Robert touched the brim of his own hat and dismounted, tossing the reins and a coin to a waiting linkboy before entering the inn.

Mr. King, the proprietor, bustled forward. “Och, if ’tisn’t Mr. Hurst! How good to see ye, sir.”

“And you. I trust you’re busy this time of year.”

“Filled every room,” the innkeeper said proudly.

“Excellent.” Robert removed his hat and set it upon the hall table, his gloves neatly placed across the brim, and then allowed the innkeeper to assist him in removing his greatcoat. “I came to visit a certain guest of yours, and I must ask for your discretion.”

Knowing well how generously “discretion” could pay, Mr. King beamed. “Indeed, sir, I’ll no’ breathe a word. Which guest are you wishin’ to visit?”

Robert took a shiny guinea from his pocket and dropped it into the landlord’s hand. “Her name is Mrs. Randolph. If you’ll give me the room direction, I shall announce myself.”

“Ah, Mrs. Randolph. She’s a loverly woman. In fact,” he added archly, “the porter just delivered her bath. She’s in room seven, top of the stairs to the right.”

“Thank you. Do you happen to have an extra key?”

“Of course!” The landlord scurried to a small room off the foyer and returned with a large iron key. “Here ye are, Mr. Hurst. If ye need anything else, jus’ say th’ word.”

“Thank you.” Robert took the key and crossed the foyer. So Moira still had a weakness for a hot bath. He wondered what other things about her were the same. Did she still enjoy warm, buttered bread? Reading the morning paper over hot tea and crumpets? Lolling in bed until the afternoon?

Of course, Moira’s idea of lolling was rather vigorous, and the memories warmed him as he headed up the stairs.

After he found her room, he pressed his ear to the door. He heard humming, followed by a splash.

Good. She won’t have that damned pistol on her. Still, he’d take no chances. He pulled out his small silver mounted pistol and checked it quickly. Then he slipped his key into the lock, turned it, and swung the door open.

Moira was indeed naked and glorious in the bath . . . and holding a pistol aimed right at his heart. “What an unpleasant surprise,” she murmured, her smooth voice at odds with the anger that sparkled in her green eyes. “May I suggest that the next time you decide to surprise a person, that you have your pistol ready before you get to their door? I heard the chamber click.”

He closed and locked the door behind him, his own pistol held steady. “You heard that, hm?”

“Barely, but it was enough.”

He noted that water dripped from her fingers. “Do you think you can fire accurately with a wet hand?”

“I am willing to try. In fact,” she smiled as she lowered the pistol so that it pointed to his crotch, “we could up the stakes a bit just to make it interesting.”