Page 35 of Marry in Scandal

“My plans weren’t ruined.”

“But you were traveling north for some reason, I presume.”

He shrugged. “A house party. Nothing important.”

“But your friends will be disappointed when you don’t show up, won’t they?”

He gave her a flat look. “They’re not my friends.”

“They’re not? Then why would you—?” She broke off. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”

A knock sounded on the door and the innkeeper’s daughter entered with a covered dish, followed by her brother carefully carrying a jug. “Gooseberry pudding with custard,” she announced. “Put it there, Jimmy—careful, it’s hot.”

Ned was not displeased to have their conversation interrupted. The house party he’d planned to attend was nothing special, just something to do, a way of passing the time.

And how lame was that? Was this what his life had come to, finding the least disagreeable way to pass the time?

He brooded over that insight as the girl bustled about, swiftly clearing the table and passing the dirty dishes to her brother to stack onto a tray.

The people he’d expected to see at the house party? He wouldn’t miss any of them. He doubted they’d miss him, either.

Several of the women invited had given him subtle but unmistakable indications that he’d be welcome in their bed, but he was under no illusions as to the significance of that. If he didn’t turn up they’d find another willing man. There would be no shortage of substitutes.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. Was his life really so meaningless? He lifted his tankard and drank the last of the landlord’s good dark ale.

“Shall I bring you up some more ale, sir?” the girl asked. Ned shook his head, and she and her brother swept from the room. The gooseberry pudding sat on the table in front of him, golden and luscious, steaming softly. Lily was staring at it, as if half mesmerized.

“A little pudding?” he asked her.

“I shouldn’t... But it looks and smells so delicious... Perhaps just a taste.” He cut two generous portions of the pudding, poured custard over each, and passed the smaller bowl to her.

“I take it we are agreed that you will return to London with me, and no further argument.” It wasn’t a question.

She sighed. “I suppose so. Though I don’t like to cause you so much tr—”

“Nonsense.” He cut her off brusquely. “It will be my pleasure to escort you.” And to his surprise he realized itwas true. He would much rather spend sixteen uncomfortable hours in a coach with Lily Rutherford—half drugged or not—than spend a week in the bed of one of the jaded ladies of the house party.

Only because he owed her a duty of care, for the sake of her brother, he told himself. His honor—what was left of it—required it.

She finished her pudding with every evidence of enjoyment and sighed as she set down her spoon. “Now I really am full. I think perhaps I’d like to go for a walk, just a short walk to stretch my legs.”

“Not tonight, you won’t.”

She glanced at the window. “But it’s stopped raining.”

“I don’t care about the weather.” His voice was grim. “You’re not leaving this room until I say so.”

Her eyes widened, and Ned cursed himself for a fool. Of course, given her recent experience, she’d put the worst interpretation on his words. He hastened to explain. “Nothing to worry about, just that you can’t go wandering around the inn or the village. If you are to emerge from this mess without damage to your reputation, nobody must learn you were ever missing from your brother’s care. Nobody must see you—I mean nobody from our world, nobody who might recognize you.”

Her face fell. “I know. But surely in this little out-of-the-way place—

He shook his head. “There’s a fellow downstairs who’s a notorious society gossip. He’s an irritating little tick, but he’s seen everywhere—you might even know him. Cyril Elphingstone?”

“Elphingstone...” A soft crease formed between her brows. “Is he a slender, nattily dressed man with a pointy nose and extraordinary chestnut-colored hair?”

“That’s him in a nutshell. That’s if chestnut is a sort of reddish-brown.”

“It is. He’s a friend—well, an acquaintance—of my Aunt Agatha. I don’t like him very much. He always has some story to tell that’s often rather nasty underneath. My sister, Rose, calls him ‘the gnat.’”