She turned her attention to her own door, unlocking it as he’d advised. He nodded politely in her direction as he marched away down the passage.
His demeanor and offer of help had struck her as honorable and almost paternal. For a moment, it made Rebecca miss her own dear papa.
Shaking off the bittersweet thought, Rebecca entered her room with a resolute smile, determined to make the best of her unplanned stay.
3
Dressed in a gown of willow green, her hair freshly arranged by the dexterous Nicole Joly, Rebecca made her way to the hotel’s cavernous dining room a few minutes before seven.
Lady Fitzhoward was there before her and dressed to the nines. Her hair was now curled and fashioned in its usual fluffy coiffure. Pearl earrings dangled, a necklace graced her neck, and a jeweled ring shone on her finger. Expertly applied rouge added vibrancy to thin lips and lined cheeks.
Miss Joly had been busy.
Lady Fitzhoward’s gimlet gaze swept over Rebecca, and her only sign of approval was a curt nod. She turned to the maître d’hôtel standing just inside the door with a large leather-bound book, greeting guests.
“Two tonight, Pierre.”
“Very good, your ladyship.”
He led them to a table, where a waiter pulled back chairs for them and laid linen serviettes across their laps.
Rebecca looked around the long rectangular room. Whitecloth–covered tables filled the space, dark beams striped the ceiling, and a wooden dais with a cross above reminded guests of the room’s origins as the abbey’s refectory.
Only a handful of the many tables were occupied. At one sat four older gentlemen, at another, a middle-aged couple who barely spoke to one another, and at a third, Sir Frederick and his brother.
Both Wilfords glanced in her direction. Sir Frederick nodded to her, and Thomas smiled.
“Who are they?” Lady Fitzhoward asked.
“Sir Frederick Wilford and his brother, Thomas.”
“Ah. Frederick is the older one, with dark hair?”
Rebecca was not surprised the woman had noticed him. Sir Frederick was striking with broad shoulders and finely chiseled features. He was perhaps not quite as good-looking as his fair-haired brother, but his air of self-possession garnered respect above and beyond simple admiration for his appearance.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I have ... heard of him.”
Surprise darted through her. “Have you?”
She nodded. “Though a long time ago now.”
Rebecca was about to ask in what context, but the waiter returned to explain the evening’s bill of fare: spring soup, followed by sirloins of beef and saddles of mutton accompanied by salads and sauces.
They had just been served the soup course when a general stir caused Rebecca to look up from her bowl.
The commotion was followed by a rolling pause in conversation. From table to table, people stopped talking, some in midsentence, until the entire room seemed to still. Even the silent middle-aged couple looked over, spoons suspended, to stare at the newcomer.
Rebecca looked over as well, steeling herself, expecting to see Ambrose Oliver.
Instead, a strikingly beautiful woman strode into the room, a shimmering white evening gown revealing delicate collarbones and a slim feminine figure. She wore her coppery-gold hair in a simple style and held herself with grace and poise, as if aware all eyes were upon her but unaffected by the attention.
In their hurry to seat her, two waiters collided, and only the quick hands of the maître d’hôtel averted disaster, catching a wine bottle slipping from one young man’s grasp before it could fall splashing to the floor.
Rebecca could not resist glancing over at Sir Frederick, expecting to see admiration in his eyes even as she dreaded it. Surprisingly, he looked from the woman to his brother, dark brows drawn low, expression thunderous. Thomas Wilford, meanwhile, smiled and sipped his wine, eyes glimmering over his glass.
“Who is she?” Rebecca whispered across the table.
