All around her was opulence to a grand scale. Rebecca supposed she should be used to such finery after traveling as companion to a wealthy dowager, but today she was on her own—former vicar’s daughter and now humble lady’s companion—and felt out of place.
She wondered if Lady Fitzhoward was still there or if she had already left to visit friends. But it was not Lady Fitzhoward she had come to see.
As she tentatively approached the gleaming oak reception desk, the clerk looked up, his gaze sweeping over her in practiced study. Perhaps she should have worn one of thefashionable gowns Lady Fitzhoward had purchased for her instead of a simple day dress and unadorned spencer.
“May I ... help you?” the young man asked.
He did not appear eager to do so, nor familiar. He must be new to the village.
“Good day. I was hoping to speak with Mr. Ambrose Oliver. I understand he is staying here?”
Again his gaze swept over her and his lips thinned. “May I ask your connection to Mr. Oliver? Are you a ... friend?” His tone dripped with lurid suspicion.
“Not at all. I wish to speak with him on a matter of business. Publishing business.” She lifted the leather portfolio to substantiate her claim, then added, “My brother was an ... associate of his.”
The clerk shook his head. “Mr. Oliver sees no one. He has left strict instructions not to be disturbed.”
Dismay and relief swirled within her. “Then, perhaps I might speak with his publisher, Mr. Edgecombe?”
Another shake of the head. “We have no one by that name staying here.”
Disappointment pinched her stomach. Rebecca hoped she didn’t appear as crestfallen as she felt.
Mr. Moseley, escorting the new arrivals inside, said, “Now, Raymond, this is Miss Lane, our former vicar’s daughter. Do be polite.”
The clerk lifted a pugnacious nose and said in a lower voice, “I can tell you that a Mr. Edgecombe was here yesterday to meet with a certain famous guest, and that we expect him back for dinner sometime in the next few days. Beyond that I cannot help you.”
“I see. Well, thank you.” Rebecca turned and stepped aside to make way for the others awaiting their turn at the desk.
She walked blindly across the reception hall to one of the cushioned armchairs and sat down to think, settling her valise beside her. Rebecca would have preferred to avoid the expense of an overnight stay, even though her brother had made it clear he didn’t want her in the lodge criticizing his habits or untidiness. But a young, unmarried lady, staying in a hotel on her own?
Perhaps if she were quiet and kept to herself, her presence would go unremarked.
———
Movement at the far end of the room drew her attention. She glanced past a grand pianoforte to an impressive, curved staircase that led to a gallery above. From there, a tall, dark-haired man started down the steps. Recognition jolted her.Not him. Not here. Not now.She swiftly turned her face away, praying he had not seen her.
Too late.
“Miss Lane, is that you?”
She pressed her eyes tight. Was there any chance of slipping away? No. So much for keeping to herself.
She looked over with feigned nonchalance, hoping he would not notice her lip tremble. He’d reached the landing and walked toward her like an image from those old romantic dreams she’d tried to root out of her mind.
“Yes?” It was the only syllable she managed over her tight throat and racing thoughts.
As he neared, she noticed Sir Frederick looked a little older. He must be five and thirty now, but still meltingly handsome, and more intimidating than she recalled.
At her unenthusiastic response, he stopped where he was, smile fading. “Forgive me.” He bowed. “I hope I am not intruding.”
She rose and curtsied. “Not at all. I am only surprised to see you here.”
“And I you. It has been far too long.”
“I have been away traveling.”
“Here in Swanford to visit your brother, I imagine?”
