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at the badly wrinkled skirt of the lavender gown, he moved to speak with the woman at the inn’s entrance.
    “We require lodging for the night—or what is left of it. So, if you would make up beds for me, these men”—he gestured toward Timms and the coachman—“And—”
    “How do you do?” Ellen stepped forward to possess herself of Trent’s arm and held on tightly. “I am Mrs. Smith. Smith and I are wishful of either an adjoining chamber or a single large one. The adjoining one would be best, of course, because he snores terribly, but—” She felt like a fool and her face flamed in embarrassment, but she did not like something about the place.
    “Ellen,” Trent hissed, “I am perfectly capable of making the arrangements. Well, you heard my wife, madam.” He put an arm around Ellen and squeezed her shoulder.
    “Ain’t no such thing here. ’Tis rooms at either end of the hall or one at the top of the stairs.”
    “Well, then, it seems like one will have to do—right, my dear?” He gave Ellen’s shoulder another squeeze and propelled her through the door of the inn. “I daresay you can stuff your ears with something, can’t you?”
    Ellen surveyed the grim little room they’d entered and noted the dearth of other guests. A rat, or else a very large mouse, scurried around a corner, causing her to jump against the marquess. “One will be fine,” she agreed readily.
    The innkeeper appeared from the lower stairwell, his dirty shirt and trousers attesting to the general unkempt condition of everything there. He wiped his hands on an apron that Ellen decided looked bloodstained. With a jolt, she realized that his interested gaze had moved to rest on the low neckline of the Mantini’s dress. Her face coloring with embarrassment, she twined her arm through Trent’s and shrank behind him.
    For his part, the marquess appeared not to notice anything amiss as he nodded in the innkeeper’s direction. “My wife and I have not eaten, and neither have my men. Perhaps it would be possible to order a cold supper?” he asked hopefully.
    “As to that”—the fellow bobbed his head affirmatively—“I am sure that Mrs. Grumm has some beef left. We slaughtered today.”
    As soon as they were alone in the dingy taproom, Ellen rounded on Trent. “How you could eat a morsel in this place is beyond me, sir. And he did not say what he slaughtered, did he? I do not wish to stay here, my lord.”
    “And I would go no farther tonight, ma’am.” A wicked gleam crept into the blue eyes. “Especially not in light of the newest development in this strange journey. I can scarce wait to see you in one of the Mantini’s sleeping dresses.”
    “You insufferable—” Her retort was cut off by the appearance of Mrs. Grumm with a plate of cold meat and bread. Setting two mugs of ale on the table, the woman spilled them onto the soiled cloth. With a shrug, she wiped the rims with her finger.
    “Anything else, Mr. Smith?”
    “No—nothing save clean sheets.”
    “Ugh!” Ellen vented her feelings as soon as the woman was out of hearing. “Really, sir, I wonder at you. I would doubt there’s a clean sheet to be had in this whole place.” She looked around her disdainfully and added, “I see no signs of other custom, but then no doubt the service discourages return visits.”
    “Be still and eat, girl,” Trent recommended. “If you insist on insulting the old hag, there’s no telling what she will serve you.” He cut a slab of cold roast and slid it onto her plate. “Here—it does not taste bad.” Slicing off a thick hunk of bread, he transferred the meat to it and pushed it toward her. “It’s been at least seven hours since last you ate, and I would not be kept awake with your stomach growling at me.”
    Gamely she picked it up and took a bite. Trent watched while she tried to chew the dry food and slid her mug across the table. “It’s ale, and I doubt you have ever tasted it before, but it will wash