“But you never do, James. Not come home that is. You are very responsible. And there is the Richard business. Of course I was worried. You might have been seriously hurt.”
James looked to the ceiling for inspiration and made a mental note that his aunt knew something about “the Richard business.” The Foreign Office could take lessons from his aunt and Lady Amanda. Their spy network was more extensive than either Britain’s or France’s.
“Did you think to ask the innkeeper how I was?”
“I was worried, James. I didn’t think to ask. And how would he know if something had happened to you in the night?”
“Apparently something did happen to him in the night.”
James chose to ignore Lady Amanda’s muttered comment. “Good God, madam,” he said, addressing his aunt, “didn’t you even think to knock?”
“I thought you were dying. There was no time to knock.” Lady Gladys coughed and glanced away. Her cheeks flushed. “I, um, was quite surprised at the sight I encountered.”
“Yes, yes.” James didn’t want his aunt to go down that conversational path.
“You know you will have to do the right thing, don’t you?” Lady Gladys gestured towards Robbie. “As head of his family, that idiot there should demand it.”
Robbie’s hair was now standing at right angles from his head. He squeezed his eyes shut. “James…” he began.
“Stubble it, Robbie. I’m more than willing to marry Miss Hamilton.” James laughed. “It saves me from the Marble Queen, doesn’t it?”
“Marry me!” Sarah could barely get the words out. She felt as if a huge weight had settled on her chest.
“You are most thoroughly compromised, girl,” Lady Gladys said. “Half the country saw you stark naked in bed with my nephew.”
“But nothing happened!” Sarah frowned. “At least, I hope nothing happened.”
Robbie and Charles were suddenly attacked by coughing fits. Lady Gladys and Lady Amanda stared at Sarah as if she had lost her mind.
“What did or didn’t happen is immaterial, young lady. I don’t pretend to know how things are done in the colonies, but in England when a gentleman compromises a lady—and believe me, there is no doubt that you are compromised—he marries her. James understands that.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
Sarah turned to Mr. Alvord. “But it was an accident.” Even Sarah could hear the panic creeping into her voice.
James smiled reassuringly down at her, then looked at his aunt. “Perhaps it would be a good idea if Miss Hamilton and I spent a few minutes alone to sort this out?”
Lady Gladys snorted. “There’s nothing to sort out.”
“Still, a few minutes of privacy are in order.” James looked back down at Sarah. “Miss Hamilton, will you join me for a short stroll? The Green Man is only a step or two from a rather pleasant little stream. I suggest we go there.”
Sarah nodded, though she got the distinct feeling that her concurrence was not required. Mr. Alvord bowed to the assemblage and whisked her out of the room.
“I am sorry for all the confusion,” he said when they had finally cleared the noise of the inn. “It’s been rather a comedy of errors, has it not?”
“I’m not certain if it is a comedy or a tragedy, Mr. Alvord.”
“James.”
“But I barely know you. I couldn’t possibly call you by your given name.”
“Of course you could. I intend to call you Sarah.”
Sarah frowned up at him, but he grinned back.
“In any event, ‘Mr. Alvord’ is incorrect. My family name is Runyon. Alvord is my title.”
“Your title?”
“I’m sure your republican soul is not going to like this, Sarah, so I hesitate to inform you that my full name is James William Randolph Runyon, Duke of Alvord, Marquis of Walthingham, Earl of Southgate, Viscount Balmer, Baron Lexter.”
“No!” Sarah stopped walking and gaped up at him.
James shook his head. “It’s the truth.”
Sarah worked her way back through the long list of titles. “You’re a duke!”
“Of Alvord. Yes.”
“Does that mean I’m supposed to call you ‘my lord’?”
“Technically, you’re supposed to address me as ‘your grace.”
“My grace?”
James grinned. “I would love to be your grace.”
Sarah thought about that. She shook her head. “I can’t do it.”
“That’s quite all right. I’d much rather you called me James.”
“Hmm. Will Mr. Runyon do instead?”
“That would be a little too revolutionary, I’m afraid. It wasn’t so long ago that Madame Guillotine was separating our French brethren from their heads. Strip us British peers of our titles and our shoulders twitch.”
Sarah looked at James out of the corner of her eye. “You aren’t one of those lords who’ve lost all their money, are you?”
“No, my estate is intact.” He raised an eyebrow in query. “Why would you think I was under the hatches?”
“You can’t afford a nightshirt.”
“A nightshirt?” He snorted. “I’m sure I have a dozen of the things. I just never wear them.”
“Why not? My father wore a nightshirt. Do Englishmen not do so?”
“I have no idea what Englishmen as a breed do or don’t do. I have not made a survey of it. Might I point out—not that I’m complaining, you understand—that you weren’t wearing a nightgown when I made your acquaintance.”
Sarah flushed. “That was only because my trunk had an accident in Liverpool—the sailors dumped it overboard when they were unloading. What you see before you are the only clothes I now own.”
They had arrived at a pretty little brook shaded by a stand of trees. James led her over to a fallen trunk. Sarah sat; he propped one booted foot on the log and leaned on his knee.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened last night,” James said. “How did you end up in my room?”
“I didn’t know it was your room!”
He smiled.
