Paulette surveyed the room while an inn servant poured tea. The paneled walls gleamed with a fresh oiling, and the aged stone floor had been scrubbed to a dull finish without a speck of the road dust and mud from outside. No fire burned in the well-swept hearth, but the day had been warm.

The maid closed the door and Mabel passed her a cup. “Drink up, then, Polly,” Mabel said. “And don’t you be worrying. Mr. Gibson will see to the accounting, I’m sure.”

“I’m not worrying,” she lied.

With Cummings distracted by Mr. Gibson and his men, she’d recovered her bit of money and stowed it away in a pocket.

Cummings’ man had looked for money. She’d seen him pawing through drawers and testing the floorboards, but not the panels along the wall of the kitchen. Oh, he’d checked the shelves and lifted the lid on every jar, but he couldn’t spring a panel loose if he didn’t know the spring was there.

She had money, but it must be stretched. She needed to see the solicitor in London, and perhaps meet with her trustees if they were in town.

And if she could find the lord who’d made her first visit to Cransdall so miserable, well, she didn’t need to be a lady of fashion to take back what was hers.

She swallowed a sigh. Cransdall was not a lucky place for her, not the first time she’d been there, nor this second. There would not be a third. She’d track down Lord Agruen and recover her mother’s ring, and somehow she’d find the treasure Jock said her father had left her. Lord Shaldon—both lords, old and new—were irrelevant to her now. Neither would stand in her way.

Only one stumbling block remained, and he would be joining her soon.

Kincaid grunted through Bink’s instructions about securing Miss Heardwyn’s goods, making it ever more clear to Bink the man was not an upper crust batman at all. Whatever his role for Lord Shaldon, it had been much more than washing his smalls and scraping off his beard.

Whatever grief Kincaid felt for his master’s death, he was keeping it in. Probably, if he’d been abroad with the spymaster, he’d seen enough to take dying in stride.

The older of the two grooms from Cransdall trotted up. “She’s wishing to speak to you, Mr. Gibson,” he said.

“Is she now?”

“Aye. She and her jolly maid have sat down to tea, and there’s a third cup awaiting you, sir.”

He’d delivered that information straight-faced.

“Have we met before?” Bink asked. “Johnny, is it?”

Johnny grinned. “You were a boy, and I was but a little more than one meself. I never seen the young lord smile so much as when you were there, then and now, truth to be told. He said I’m to stay with you as long as you wish.”

Bakeley had settled him with another dependent. At this rate he’d have all of Little Norwick staffed for the lady. If they were to marry.

The other groom, a freckle-faced youth, was arranging straw for his resting place to take the first watch over the wagon.

Johnny noticed his glance. “Ewan, there, is me nephew. A good fellow. He’ll serve you right also.”

Bink laughed. Bakeley was having him on. In Bink’s present state, he didn’t need a valet and two grooms. Or a wife, for that matter. Bakeley, or rather, this new incarnation of Lord Shaldon, was applying the weight of a fait accompli.

And to hell with that. He’d diverted them to this inn for a good night’s rest, and tomorrow he was returning them to Cransdall.

When he entered the parlor, Paulette looked up, and then jumped up, rattling the plates at her elbow.

A crumb clung to the corner of her mouth, sending a jolt through him.

If he licked it away, he could taste her.

He managed a greeting, tore his gaze away and surveyed the room. He’d stopped here once with Lady Hackwell and the children. It was as tidy now as it had been then. “I trust you are comfortable,” he added.

“Mr. Gibson…” She swallowed.

“And the food was palatable.”

She nodded, wringing the napkin in her hands.

“I can see it was.” He poked at the corner of his mouth and watched as her color rose and she dabbed at herself.

He squashed the urge to smile and pulled out a chair. “Johnny did say there was a third cup here and I see there’s a third plate also. May I eat while we talk?”

“Of course.” She seated herself.

The maid, who had moved off to the side, bobbed a curtsey. “I’ll just go and check on our things.”

“No.” Bink waved her to a settee near the fireplace. “Please sit, Mabel.”

“Yes, Mabel. Do not leave us. You may count on her discretion, Mr. Gibson.”

He’d already seen that the maid and the lady were thick as thieves. She’d been Miss Heardwyn’s nursemaid, Bakeley had said.

So far, Bink had heard no whispering among the staff about Shaldon’s plans for a wedding, and he didn’t wish to. Still he’d prefer that kind of gossip to rumors he’d compromised the lady in the inn’s private dining room. That rumor would certainly result in the wedding neither one of them wanted.

But he would certainly enjoy the compromising. The thought brought forth an image he quickly pushed down.

