He was clearly Austrian. His hair was short, steel-coloured, and he had sharp grey eyes fringed with dark lashes. The contrast made his eyes appear even sharper. He was about Julius’s age, and the same height, which meant that the top of her head barely reached his chin. He wasn’t exactly handsome. His face was hard, lean, all planes and angles, as if chiselled out of granite.
Granite man.
“And who might you be? We were not introduced.”
But he ignored her entirely, as if she had not spoken.
Turning to her shivering companion, Clara, he said, “Lady Evangeline Stafford-Hill?” His gaze was fixed on her with disconcerting intensity. “A private word, if I may.” A swift glance at the innkeeper caused him to step away, respectfully.
Clara shot a questioning look at Evie, then gave a hesitating nod.
Evie held Clara’s arm as she stumbled, following him to a corner of the room, where they had more privacy.
To Evie’s surprise, he suddenly switched to perfectly fluent, accent-free English. “If you are in need of a room, pray make use of mine, since there are no other rooms available.” His gaze raked over Clara’s shivering form. “You appear to be unwell.”
“Indeed,” Clara said in a voice that was no more than a whisper, “I do feel somewhat out of sorts.”
“Who are you?” Evie demanded for the second time.
The man flicked a dismissive gaze over her. “I will tell you, with the request that you keep the name I am about to reveal confidential. I am travelling incognito and do not want anyone here, particularly the soldiers, to discover who I am.”
Clara drew herself up as she swayed on her feet, her lipsbarely moving. “My companion is entirely trustworthy. Please speak.”
“Lady Evangeline. Forgive a precautionary measure to verify your identity. Your brother mentioned in one of his letters that you have a peculiar way of escaping from your governess. Can you confirm this to be true?”
Clara looked at him with glazed, feverish eyes full of incomprehension.
“Who on earth are you?” Evie demanded again, her voice dripping with suspicion. A spy, perhaps?
“I shall reveal that after you have answered my question.”
Clara’s gaze wandered to Evie’s. She ran her tongue over her cracked lips. Would Clara know? Evie, at the moment, could not recall whether she’d ever told her that. She might have, but would Clara remember it now? She appeared to be entirely beside herself.
“She…” Clara began, and Evie repressed a groan. Clara was too far gone. She was not about to get this right.
“You can clearly see she is ill.” Evie took Clara’s arm. “It is not fair to interrogate her when she needs nothing more urgent than a bed.”
“I regret the necessity.” His voice was quiet, and his gaze did not leave Clara’s face. “But without confirmation, we cannot proceed.”
“Now see here, sir,” Evie flared up.
“Rose trellis.” Clara’s voice was barely audible. “Climb through the window, down the rose trellis. Tore up the dress.”
Evie exhaled. She’d remembered the tale.
He gave a curt nod. “That is correct. Lady Evangeline, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, though long overdue. Hartenberg is my name. Georg von Hartenberg.” Hepaused for an infinitesimal second, before continuing, his eyes fixed wholly on Clara. “Your betrothed.”
Evie’s jaw dropped.
She must not have heard right.
Hartenberg? It was entirely impossible!
The elusive man she’d thought about with a vengeance all these years, with curiosity, resentment, and worry, had suddenly manifested in front of her like a phantom conjured by the very mention of his name, in the unlikeliest, dingiest inn she’d ever set foot in.
He did not, in the least, match the likeness she’d created in her imagination. He was far too young, for one. Austere. Edgy. Weathered. Unyielding. And, and…manly. There was an intensity in his sharp, grey eyes that was disconcerting. Nothing about him was soft, with a forbidding, commanding presence that left no doubt as to what he was: a military commander.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, her grip on Clara growing slack.
