumbled to a halt in the doorway that stood open. This was her room. She was sure this had been her room. The bed was just where it should be. And the washstand. And the little dormer window with the seat underneath on which she’d knelt to peer down at the view. She’d been able to see along the road that led to the market square. Even from this doorway she could just spy the top of the market cross.

  But—where were her things? Her trunk should be just there, at the foot of the bed. Her hatbox beside it. Her toiletries, brush and comb should be on the washstand.

  Confused, she tottered round the landing to the back of the house, to the room her aunt and the vile Mr Murgatroyd were sharing. There was nothing for it. She’d have to intrude, even though they might be—she shuddered—embracing, which they tended to do with revolting frequency.

  She braced herself and knocked on the door. When there was no reply she knocked again, and then gingerly tried the handle. The door opened onto an empty room. No luggage. No personal clutter on the washstand or dresser.

  As if they’d gone.

  She blinked a couple of times and shook her head. This must all be part of the same nightmare. That was it. In a minute she’d wake up, back in... Back in...

  She pinched her arm—hard.

  But nothing changed. She was still standing on the landing at the top of an inn, in a little town whose name she couldn’t remember. After waking up in bed with a naked man.

  It couldn’t be happening.

  Her aunt and her new husband must be downstairs. Paying the bill. That was it. They couldn’t have abandoned her. They just couldn’t have.

  Her heart fluttering like a butterfly trapped in a jam jar, she turned away from the empty room and ran down the stairs.

  Chapter Two

  ‘We run a respectable establishment,’ said the landlady, glaring at Gregory as she folded her arms over her ample bosom.

  ‘Really?’ If this was what passed for a ‘respectable’ establishment, he hated to think what she considered unrespectable. Disrespectable. He gave himself a mental shake. Why couldn’t he think of the word for the opposite of respectable?

  ‘So we’d be obliged if you’d pay your shot and leave.’

  ‘I haven’t had my breakfast.’

  ‘Nor will we be serving you any. We don’t hold with putting our guests through the kind of scene you caused this morning.’

  ‘I didn’t cause any kind of scene.’

  Why was he bandying words with this woman? He never bandied words with anyone. People did as they were told or felt the force of his displeasure.

  ‘Well, that’s not what my Albert told me,’ said the landlady. ‘Came to me with tales of guests complaining they’d been woken up by screaming women in the halls, naked girls in rooms where they didn’t ought to be, and—’

  He held up one imperious hand for silence. Very well, he conceded there had been a scene. In which he’d become embroiled. Now that he came to think of it, did he really want to break his fast here? The last meal he’d eaten under this roof, although palatable, had ended with him sinking into a state of oblivion so profound it appeared a band of criminals had attempted to perpetrate some kind of...of crime against him.

  Dammit, he’d thought his mind was getting clearer. He’d managed to summon up words like palatable and perpetrate. Why, for heaven’s sake, had he been unable to come up with another word for crime?

  It felt as though someone had broken into his head and stolen three-quarters of his brain. When he’d first awoken he’d likened it to the kind of haze that followed a night of heavy drinking. A state he disliked so much he’d only very rarely sought the form of release that alcohol promised. And then only when he’d been young enough to know no better.

  And the landlady was still standing there, hands on her hips now
, glaring past him at the state of his room as though expecting to see the naked girl he’d ejected the moment she’d put on her clothes. That sounded wrong. As though he’d only tolerated her in his room while she was naked. What he’d meant was that of course he wouldn’t have thrown her out until she was dressed. That would not have been a decent thing to do.

  While he was standing there, wondering why his thoughts were in such a muddle when he was used to making incisive decisions about complex issues in the blink of an eye, the landlady’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. He followed the direction of her fixed stare to see what had put that disgusted expression on her face. And spied a stocking. A lady’s stocking. Dangling from the mirror over the washstand. Looking for all the world as though it had been thrown there during an explosion of frenzied undressing.

  He stalked across the room, wrenched it from the mirror and shoved it into his pocket, feeling...cheated. If he really had torn that girl’s clothing from her in a burst of passion so overwhelming he’d thrown her stockings clear across the room, then he ought to be able to remember it. Remember being so out of control that he’d not only scattered her clothing all over the room but his own, too.

  He shivered in distaste at the recollection that his shirt had spent its night on the floor. A floor that was none too clean.

  ‘I will be down directly,’ he said, coming to a sudden decision to shake the dust of this place from his shoes. As he’d had to shake the dust from his shirt a short while ago.

  The landlady gave him one last basilisk stare before very pointedly stepping over the stays that lay on the floor by the door through which she exited.

  He strode to the door and slammed it shut after her. Picked up the stays. Glared at them. Wondered for a moment why he felt such reluctance to leave them lying exactly where they were.

  Because he didn’t want any trace of himself, or whatever had happened here, lingering after he’d gone, he decided. Which was why he thrust them into the one meagre little valise he’d brought with him. Then he went to the washstand and rolled up his shaving kit, tossed it into the valise with the stays and the rest of his things.

  Not that the stays were his.

  And who was likely to look in his valise and imply that they were?

  Nobody—that was who. Not once he’d returned to where he belonged. Which he planned to do as soon as possible.

  He paid his bill downstairs at the bar, rather than calling for the landlord to come and attend to him. The sooner he’d done with this place, the better. He needed to get outside and breathe fresh air. Perhaps even find a pump under which to douse his head with cold water. He certainly needed something to clear his head.

  Instead of calling for someone to bring his gig round to the front of the inn, he decided to go and fetch it himself. Because there was bound to be a pump in the yard at the back. Or at least a trough for the horses.

  He had to pause on the threshold when the spring sunshine assaulted his eyes. It seemed incredibly bright after the darkness of the inn.

