Unsure whether to open it, Althea waited and held her breath.
They rapped again. Sharper.
“Who is it?”
“Althea, for heaven’s sake, open the door,” Montsimon said.
“Oh!” Althea unlocked it. “Montsimon!” So relieved, she fought the urge to hug him, and then his sharp questioning gaze dampened her enthusiasm. She drew in a deep breath and strolled away from him.
He followed her. “Who did you think it was?” Those sharp gray eyes of his studied her intently as if he could read her mind. “You did not leave the room?”
“Well, here I am, am I not?” She smiled. “Thank you for luncheon and the periodicals.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She reached up. “What is this in your hair?” She plucked a leaf from his head. “Ivy?” She tilted her head. “How did a leaf get in your hair?”
“I have been outside.”
“Doing what? Did they engage you as their gardener?” She widened her smile, but he folded his arms and refused to answer. He was very difficult to interrogate. Far better at distracting her. Every line of his body revealed how tense he was. He was making her jittery. “Has your business been successful?”
Montsimon exhaled on an exasperated breath. “Althea, I can’t keep you safe if you disobey me. Don’t be tempted to move about the inn. Ben will arrive in an hour or so.”
“All right! I promise.” After he left the room again, she sank onto the bed. The day was interminably long, and her curiosity drove her to distraction. But now she’d given him her word and must stay. She lay back and closed her eyes.
Someone shook her. She must have dozed off for a moment. When she opened her eyes, Montsimon leaned over her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Ben waits below.”
“At last.” She rose quickly and hurried to the mirror to tidy her hair.
At her shoulder, Montsimon studied her frowning visage in the mirror. A brief smile ruffled his mouth. “You’re more than ready to leave, I daresay.”
They were soon rattling along the London road in Montsimon’s fine carriage, this time in relative comfort. Althea was about to mention the man she’d seen in the corridor, but a glance at his pensive expression and his knitted brow made her think better of it, or asking him what had gone on there. It would be a waste of time, and an admission of her guilt. She had no way of understanding what might be troubling him, so she settled comfortably beneath a rug in the corner of the carriage. Warm air swirled around her legs. “Where is that heat coming from?”
Montsimon smiled. “The heating system beneath the coachman’s seat. The air is drawn from outside, passes over three lanterns which warms it, then flows through the ventilator.”
“How clever!”
“A Frenchman designed it. It also cools the carriage in summer.”
Luxuriating in the warmth, she smiled and closed her eyes.
