“That was more than a bit, my love.” He kissed her swiftly once more before guiding his horse back onto the road. Enzo fell in step beside them. “At any moment, one of those men in the tavern could have turned on us. Or worse. Not to mention the fact that you might have killed Lionel’s valet.”

“Neither possibility is very likely,” she said. “Firstly, I’m an excellent shot.”

“True,” he acknowledged.

“And secondly, those men recognized you as soon as we walked in the door. I didn’t think of it then, but your resemblance to your father must be quite striking indeed.”

“Uncanny, apparently.”

“Quite. And Gentleman Jim is all but a folk hero to those villains. Naturally they’d take your side in a quarrel. Especially if your adversary was someone like Fred or your cousin, coming into the place and threatening to summon the magistrate of all people.”

“Fred is a fool. He’s always been a fool. That doesn’t make him any less of a threat.” St. Clare’s mood darkened. “He’s going to make things very difficult for you, Maggie.”

“He’ll try.”

“We must marry at once. As soon as I can procure a license.” He wanted her away from this place. Away from Fred and the malice of the Beresfords. Somewhere St. Clare could keep an eye on her. In his bed to start with.

“Of course we must. But in the meanwhile, I won’t let him drive me from my home, not one single minute sooner than Papa’s will requires. Beasley Park is still mine for the time being. And the first thing I’m going to do when I return is to eject your cousin and his mother from the premises. I want them out of my house by dawn.”

“By all means. But we’re not going to Beasley Park.”

She wiggled around in front of him, attempting to meet his gaze, even as he urged his horse into a canter. “We’re not?”

He shook his head. “We’re going to the Hart and Hound.”

Maggie stood in front of the fireplace, warming her hands over the freshly kindled blaze. The Hart and Hound was nothing at all like the Crossed Daggers. It was a respectable inn run by respectable people—people who were slavishly deferential to the earl and his grandson.

Indeed, when Maggie and St. Clare had arrived, the husband and wife proprietors hadn’t been at all cross about being rudely awakened from their beds in the early hours before dawn. Instead, they’d averted their eyes from St. Clare’s battered face, from his torn shirt and blood-stained waistcoat, and all but bowed him and Maggie into a private parlor.

After seeing her settled there, St. Clare had withdrawn almost immediately to speak to his grandfather. Ten minutes passed before he returned to her, washed, groomed, and wearing a fresh suit of clothes.