  When his eyes adjusted to the daylight he saw that there was indeed a pump in the stable yard. And that next to it were two people. One was an ostler. The other was the girl. The girl from the night before—or rather this morning. Heaven alone knew what had happened the night before.

  She was inching backwards, round the pump. While the greasy-haired ostler was stalking her. Leering at her.

  He frowned. Surely if she was plying her trade at this inn she ought not to be taking evasive action. Or looking so scared. She should be smiling coyly, attempting to wheedle as high a price from the ostler as he could afford to pay.

  Come to think of it, she shouldn’t have clutched the sheets to her chest, or dressed so hurriedly, or scrabbled at the door in what had looked like desperation to get away from him earlier, either.

  ‘Hi, there. You! Ostler!’

  The ostler suspended his pursuit of the girl. Recognising him as a customer, he pushed his hat to the back of his head with a grubby forefinger and shambled over.

  ‘Leave that girl alone,’ Gregory found himself saying. When what he’d meant to say was, Harness up my gig.

  The ostler gave him a look that was very much like a sneer. ‘Want to keep ’er to yerself, do yer?’

  The girl was looking round the yard wildly, as though for a means of escape. The only way out of the yard was through an archway. To reach it she’d have to get past both him and the lecherous ostler.

  ‘That is none of your business,’ he replied. ‘I want my gig. And I want it now.’

  ‘Oh-ar,’ said the ostler, apparently remembering what his job here actually was. He shot the girl a look that made her shudder as he went past her and into the stable.

  Once the ostler had gone into the stable Gregory turned to look at the girl. She was pressed up against the far wall of the stable yard, as though trying to disappear into the plaster.

  It didn’t make sense. Well, nothing about this morning made sense. But the girl’s behaviour, above all, was perplexing.

  He didn’t like it. He didn’t like not being in complete control of any situation. He didn’t like the feeling of stumbling about in the dark.

  He’d thought all he wanted to do was get away from this inn and back to normality. But the mystery of this girl, and how she’d come to be in his bed when she clearly wasn’t a professional, was plaguing him.

  He’d never be at rest until he knew what had really happened here last night. He wanted answers. And the girl would have those answers.

  He stalked towards her. And as he did so she pressed even deeper into the plasterwork, her eyes widening with alarm. He supposed she must fear the consequences of having perpetrated—ah, there was that word again—whatever deception it was she’d attempted last night. As well she might. When she’d attempted to perpetrate whatever it was she’d been attempting to perpetrate she’d picked the wrong man.

  He came to a halt a scant foot from her, wondering how best to make her abandon any loyalty she might feel towards her accomplices and put her faith in him, instead. Only then would she tell him what he wanted to know. Which was how the deuce had they managed to penetrate his disguise and what would be their next move?

  The answer came to him when the ostler led his gig out of the stable, giving the girl a knowing, triumphant grin as he hitched the reins to a ring in the wall. If she wasn’t a whore yet she would be one by tonight, that look said. Willing or unwilling.

  His whole being rejected the notion of abandoning any woman to such a fate. No matter what she’d tried to do to him.

  Besides, he had his reputation to think of. Somehow the screeching woman with the bony fingers must have worked out who he was.

  Or been informed.

  Ah, yes, that would explain everything. Even the confusion and panic on the girl’s face. It would be just like Hugo to drag some unsuspecting third party into one of his pranks and leave them to pay the price.

  And the devil of it was that Hugo knew he would do his utmost to hush it all up. That he would never let the family name be dragged through the mud.

  ‘Once I have left this inn yard in that gig...’ he pointed it out to the quaking girl ‘...you will be completely at that man’s mercy.’

  Her eyes flicked wildly from the gig to the ostler, who was ambling in their direction, and to him. Only once she was looking at him did he continue.

  ‘You would do better to come with me. I will keep you safe.’

  She didn’t look as though she believed him. Her inference that he might not be telling the truth was an insult so grave she might as well have spat at him.

  Drawing himself to his full height, he bit out, ‘I give you my word.’

  Something about his demeanour, or maybe the approach of the ostler, must finally have managed to convince her, because she nodded
her head before shooting past him and clambering up into the gig.

  The ostler’s face fell. And he actually did spit. At the pair of them as they swept past him and out into what passed for the high street in this scruffy little town.

  The girl had wrapped her arms around herself in a protective gesture the moment he’d climbed into the driver’s seat. And he was so angry with her that for a while he didn’t bother to reassure her that she really was safe with him. How dared she insinuate that he was the kind of man who told lies?

  Though, to be fair, these last few days he had been somewhat economical with the truth.

  But never—not under any circumstances—would he harm a helpless woman. Not even an unhelpless woman. Oh, blast it all. There went his vocabulary again. There was no such word as unhelpless, was there?

  The approach of a farm cart from the opposite direction caused him to abandon his vain attempt to find a suitable word to describe the girl sitting next to him. He needed all his concentration to get his vehicle past the cart in the narrow confines of the lane. Particularly since the farmer’s horse appeared to annoy the one harnessed to his own gig. What with preventing his bad-tempered nag from biting the gentle, rather stupid mare belonging to the farmer, and convincing it that it really did need to progress further down the lane, even though it looked as if it would be better sport to make the farmer’s horse back his cart into the wall, he had his hands—and his mind—completely full.

  They were right out in the countryside, with the little town of Much Wapping far behind them, before he decided to speak to the girl again.

  He found he was looking forward to coaxing her into speaking. The only word that had so far passed her lips had been huskily spoken. Like a velvet caress.

  Velvet caress? Good grief, what was the matter with him that he was coming up with such bizarre ideas?