Miss Heardwyn’s cheeks still glowed, as though she’d poked around in his brain. She was not completely uninterested, he’d wager—another speculation that sent heat sizzling in him.

Stand down, Gibson. All the talk of a marriage was working on the both of them. Well, on him anyway. He hadn’t had a woman in, he didn’t know how long. The squalor of London and the misbegotten children Lady Hackwell tended had turned him off the professionals. And though he’d had plenty of come-hither looks, he’d avoided entanglements with local widows. It seemed best, as the lord of the manor’s steward, to be prudent, or else for the price of a tumble he’d find himself leg-shackled.

And it was best to be prudent dealing with this sort of woman also. He loaded up his plate with cold meats and vegetables and a thick slice of bread. “What did you wish to discuss?”

“Where are you taking us?”

“For tonight, I’ve arranged rooms here.”

Miss Heardwyn squinted and pressed her lips together.

A tap at the door brought the innkeeper’s smiling, buxom maid with a flagon of ale and a pint tankard. Bink thanked her for the drink, and silently, for the interruption, and started speaking before the door shut on the wench, before the lady across from him could stop glaring at her and untie her tongue.

“I know we haven’t gone far, Miss Heardwyn, but it is, if you will remember, the Sabbath, and in spite of it, we’ve all had a hard day’s labor. The servants are entitled to a rest. Kincaid and the men will watch over your wagon. Nothing will go missing.”

She studied her teacup and worried at her lush lower lip with those perfect white teeth. She was a beauty, was Miss Heardwyn, much more to his taste than the flaxen-haired serving wench, and in other circumstances…

“As to the cost.” She cleared her throat.

“You are not to worry, miss. I’ve said you will have any monies Shaldon has left me, and I mean it. I will bear the cost tonight, and tomorrow we’ll make the arrangements with Bakeley for the rest.”

Her gaze shot up, eyes flashing. She did not want to be in his debt.

Or… she did not want to return to Cransdall.

She stood and walked to the fireplace. The room had gone warm, and he debated opening one of the casement windows a tad wider.

“Mabel, wait outside please,” the lady said, her back to the both of them.

Bink eased out of his chair. “Leave the door open, Mabel. You may stand outside and eavesdrop but don’t allow anyone else to listen.”

The maid’s lips quivered as she curtsied and hurried out.

He turned back to the lady. “Is this where you tell me you will not return to Cransdall?”

Paulette’s breath caught. Mr. Gibson had moved up next to her with a great deal of stealth, close enough to lay hands on her if he wished.

His big body radiated warmth and suffused her with his scent. Even after a hard day of riding, the man-scent was subtle, no stronger than her farmer’s had been on a Sunday morning, dressed in his best. But the yeoman farmer had repelled her. There was nothing repellant about Mr. Gibson.

She reached for some calm, trying to still her heart. She was shorter than most women, true, but even if she’d been tall for a woman, he would still tower over her. He spread one enormous hand against the mantel and leaned into it, sending her heart fluttering into her throat.

She coughed to clear it. She must not let him think her weak. “Returning to Cransdall is out of the question for me. If you take me there, I will never be able to leave.”

Quiet followed, the long silence making her wonder if he’d actually heard.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

This inn was on the main road, the groom had said. She might have enough money to get to London, and then a bit more for her keep once she arrived. For a few days, anyway. Once she located the solicitor and one of her trustees, she would be provided for, surely.

She would not tell him those plans.

“What of your belongings we rescued today?” he asked, before she could speak.

Grrr. He was tricky, this one. She had not thought that far ahead. “They will be safe at Cransdall, surely. Kincaid and the grooms can take them back. You can return to your home.”

“And you—”

“You are not my keeper, Mr. Gibson.”

He studied her for a too-long moment, sending warmth up her cheeks. She would not look away. She would not give him the satisfaction.

“I’ll ask you to sleep on it, and we’ll talk again at breakfast.” He reached one long finger up and swept a lock of hair behind her ear.

His touch jolted her, too delicate for the man. She could feel her breath rising and falling like a bellows-blown fire, all deliciously lit up within her, with a promise of something she couldn’t fathom.

She’d scoffed at Mrs. Everly’s warnings about men. After all, her farmer had actually kissed her and she’d never felt this. And it was…wonderful.

Humor glinted in his eyes, bringing her back to earth. “Until breakfast then,” he said, and was gone.

Mabel popped back in. “Our room is ready.” She rustled about, gathering their things, and appeared at her side. “What is it, Polly? You’ve gone all pink and sweaty.” She inhaled sharply. “Did he kiss you?”

“No.”

“Oh, too bad, that. I’d warrant the man knows how to properly kiss.”

“And how would you know a proper kiss, Mabel?” She put on a stern face. “And what about Johnny?”

