Traveling and reminiscing had kept the demons of worry at bay for a time, but they were back now in full measure.

A good night’s sleep—if such a thing could be had in this situation—would make the old lady feel better. Stronger, anyway. As long as . . . as long as Logan survived the night. He was no longer a young man . . .

“The sun will rise around five. We can be on the road by then, and be in Bath before noon.” She glanced at the postboy, who nodded.

“And in the meantime we pray,” Aunt Dottie whispered.

Chapter Fourteen

But there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has very little power . . .

—JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY

Hart greeted his host and hostess, Lord and Lady Filmore, ignoring the hush that accompanied his arrival, the low speculative murmur. He swept the room with an icy glance. Beneath it, eyes dropped, gazes slid sideways. His lip curled.

The previous week Lady Salter had sent him a list of all of Georgiana’s engagements in the lead up to the wedding. The sooner he was married, the sooner this going-to-parties nonsense would be over, and people would move on to some other source of gossip.

He wouldn’t even be in London. He and his bride would be on their way to Venice.

He glanced around the room. Where was she? He could see Lady Salter in an alcove talking to some of her cronies. No sign of Georgiana or the plump little aunt. He strolled into the next room. Not there, either.

He glanced into the card rooms. He didn’t think she was fond of cards, but he still didn’t know her very well. She wasn’t there. He frowned.

The Filmore house had no garden, just a small terrace and courtyard, but it was drizzling, and nobody would be outside. So where was she? The ladies’ withdrawing room?

He accepted a glass of wine, sipped it—a very inferior vintage—and set it on a nearby table. He waited. Ladies came and went, but none of them was Georgiana. He sought her aunt.

“Lady Salter, did you not inform me that Lady Georgiana would attend this—”

“Oh, yes, duke,” she said hastily. “I’m so sorry, I should have sent a note around. My niece is, ah, indisposed this evening. I do apologize.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No, no, just the—the headache.” She seemed a little flustered. It was unlike her.

“I see.” Hart made a few polite inquiries about Lady Ashendon and the baby, then took his leave. A wasted evening, he thought as he headed out into the night. But he was glad to escape the party. Inane conversation, inferior wine and nobody there he cared two pins about.

*   *   *