After dispatching Enzo with the note, St. Clare lay down upon his bed, one arm draped over his brow. His eyes fell shut. He might even have drifted off awhile, for when next he opened them, it was to the sound of someone rapping softly, but rather insistently, at the door.

He roused himself with a groan. His arm was stiff. A bone-deep ache that threatened swelling and fever. He’d have to clean it again, and soon. Either that or summon a doctor to do the job.

St. Clare prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

He wasn’t anxious for anyone else to discover he’d been shot. The last thing he needed was Fred realizing that it wasn’t some random highwayman he’d encountered on the road.

Rising from his bed, shirtless, St. Clare tugged on a silk banyan over his breeches and went to the door. “It’s half two in the morning,” he muttered as he opened it. “This had better be…” The words dissolved on his lips.

It was Maggie Honeywell.

She stood on the threshold, garbed in a blue velvet cloak, the sable-trimmed hood drawn up to conceal her features. She looked up at him, naked relief on her face. “Oh,” she said on a breath. “Thank heavens you’re all right.”

St. Clare stared down at her, stunned. For a moment he wasn’t certain she was real. And then it hit him. Not only was she real, she was standing in the corridor outside his rooms. In a dratted hotel of all places.

Ducking his head out the door, he glanced quickly to the left and right, assuring himself that the hall was empty, before pulling her inside his room and shutting the door behind her. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

She pushed her hood back from her face. “Looking for you, of course.”

His pulse stuttered. She was too beautiful for words. Too unutterably dear. It almost hurt to look at her. Especially now, tonight, when his self-control was already on a razor’s edge. “How did you know—”

“You told me you kept a set of rooms at Grillon’s. When you weren’t at your grandfather’s house, I assumed you’d be here.”

A jolt of alarm shot through him. “You visited Grosvenor Square?”

“No, I sent Bessie. She went to the kitchen door this time. One of the scullery maids told her you hadn’t come home yet. And I thought—”

“This is a hotel, Maggie,” he said roughly. “Good God. If someone saw you enter—”

“You’re concerned about my reputation?” She was incredulous. “How can you be? After what happened tonight—”

“Of course I’m concerned! Respectable ladies don’t visit hotels. If they did, they wouldn’t be considered respectable for long.”

She stretched out a hand to touch him, but he backed out of her reach.