Perhaps, Ash thought, he needed one. Fitz had beenpart of the shift in his life over the past six months or so.
He rose and clapped his friend on the arm. “I don’t suppose she’s gone far, but if you don’t find her soon, don’t persist. Rack up for the night somewhere. Molly’s not worth your death of cold.”
“I’m not one of the pampered great.” Fitz drained his flagon and stood, picking up his cloak and gloves. “If she eludes me, I’ll catch up with you.”
“We’d probably miss each other on the road. Go on to Garretson’s and I’ll join you there. I go no farther tomorrow than my cousin’s door.”
“I’ll return to the London house.”
Ash remembered that Fitz had no high opinion of Nigel Garretson, who was hosting a bachelor Christmas party near Kent. Strangely, he had no great enthusiasm for the gathering himself.
“What do I do if I find Molly?” Fitz asked.
“Drag her to London by the hair and keep her there. Good hunting!”
Ash watched Fitz leave, then asked the barmaid the way to the entrance hall of the inn. It was reached by a narrow corridor that ended with a door. He opened it, then stepped back.
People were arriving. He had no desire to be recognized and have to play social games. When he glimpsed the Brokesbys, he congratulated himself. They were casual acquaintances he’d made through Molly, but just the sort to presume upon it.
Then questions stirred. Were they, too, here as part of Molly’s plan? Of Rothgar’s plan?
Perhaps he should have taken Fitz’s advice. He was feeling ensnared—an unpleasantly familiar sensation since the night last January when he’d left a masquerade with Lady Booth Carew, widow. In April she’d claimed to be carrying his child. When he’d denied it, she’d wailed all over London about his promises and cruel abandonment.
When that hadn’t moved him, she’d fled to Ireland, but kept up the barrage from there in letters to friendsat court. Letters full of revolting details about swellings and aches.
Ash had expected the absurdity to die, but it had become an issue with the king. How clever of Rothgar to use King George’s desire for propriety to strike such a blow. Of course, Rothgar, plague take him, had the king’s ear.
The Brokesbys were going upstairs with a maid now, leaving the innkeeper alone. Great-aunts first. Ash walked into the hall.
“Mr. Dash!” the innkeeper said, professional smile appearing. “You’ll be back for your cape, then, sir.”
“No, I’m back for my great-aunts. I discovered that Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope Trayce are here. Since they seem to be cast up by the storm, I feel I should succor them.”
The smile wavered. “But it isn’t storming, sir.”
Ash reined in a temptation to do the man violence. “A figure of speech only. If you could direct me to their rooms? And I will stay the night.”
The smile disappeared entirely. “Sir! I am distraught, but I have just given my last rooms to that couple. A brother and sister, you see.”
“No room at the inn? How seasonally appropriate, but there is always one to be found.” Ash took a guinea out of his pocket.
“Truly, sir. I have given up my own bedchamber to the lady—”
Ash gave him the coin. “You’ll think of something. Now, take me to my great-aunts.”
The innkeeper shook his head, but he led the way down a corridor. At a door, he paused. “You said your name was Dash, sir.”
“I said I was here to meet Mrs. Dash, which, as I’m sure you recognize, is an entirely different matter.”
The man’s face stiffened, but he turned to the door and knocked.
Chapter Four
Genova had accepted that they must take care of the baby for the night at least, so she’d requested that a mattress be set up in Thalia’s parlor for the pair. Then she ordered one of the three Trayce maids in the entourage to help the girl bathe. Another was to arrange the laundering of as much of the baby’s and nursemaid’s clothing as possible.
Laundry was difficult in December, but Genova knew anything could be achieved with the promise of generous vails. It was Trayce money she was spending, however, so she went down to explain to Lady Calliope and Thalia.
When she’d finished an edited account, Lady Calliope scowled. “What are we to do with these waifs, Genova?”
