By a quarter to ten that evening, Imogen, Griselda and Annabel were bundled in their pelisses against the chill of an April night and trundling toward Grillon’s Hotel. Griselda was fretting that they would be seen. “I’ve never entered such a place,” she kept saying.
“It’s just a hotel,” Imogen said.
“No one stays in hotels,” Griselda snapped. “The implication is that you have no family in the city. No one in London to stay with! You’re an outcast.”
“Ardmore doesn’t seem to be an outcast,” Annabel put in, picturing the way the ton had welcomed him with open arms.
“Oh, he’s a man, titled, and from the north country. It’s all different for men. Besides, he’s clearly staying in a hotel because he’s too short in the pocket to rent a townhouse, or at the very least a suite of rooms, for the season, the way someone with a reasonable estate might. His residence is one of the clearest signs of his impoverishment. No one would stay in a London hotel unless he had to: robbery and theft are commonplace, as I understand it. They’ll take the very linens from your bed while you’re lying in them!”
“But Griselda,” Annabel objected, “you yourself read us that piece of news about the Russian ambassador, and he was staying at this same hotel, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Ardmore is not a woman,” Griselda said. “For a woman even to be glimpsed in a hotel is to risk her reputation.” The carriage began to slow down and she pulled up the rosy hood of her pelisse, tucking her curls inside. “With luck, we’ll be in and out of that building without meeting a soul. Surely everyone who counts will have already embarked on their evening.”
“What could anyone possibly think we were doing, if we did encounter someone we knew?” Annabel asked. “Three women, two of whom are widowed, do not enter hotels together for nefarious purposes, Griselda.”
“Believe me, the implication is all that’s needed!” she snapped. “Widows are particularly vulnerable to this sort of ugliness. Do you know how many jests there are about lusty widows? And the ballads! There’s a horrid one about widows who have sipped bliss before. Something like, If you’d win a widow, you must down with your breeches and at her!” She was getting more and more agitated but the carriage was at a halt now. They had taken a hired hack so that Holbrook’s crest wouldn’t be recognized.
“Wait for us!” Griselda commanded the driver. “Don’t you dare go anywhere! We’ll only be a moment.”
Annabel looked at his smirk and realized exactly why three hooded women would enter a hotel. He clearly thought that they were on business, so to speak. “I’m at your service, ladies,” he said cheerfully.
“Rafe will kill us for this,” Griselda moaned.
Annabel thought that Rafe would have a point. Still, the antechamber of the hotel was beautiful, with huge arching ceilings and various pieces of statuary that were as fine as any she’d seen in any formal garden.
Griselda clutched Imogen’s arm. “What are we supposed to do now?”
Imogen shook her head. “He didn’t say anything. I suppose we have to be announced.”
Luckily, as they stood like an indecisive group of country bumpkins, an officious-looking man strode over to them. “Now, then, ladies, what can I do for you?”
There was a shading in his voice that suggested he had jumped to the same conclusion as the driver, at least until Griselda drew herself up to her full height, pulled back her hood slightly and gave him a look.
A second later he was bowing so low that his nose could have touched his knees, and apologizing for keeping them waiting, and asking if there was any possible way that he could aid them.
“We must speak to these ladies’ cousin for a moment,” Griselda told him, giving him a measured smile. “And since we have condescended to even enter this establishment, Mr….”
“M-Mr. Barnet,” he stammered. “We are honored by your entrance, my lady.”
“Just so,” she said, unimpressed. “As I was saying, since we have condescended to enter this establishment, Mr. Barnet, I am naturally worried about the consequence of our rash action. Therefore, I would request that we be shown to the Earl of Ardmore’s chambers immediately.”
“I shall do so myself,” Mr. Barnet said.
Griselda gave him a slightly bigger smile, and he began walking toward an imposing staircase.
“His lordship has the best suite of chambers in Grillon’s,” he said, ushering them up red-carpeted stairs that were as grand as any found in a duke’s palace. “I assure you, my lady, that hotels have changed a great deal from merely twenty years ago. This is a most respectable establishment, with only the very best clientele.”
“Humph,” was Griselda’s only response.
A moment later they were ushered into a sitting room by Ardmore’s manservant, who seemed delighted to welcome ladies to his master’s chambers, even ladies inadvisably visiting late at night. Once he left to bring Griselda a glass of ratafia, Annabel threw back her hood and wandered over to the mantelpiece, which was adrift with invitations.
“This is a lovely room,” Griselda said, clearly feeling much better now that they were snugly inside without having been seen by anyone of consequence. “Quite nice. I do like Hepplewhite’s early furniture. Annabel, do not take off your pelisse. We will be here for only a moment.”
Two seconds later the earl himself strolled through one of the five doorways leading from the sitting room. “What a pleasure,” he said, seemingly unmoved by the fact that instead of one widow, bent on an errand of wicked pleasure, he was faced by three women, one of whom was known throughout London for her impeccable reputation.
But Griselda wasn’t going to waste any time with pleasantries. “Lady Maitland has something to say to you,” she announced, with all the preemptory tone of a governess. “And after she’s said it, we shall leave you to your evening, and you will kindly forget that we were ever here.”
“To hear is to obey,” Ardmore murmured, but he glanced over at Annabel and there was a twinkle in his eye that made her think he remembered their kiss. Or was remembering their kiss. Or—Annabel turned away and examined one of his invitations as if it were passionately interesting.
“Lord Ardmore,” Imogen said, moving forward into the center of the room and clasping her hands, “I wish to inform you that I shall not pursue the relationship that you and I discussed.”
He bowed, most graciously it seemed to Annabel, who was pretending to read yet another invitation. “I am most happy to hear that,” he said, and the ring in his deep voice seemed sincere enough.
“Excellent,” Griselda said, bustling out of the corner of the room and taking Imogen’s arm.
“I have one more comment,” Imogen said, stopping Griselda from pulling her from the room. “I’m not quite a ninny, Lord Ardmore. I realized this afternoon that—”
There was a knock at the door and a nearly simultaneous moan from Griselda.
His manservant bustled out of one of the side doors and said, without opening the door, “His lordship is not receiving.”
“It’s Mr. Barnet, sir,” came the voice of the hotel manager, sounding quite harassed. “I’m afraid his lordship has an urgent visitor.”