.
her from his post at the tap. Camilla saw him and was swept by relief. “Saltings! How glad I am to see you!”
She took a step or two forward, then stopped as he said, “Here, now, miss, what do you think you be doing? Coming in here like that! This is a decent inn, it is, and we’ve no use—”
“Saltings!” Camilla exclaimed, shaken. “Don’t you recognize me?” Tears of humiliation sprang into her eyes. This seemed the last straw, the perfectly awful end to a perfectly awful day—that Saltings, who had known her all her life, should mistake her for a common doxy. Was he actually going to toss her out?
The man stopped and peered at her. “Do I know you?”
“It is I! Camilla Ferrand!” Tears flooded her eyes. She could not hold them back, and they spilled over, coursing a trail through the smear of mud on her cheeks.
“Miss Ferrand!” he repeated, his jaw dropping. “Sweet Lord, what happened? What are you doing here this way?”
He went to her, gently taking her arm and steering her toward the smaller private room of the inn, then stopped. “Oh, dear, no, there’s a gentleman there.” He took another glance at Camilla beside him, muddy and disheveled and struggling to hold back her tears, then at the rest of his customers, all staring avidly.
“Well,” he said with a sigh, “there’s nothing for it. You can’t stay out here, that’s for certain.”
He rapped sharply on the door to the private room and pushed it open when a man’s voice inside answered. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Saltings said, ushering Camilla inside the room. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve got a bit of a problem here. There’s a lady here, and, well, it wouldn’t be right for her to be sitting outside with the common crowd, sir.”
Camilla looked across the room, fighting to contain her tears. The gentleman sitting beside the fire—for it was just as obvious that he was a gentleman as it had been that the stranger on the heath earlier was a ruffian—rose to his feet, his eyebrows lifting in astonishment. He was dressed impeccably, from the crease of his simple yet elegant white neckcloth to the tips of his polished Hessians, and his hair was dressed in a similarly subdued yet fashionable style known as the Brutus.
He took one swift look at Camilla’s muddied state and said, “Precisely, Saltings. You are right. The lady must have the private dining room. The only thing is, I am expecting a visitor— Ah, there he is now. And looking, I might add, quite as if he had shared this young lady’s adventure.”
Camilla swung around at his words. “You!” she exclaimed with loathing.
There, in the doorway, stood her tormentor.
CHAPTER TWO
THE MAN GAVE Camilla a look that left little doubt that he shared her feelings. She straightened, bolstered by his irritation. It was some comfort, at least, to see that he was as filthy, wet and bedraggled as she.
“What the devil are you doing here?” the man asked roughly. “Am I never to be rid of you?”
“I might say the same about you.”
“I take it that you two have met,” said the gentleman by the fireplace, his voice as smooth and suave as if they were all standing in a London drawing room.
The stranger from the carriage ride grunted and moved into the room. Camilla said icily, “I am afraid that we were not properly introduced.”
“Ah, Benedict.” The gentleman sighed. “I fear you are ever lacking in manners.” He moved forward toward Camilla. “Allow me to correct his oversight. I, dear lady, am Jermyn Sedgewick. And this is, ah, Benedict, uh…”
“How do you do, Mr. Sedgewick? I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Camilla replied formally, trying to ignore the absurdity of the polite greeting in contrast to her grubby state of dress. She cast a flashing glance toward the other man. “I am sorry I cannot say the same about meeting Mr. Benedict.”
Mr. Sedgewick opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He cast a grin toward Benedict. “I see you have made your usual charming impression.”
Benedict’s only reply was a noise resembling a growl. He turned away from both of them, striding over to the fire and holding out his hands to it. Mr. Sedgewick ignored him as he spoke to the innkeeper. “Well, Saltings, I think what we need here is a hot rum punch. Why don’t you bring us a bowl of it? I’ll do the mixing.”
“Of course, sir.”
Saltings bowed out of the room reluctantly. Camilla knew that he had been hoping to hear the details of what had happened to her and Benedict.
Sedgewick turned toward Camilla. “Now, Miss…?”
“Forgive me. Here you have been so kind, and I haven’t even told you my name. I am Camilla Ferrand.”
“Miss Ferrand. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, even under such deplorable conditions. Please come over here by the fire and warm yourself. I am sure you must be quite chilled.” He guided her toward the fire and into the chair beside it.
Camilla sank into the chair, grateful for its softness and for the warmth of the fire. She leaned forward, soaking up the heat. Benedict looked at Camilla, and his mouth twisted in a grimace. He withdrew to the other end of the fireplace, turning away from her and planting his elbow on the mantel. Sedgewick glanced from him to Camilla and back again, but he made no comment. The silence stretched out awkwardly.
At last there was a knock on the door, and Saltings bustled in, followed by the tap boy, carrying the inn’s best silver punch bowl and a trayful of ingredients. They set their loads down on the sideboard, and Saltings fussed around for a bit before Benedict pointedly opened the door for them and gestured a dismissal.
“Now, then,” Sedgewick said, advancing on the punch bowl. “This will fix you right up, Miss Ferrand. Normally, of course, it is not what I would consider giving a young lady such as yourself, but considering the chill of the night and the ordeal you’ve gone through, I think it will be just the thing to set you up.”
He began to mix the punch expertly, adding rum, sugar and lemons until he decided that the hot drink had just the right taste. He handed one silver cup of the mixture to Camilla, and she took the steaming drink gratefully. She had never had as strong a drink as this, for, as Mr. Sedgewick had pointed out, it was not considered a fit drink for women. However, Camilla considered herself no slave to tradition, and she was rather pleased to have the opportunity to sample a little of the sort of drink men consumed. It had a slightly unpleasant taste underlying the fruity sweetness of the punch, but, all in all, it was not as strong or as bad as she would have thought, and it was blessedly warm. The liquid rolled down her throat, warming it all the way, and burst fierily in her stomach. She finished off the cup and decided that she felt better already.
“That was excellent, Mr. Sedgewick, thank you,” she said, and he graciously refilled all their cups.
“Now, Miss Ferrand, you must tell me how you happened upon Mr., uh, Benedict.”
Camilla cast a stormy look toward that individual. “He abducted me.”
“Oh, God,” Benedict said callously, turning his back to the fire to warm it. “Not that again.”
“I was almost killed,” Camilla added, crossing her arms over her chest and glowering at Benedict.
“Benedict!” Mr. Sedgewick stared at the other man in astonishment. “What in the world happened?”
“She exaggerates. It was nothing.” He waved a hand dismissively. “We were shot at.”
“Shot at?” Sedgewick repeated incredulously. “You call that nothing?”
Benedict shrugged. “No one was hurt. They were some distance away, and I don’t think any of them could hit the side of a barn, anyway.”
“No one