*   *   *

Aunt Dottie slept away the afternoon and only appeared later in the evening, wanting soup for Logan who she reported as feeling not only better but hungry. After feeding him the soup she joined George for a quick supper.

“How is he, Aunt Dottie?”

Aunt Dottie beamed. “He’s asleep now, but he was grumbling about needing proper food, not soup—isn’t that wonderful?—so manlike, and it shows how much better he’s feeling—but he drank the whole bowl right down—and it stayed down. Cook’s chicken soup is as good as any doctor’s potion.”

They both went up to bed early, Aunt Dottie because she needed to keep checking on Logan, and George because she was tired and because there was nothing else to do. She’d read all the books in Aunt Dottie’s small library last year, and had no patience with playing patience. She didn’t embroider or knit or tat, and there was no dog to walk or play with.

She hoped they were remembering to feed Finn, and then decided that, given his thespian talents, he was probably more in danger of being overfed.

*   *   *

Over the next few evenings Hart diligently attended the events on the list Lady Salter had sent him, but found no sign of Lady Georgiana at any of them. It was very annoying; Lady Salter had been most pointed about sending him the details of the social events his betrothed was scheduled to attend, yet she couldn’t be bothered apprising him of any changes. Nor did Lady Salter turn up herself.

A bare minimum of politeness obliged Hart to stay at least half an hour at each event, making mindless chitchat until he could escape. They were the kind of insipid events he most loathed, and by the time he left the third one he was fuming.

Sinc thought it hilarious. “You’re famous for failing to turn up to events to which you’ve been invited. Now the boot’s on the other foot. Sauce for the goose, eh?”

“Must you witter on, spouting clichés,” Hart told him.

“If the cliché fits . . .”

But beneath his bad temper, Hart was starting to get worried. Clearly whatever was keeping her away was more than a headache.

He called at Ashendon House the next morning and met the Earl of Ashendon himself coming down the front steps. Hart stopped him, saying bluntly, “I’ve come to inquire after Lady Georgiana.”

“She’s not here.” Ashendon’s curricle was waiting, his groom holding the horses.

“She’s not ill, is she?”

“George?” Ashendon snorted. “Girl’s never been ill a day in her life. No, she’s gone haring off to Bath.”

“To Bath?”

Ashendon nodded. “She and my aunt. No idea why. Got some maggot in their heads about something and just headed off without explaining a thing—you know how women get.” He climbed into the curricle.

“When do you expect her back?”