“Come here,” he beckoned. “I apologise for the interruption. It was unfortunate that Lord Wroxhall should have called on this particular evening.”

Gretna drew in her breath. She was remembering what she had overheard and what the Marquis had said in his conversation with Lord Wroxhall.

“I must – retire,” she murmured. “I must go – upstairs and see if Mrs. Merryweather is asleep.”

“There is no necessity. My physician is, I assure you, a very efficient one. As he has given her a sleeping draught, she will be asleep now until the morning. Sit down. We will resume our conversation where we left it.”

“No, no – it’s impossible,” Gretna cried.

“But, why?” he enquired.

“I am tired. I ask your permission, my Lord, to retire.”

She knew that he was angry at her refusal by the sudden coldness of his voice as he answered,

“Very well, if that is your wish.”

“Good night, my Lord, and – thank you.”

There was almost the distance of the room between them. She dropped him a curtsey and realised that he was about to move to open the door for her.

She forestalled him by reaching it first, slipping outside into the hall and then running as fast as she could through the marble pillars and up the broad staircase to her bedchamber.

She closed the door behind her and locked herself in, turning the key and trying the handle to be quite certain that it was locked.

Then she dropped down on the hearthrug, throwing herself full length on the floor to hide her face in her arms.

Not to cry, but to think and to let the conversation between the Marquis and Lord Wroxhall repeat and repeat itself in her mind until she thought that she must go mad with listening to it.

CHAPTER THREE

“Can I make you more comfortable, dear Mrs. Merryweather?” Gretna asked.

“I’m all right, dearie. Don’t you worry your pretty head about me,” Mrs. Merryweather replied, settling herself in a corner of the stagecoach. “I just can’t think how I came to make such a ninny of myself. When the physician said that nothin’ was broken, I could have cried out of sheer vexation.”

“He said you were terribly bruised and suffering from shock,” Gretna answered soothingly.

“Shock indeed! It takes an old fool of my age to be upset by a little thing like that. But he was right when he said I was bruised. I’m comin’ out black and blue from top to toe. I shall look like the tattooed woman at the circus by the time I’ve finished!”

Mrs. Merryweather chuckled in her usual rich warm manner and then the sound turned to a little groan.

“Bust my laces, but I feel as if a dozen horses have driven over me.”

“You will have to take things quietly for a day or two,” Gretna advised her.