“This is not amoosing,” she said. Then, to the innkeeper: “I would not have wasted the better part of the day waiting had I known. It will be dark soon. I insist you make some accommodations available for me tonight.”
Her voice rang with every ounce of authority she could summon. She would not beg. But she would not sleep in a blasting carriage, either.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Bloomington, but there is nothing we can do. As I was telling Mr. Beckman, the Cow and Cleaver is not far, but I wouldn’t dawdle if I were you. I’d imagine they only have one or two chambers available, if that.”
Ambrosia was not a person who enjoyed confrontation. She supposed, too, that Mr. Neskers was making some attempt to be helpful. She would find her driver and they would simply travel to the next inn.
With her pride smarting from the entire ordeal and Mr. Beckman’s smug laughter echoing in her ears, she stepped outside with renewed determination.
She marched through the garden, past a trio of idle young men stretched out on overturned barrels, chewing on lengths of straw and watching her with thinly veiled interest.
A prickle crept up her spine, and she quickened her pace. She was a widow, not some green debutante on her way to London for the first time.
True, it had been some time since she’d done anything of the sort—walked alone in an unfamiliar place, made decisions without a man at her side to approve or correct. Harrison had always seen to that. She hadn’t been given a choice.
Relegating the reminders to the past, Ambrosia drew a steadying breath and pressed on toward the mews.
“Mr. Daniels?” she called out hesitantly.
No answer.
She stepped closer—and then spotted him. Sprawled inelegantly on a bale of hay, one arm dangling limply to the side, the other clutching a half-empty bottle.
Gin.
“My regards, hic… Mrs. Bloo—Mrs. Bloomin’ton.”
The evening was unravelling rather quickly.
“Mr. Daniels! Are you drunk?”
A pointless question, given the glassy look in his eyes.
She drew a tight breath. “There are no rooms available here, and if we’ve any hope of finding vacancies at the next inn, we need to get back on the road at once. You’ll need to sober up immediately.”
She did not relish the prospect of traveling in the dark.
“Not going anywhere tonight, missus.” The driver pointed toward their carriage, which she only just realized was listing to the side. “Hit a rut when I drove her round.”
This could not be happening. Ambrosia tamped down the frustration threatening to erupt at his words. “Well, you’re just going to have to fix it, then.” Her voice shook a little more than it had earlier.
Mr. Daniels dismissed her request with a wave of his hand, much as people had done for most of her life. When his eyes seemed to focus on something behind her, she turned to find that, but of course, Mr. Beckman had ambled in after her.
The gentleman took one look at the driver, the listing carriage, and comprehended her situation right off.
Gone was the smug amusement, the teasing sparkle in his eyes. In its place was something cool, assessing—serious.
Mr. Beckman looked directly at Mr. Daniels.
“Is this the manner in which you maintain your vehicle, monsieur…?”
He glanced to Ambrosia to fill in the name.
“Daniels,” she supplied.
He nodded once in acknowledgment, then turned his attention back to the driver, jaw tight.
“Is it, Monsieur Daniels?”
