Mrs. Nichols came running out from the inn—as much as the poor old dear could run. Her hands were flapping. “Miss Taylor! Miss Taylor, oh, thank goodness you’re here at last.”
“I’m so sorry to have worried you, Mrs. Nichols. I missed the stagecoach home, and Corporal Thorne was good enough to—”
“We’ve been waiting and waiting.” The older woman put her arm through Kate’s and pulled her toward the door. “Your visitors have been here for hours. I’ve run through three pots of tea, exhausted all possible topics of conversation.”
“Visitors?” Kate was stunned. “I have visitors?”
Mrs. Nichols gathered her shawl about her shoulders. “Four of them.”
“Four of them? Whatever do they want?”
“They won’t say. Except that they’ve insisted on waiting for you. It’s been hours now.”
Kate paused in the threshold, scraping the mud from the soles of her boots. She couldn’t imagine who these visitors might be. Perhaps a family seeking music lessons. But at this hour of night? “I’m so sorry I’ve put you to such trouble.”
“Not a trouble, dear. It’s an honor to have a man of such rank and stature in my parlor.”
A man? Of rank and stature?
“Might I just nip upstairs and see to my appearance first? I’m all mussed from the road.”
“No, no. That won’t do, my dear.” The inn’s landlady tugged her inside. “One can only keep a marquess waiting so long.”
“A marquess?”
While Mrs. Nichols closed the door, Kate turned to catch her reflection in the looking glass. She jumped in her skin when she found herself nose-to-button with Corporal Thorne instead.
“I thought you weren’t coming in,” she accused his lapel.
“I changed my mind.” When she finally dared look up, she found his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He asked, “Do you know any marquess?”
She shook her head. “The highest-ranking man I know is Lord Rycliff, and he’s an earl.”
“I’ll go in with you.”
“I’m sure that’s not necessary. It’s a parlor, not a crime den.”
“I’ll go anyway.”
Before they could argue it further, Kate found herself being hustled into the parlor. Thorne followed close behind. Several of the rooming-house guests lined the corridor. They gave her wide-eyed, speculative glances as she moved past.
When they reached the parlor, Mrs. Nichols pushed Kate through the door. “Here’s Miss Taylor at last, my lord and ladies.”
With that, the landlady shut them in. Kate could hear her on the other side of the door, chasing the residents away from the corridor.
There seemed to be a dozen guests in the parlor, though a quick count assured Kate they numbered just four. Wealth and elegance crammed the room. And here she stood in a torn, dirt-streaked frock. Her hair wasn’t even pinned.
A dark-clad gentleman rose to his feet and bowed. Kate had barely managed a slight dip of a curtsy when a loud, collective gasp nearly guttered the candles.
“It is her. It must be her.”
Kate swallowed hard. “Er . . . I must be who?”
A pretty young woman rose from a chair. She looked a few years younger than Kate, and she wore a frock of spotless, snowy muslin and an embroidered jade-green shawl. As she came to the center of the room, her expression was one of pure wonderment. She regarded Kate as one might a ghost, or a rare species of orchid.
“It must be you.” The girl raised her hand and stretched two fingertips to the birthmark at Kate’s temple.
Kate flinched out of instinct. She’d already been called a witch and a child of shame for that mark today.
Now she found herself wrapped in a warm, impulsive hug.
Caught between the two of them, Badger yipped.
“Oh, dear.” Kate pulled back, flashing an apologetic smile. “I’d forgotten him.”
The young woman in front of her laughed and smiled. “The pup is right to object. Where are my manners? Let’s begin again. Introductions first.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Lark Gramercy. How do you do?”
Kate clasped the proffered hand. “Delighted, I’m sure.”
Lark turned and indicated her companions in turn. “Here we have my sister Harriet.”
“Harry,” the woman in question said. She rose from her chair and pumped Kate’s hand firmly. “Everyone calls me Harry.”
Kate tried not to stare. Harriet, or Harry, was the most stunningly beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Without a trace of adornment in the form of rouge or jewels, her face was a symphony of perfection: pale, luminous skin, wide eyes, wine-red lips. A small beauty mark on one cheekbone added a sultry punctuation to the sweep of her dark eyelashes. She wore her jet-black hair parted to the side and pulled back in a severe chignon that emphasized the swannish curve of her neck. And despite all her classic feminine beauty, she was dressed in what seemed to be men’s attire. A chemisette with hardly any frill at the neck, a waistcoat cut in the style most gentlemen wore, and—most shocking of all—a divided skirt of gray wool, hemmed several inches too short for modesty.