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you installed into room 308.”
    Cringing inwardly, Véronique smiled. She should have known it would be the uppermost floor.
    The girl made note of the room number in the registry, then turned the leather-bound book around and indicated where to sign. “That’s a corner room. It’s the hotel’s nicest and will give you the best view of Willow Springs. You can even catch the sunset over the mountains if you lean out the window a bit.”
    Véronique’s grip on the quill tightened just hearing the suggestion. The clerk lifted her slender shoulders and let them fall again. “Plus it doesn’t cost a penny more.” She quoted the price of the room, which included breakfast served in the dining area off to her right.
    “That will be most adequate. Thank you.” Véronique signed the register, purposefully leaving the departure date blank. The prices quoted for lodgings were reasonable, and she still had ample funds. Lord Marchand and Lord Descantes had both been most generous in their provisions; the combined amount had more than covered her expenses since parting ways with the Descantes family in New York City.
    Before she left Paris, Lord Marchand had explained that additional provisions would be waiting for her in an account at the bank in Willow Springs. He’d further explained that he would continue to provide for her needs on a regular basis. Exactly what “regular basis” meant, she wasn’t certain, and she made mental note to visit the bank soon. But for now, her funds were more than sufficient.
    Reassurance of her financial standing prompted an odd question in her mind, one she was none too eager to answer—should she have cause to seek employment in Willow Springs, for what kind of position did her skills qualify her to fill?
    Though not an accomplished musician, she had learned to play the piano alongside Francette, being the girl’s companion. But Véronique anticipated little call for that talent in Willow Springs. The same was true for having learned how to serve as an assistant to the hostess for a formal dinner party of a hundred or more guests, or how to mingle among the elite at political balls and hold intelligent conversation with other companions to wives and daughters of foreign dignitaries—everything considered important to know for the companion to the daughter of a lord in parliament, but seeming of little use in this foreign country. And certainly of no use in this remote territory.
    Véronique returned the pen to its holder beside the ink bottle, determining not to dwell on what she couldn’t change. Instead, she drew inspiration from the hotel clerk’s warm welcome. “My name is Mademoiselle Véronique Girard. To whom do I owe the pleasure of such a gracious greeting this afternoon?”
    The girl dipped her head. “My name is Lilly. Lilly Carlson, ma’am.” Those violet eyes of hers danced.
    “And are you the proprietor of this fine establishment?”
    Lilly giggled. “No, ma’am . . .” She hesitated and added more quietly, “I mean, Mademoiselle Girard,” mastering the pronunciation the first time. The girl learned with efficiency. “I help Mr. and Mrs. Baird in the afternoons, and some mornings. I’m working to save money for a new t—” She paused and glanced away. When she looked back, shyness clouded her former sparkle. “I help with the laundry and the dishes and greet the guests, on occasion.”
    Véronique nodded, watchful. “My only hope is that Monsieur and Madame Baird are paying you well, mademoiselle. An employee responsable is worth a goodly sum.”
    Whatever the reason for the girl’s hesitancy seconds before, it vanished. Her countenance brightened once again. “I’ll go get the key to your room and show you upstairs. And . . .” Lilly paused again, her pretty mouth forming a delicate bow. “Would you like me to draw you a hot bath?”
    Véronique wanted to hug the child. “That would be heaven. Merci . My trunks should arrive here in a short