Mabel’s guilty look completely undid her. She laughed. “I’m still not going to marry him.”

She’d shared Shaldon’s plan with her maid, swearing her to secrecy.

“You would have a home. Little Norwick, Johnny said it is. It sounds lovely.”

Paulette caught her breath. “You told him. You promised not to gossip.” Now all the servants knew Shaldon’s plan for them to marry.

“No.” Mabel shook her head. “He just knew. And no one was gossiping. He just mentioned it when we talked.”

“Really? Well, yes, Mabel. And I could live at this Little Norwick croft, in a thatched, dirt-floor cottage with a man who was forced into marriage—he does not want it either, you know. And what a life that would be.”

Mabel bit her lip. “He’d not bequeath you a mere cottage, Polly.”

“And how do we know that? I can’t trust Shaldon, not after he sold my home out from under me.”

“So we’re back to Cransdall. And then what?”

The innkeeper’s girl who had flirted with Mr. Gibson appeared, wanting to clear the table.

She wouldn’t risk having whatever they said reported back to him.

“If our room is ready, let us go up.”

Paulette slept in fits and dozes, the hustle and bustle of the inn, so unlike her quiet bed in the country, jostling her awake most of the night. Well before dawn she lit a candle, nudged Mabel, and quietly dressed.

There would be room on the coach going south, the innkeeper had promised Mabel the night before.

Paulette sat in the small public parlor, a cup of tea going cold, a blank piece of notepaper mocking her.

At this hour, the local ale-drinkers were all home and rising to care for their animals. The room was quiet, the morning fair. Mr. Gibson had been unwilling to travel at night. He would still be abed.

She set her pencil to the paper.

Dear Mr. Gibson,

She propped her chin in her free hand. Perhaps Dear was too strong. Perhaps she should have omitted it and just begun with his name.

It was too late now. If she rubbed it out it would leave a dark mark.

I thank you for your kind offer to escort me to Cransdall.

She looked up at the naked antlers racked above the fireplace, someone’s dead trophy. And how had the innkeeper obtained that? Some rich man had made a gift of it probably, not out of kindness, but because he’d grown tired of the prize.

Mr. Gibson wasn’t escorting her out of kindness, either. He wanted to dump her on Bakeley.

And—had he actually said he was going to Cransdall? Or was he merely sending her in Kincaid’s care?

You are absolved of all concerns for my care, nor do I wish to receive any financial considerations which might necessarily create an appearance of indebtedness to you.

She lifted her pencil. That sounded a bit insulting. He’d been a bastard for all of his life and forced to work for a living. None of that was his fault. She had no wish to offend him.

Not because it is you, but because I have lived in obligation and obedience for all of my life and am quite tired of it.

Quite so bloody tired. While tossing and turning during the night, she’d had a chance to speculate on the amount of her trust and her inheritance. Once she’d disposed of her business with the solicitor, surely she and Mabel could live quite simply in the country. Not in her own village, where Mr. Cummings ruled, but elsewhere.

She would give up the idea of a Season in London, which had always been a fairy dream, much like her thoughts about taking up her mother and father’s trade. She could teach drawing, and music, and French to the children of tradesmen and the local gentry. She and Mabel would have a garden and chickens. They would not starve, and in the quiet moments, she would try to get back what was hers from Agruen and figure out her father’s mystery.

She jabbed her pencil at the gnarled table. She was settling, damn it. Damn it, she would find a way to find the life that should be hers, once she worked out what that was.

A raised voice came from the kitchen and she tilted her head. From here, she might not hear the mail coach horn. She must hurry and finish this.

I am going to London to seek out my trustee, and my parents’ solicitor. I have received an accounting from the innkeeper and will pay you back as soon as I have arranged all my affairs, which shall be very soon, I believe since the amount is not so great as I had anticipated.

She took a sip of her tea and frowned. It had gone lukewarm.

And she did not know how to end this.

A distant horn sounded, and her heart beat faster. She hurriedly set her pencil to the paper.

Sincerely,

Paulette Silva Heardwyn

Mabel rushed in with Paulette’s spencer, and she folded the note, wrote Mr. Gibson’s name on it, and handed it to the man on duty.

A servant picked up their bags and led them out through the heavy oak door.

The air, fresh with the morning dew, carried the scent of horses and leather. Lantern lights bounced off the bright yellow coach, painted quite like the dog cart, quite like a bumblebee ready to flit away. Her heart lifted.

Ostlers jostled a new team into place, readying the coach to leave within minutes, and in the shadows near them a man lingered, watching them work.

She extracted her ticket from her reticule and approached.

The man turned and her heart fell. It was Mr. Gibson.