Mrs. Tyler sat up and pressed her palms together in an attitude of prayer; the tips of her steepled fingers touched her lips. Her smile began to spread wide behind her hands. “That’s extraordinary, isn’t it? Yes, I really think it is extraordinary. I will write to my husband immediately, well, after I see the ring and can be sure it’s mine. Jacob has a wicked sense of humor, you know, and this will tickle him. It tickles me. A soiled dove. Tell me her name again.”
“Caroline Carolina.”
“Could it be more delightful?”
Phoebe was struck by Mrs. Tyler’s composure, and when she looked sideways at Remington, she observed that he was not so much struck as amused. “I confess, I did not anticipate that you would take it so well in stride.”
“What? That a young woman no better than she ought to be is in possession of my wedding ring? Did I give you the impression that I was a moralist? Because I can assure you, the moral high ground is largely occupied by people living close to the edge.”
Phoebe’s laughter was quiet, but Remington did not hold back.
Mrs. Tyler’s gaze darted from one to the other. “You look very well together. I am glad to see it. I had an inkling on the train that something was in the wind. Have you already registered?”
Remington nodded. “Before we came in search of you.”
“Good. The Boxwood is a lovely hotel and my son is doing a fine job. One room or two?”
They stared at her.
“I should have the grace to blush,” she said, “but I don’t. Never mind. I was in no anticipation of hearing the answer to something I can learn easily enough.”
“By checking the register?” asked Remington. “You have access, I suppose.”
“The register? Heaven’s no. I am not allowed near it after the unfortunate business with Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer.” When neither of them inquired for further information, she sighed. “From now on, I simply ask Handy McKenzie. He knows everything.”
Remington’s mouth twisted wryly. “And can get it for you, too.”
• • •
It was late when Remington finally let himself into Phoebe’s room. He was concerned that she might already be sleeping, and as reluctant as he was to wake her, he had every intention of doing so. If she had any sense, she’d have barred the door to him, because now that the opportunity to have her again was upon him, he was hardly in his right mind.
A lamp was burning low on the bedside table and provided sufficient light for Remington to see that Phoebe was not only not in bed, but not in the room. He picked up the lamp, wandered into the small sitting area, and then saw a sliver of light under the closed door of the bathing room. When he paused, he heard the faint splash of water.
Remington knocked. “Phoebe?” Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the door open and poked his head inside. Phoebe was reclining in the great claw-foot tub, water almost to her shoulders, a towel wrapped turban-like on her head. She was using her big toe in a lazy attempt to regulate the hot water tap, and she spared him scant attention when he came forward.
“Was there a question in your mind that I was not the occupant of this room?”
There was a hint of something caustic in her tone that gave Remington pause. “You’re upset,” he said.
“I didn’t think you were coming. It’s made me testy.”
“Ah.” He used the toe of his boot to push a footstool close to the tub. When she did not object, he sat.
“I had it in my mind to present you with a vision of Botticelli’s Venus on the half shell—hoping I was not flattering myself overmuch—and your tardiness has made me as wrinkled as an old crone in a watering trough.”
“A vision of the future, then.”
Without looking in his direction, Phoebe scooped a handful of water and threw it at him.
“Feel better?” he asked, picking up a towel. He mopped his face.
“Marginally. You will be made to answer for your lapse.”
“I hope so. I am counting on it, in fact.” He leaned over, brushed her toe aside, and turned on the hot water. He let it run for a minute before he turned it off. “I like the turban.”
Phoebe put one hand to her head as if she’d forgotten it was there. She patted and straightened it and then let her arm slip under the water again. “Compliments will not mollify me, although it’s good of you to try.” She faced him, then, and gave him the full benefit of her narrow-eyed stare. “Better you should start with where you’ve been and why you smell of whiskey and women.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
