“She looks familiar, but I don’t know,” Lady Fitzhoward replied, then studied the reactions of the Wilford brothers with interest. “But those two seem to know something.”
Lady Fitzhoward leaned closer, her focus remaining on the gentlemen. “Frederick does not seem happy to see her, while his brother looks altogether too pleased with himself.”
The maître d’hôtel proceeded to seat the beautiful woman by herself at a table for two. She did not appear at all self-conscious to be dining alone.
Now that Rebecca could see a profile, a tingle of recognition prickled through her. Was this the woman she had seen crying? The chapel had been dim, and the woman had worn a hat, but the upturned nose and high cheekbones seemed familiar.
The long-case clock showed a quarter past seven. A minute later, male footsteps advanced toward the refectory entrance.
First to appear was the man Rebecca had seen in the upstairs passage, now marching like an infantry officer, his posture erect, arms at his sides, eyes sweeping the room as though expecting an enemy attack. Apparently satisfied, he pivoted and stood just inside the threshold, his back to the wall.
After him came Ambrose Oliver. She had seen the author once from a distance and recognized him instantly. He appeared older, heavier, and more dissipated than she recalled. Dark hair hung in untidy waves around his face. He was perhaps five and forty, and a big man, several inches over six feet tall. His rounded belly and full cheeks attested to his love of food and drink.
Apparently aware he was being watched, he gave a general nod to the room before taking his chair. His gaze landed on the beautiful woman. Something flashed in his eyes, but Rebecca wasn’t certain if the spark was recognition or attraction. He paused in the act of sitting, hovering there in a strange half-bent posture.
The waiter began fluttering around him, settling him into the chair and spreading a serviette over his lap.
The awkward moment passed.
“Our illustrious guest has arrived,” Lady Fitzhoward observed. “Same time as last night.”
“Are you acquainted with him?” Rebecca asked.
“Only through his books.”
“Why is that man standing guard by the door, do you think?” Rebecca whispered.
The older woman considered. “Perhaps Mr. Oliver feels he is in danger.”
“Danger? Why should he be? From whom—avid readers?” Rebecca inwardly scoffed. Ambrose Oliver was notthatfamous.
Lady Fitzhoward shrugged. “Never mind. That Gothic novelyou lent me has me seeing danger everywhere. Come, our meal is growing cold.”
———
Frederick leaned across the table and speared his brother with a look. “You know that woman, don’t you. You arranged to meet her here.”
Thomas touched smooth fingertips to his cravat. “Upon my soul, I did not.”
“Then, you knew she would be here.”
His brother dipped his head and looked up with a coy grin. “I may have had a hint.”
Frederick rolled his eyes. “And here I believed you when you said the paint fumes and dust made you ill last time. A birthday treat forme, indeed.”
“Come, Freddy. Let us not quarrel. I truly believe a change of scenery will do you a world of good. You have been stuck inside that house of mourning long enough. How you glower!” Thomas leaned his elbows on the table and lowered his voice. “Consider. If I simply wanted to meet a woman in a hotel, would I have brought my brother along?”
“I suppose not,” Frederick grudgingly allowed. He glanced over at the tall man who’d entered late and scowled anew. “What is Ambrose Oliver doing here?”
“The author? Where?”
Thomas swiveled to gawk, then looked back at him warily, gaze shifting from Frederick’s face to clenched fist.
“Now, Freddy. Calm down. I never really thought his book was about Marina, for all your embarrassment.”
One of the man’s novels had described the love affairs of a baronet’s unfaithful wife. Frederick hissed, “‘Sir Roderick and his roving Lady Willing?’ How much more obvious could he be?”
“See? He did not use real names. If it did describe her, it was a veiled reference. Beyond a few local people, perhaps, no one would guess—”
