Marie swallowed. There was a serious breach between them, that was certain. The third carriage was the servants’ carriage. It followed the master’s carriage and the carriage carrying Pippa and her nanny. What would the servants do, having the mistress sitting among them? A look passed between her and Keating and she closed her mouth. Keating was clearly staring at her in a warning fashion, and the last thing she wanted was to be dismissed and leave her mistress alone with this—this madman! She shielded Charlotte until both men exited, lowering her eyes submissively as his lordship left. The cork-brained fool, she thought after the door closed behind them, Keating hoisting a pile of clothing and trailing a few cravats. Well, thank goodness her Cecil had been chosen to accompany Charlotte to Italy. Cecil would sort out the footmen. They would all have to ride pinion, that’s all.

But Marie’s fears were for naught. When she finally emerged, around an hour later, Alex’s coach was long gone, taking with him four footmen and his secretary. Keating had found the time to organize all the servants. The footmen, Cecil told her, were to ride outside, six hanging on to the back and the normal two in front. Keating would sit with the driver. Which would leave Charlotte and Marie alone in the servants’ coach. Marie nodded. She felt heartsick, unable to look at Cecil with much affection. What monsters men were. And what a monster her mistress had married! Marie knew, with a deep heartfelt certainty, that Charlotte was a virgin. Why, she’d been terrified when Marie prepared her for bed earlier that evening. Marie shook off her thoughts, giving Cecil a brooding look, and started back to the inn.

A strong arm caught her around the waist.

“Here you!” a beloved voice said into her ear. “It’s not my fault that the master is a raving madman. We’re all for her. You’ll see.”

Marie nodded. She headed into the inn. She had left Charlotte sitting in a tub of hot water. When she got upstairs the water had cooled, but Charlotte was still sitting there, for all the world like an infant child, Marie thought. She finally managed to poke her mistress into some clothes. Charlotte had stopped crying, but her white emotionless face shook Marie more than her crying had. Women who looked like that … it wasn’t good. She’d seen that look before, when her own mama miscarried a baby.

Just then a loud screaming echoed in the hallway. “Mon Dieu!” Marie said, startled into French. It was Pippa, protesting her forced awakening at the top of her lungs.