There was a note in his voice that made Petra swing herself over the gunwale into the calf-deep water, her feet finding the sandy bottom with relief. She waded to shore, holding up her skirt, although it was already soaked through above her knees. On the dry sand, she looked back at the dinghy. Guy was holding it steady with the oars and he was talking.

Petra suddenly thought that she did not want to hear what he was saying to Clothilde. Much as she despised her, she couldn’t help but feel a stab of compassion for the Frenchwoman. She was soaked and filthy, barely recovered from a terrifying ordeal, and Guy didn’t look as if he had a smidgeon of sympathy for her.

She trailed back up the beach, retrieving her sandals on her way, and walked back along the promenade to the Ship Inn. The landlord was still behind the saloon bar and he stared at his bedraggled customer when she entered.

“Good Lord, ma’am. What’s ’appened to you?”

“Mud,” Petra said concisely. “My husband will be here soon and he looks as bad as I do. Do you have a room free where we can clean up a little? Oh, and Lord Ashton wants a jug of mulled wine as well as hot water and a fire in the room.”

“Right away, m’lady. How’d you get caught in the mud? You and ’is lordship know these parts well enough.”

“Someone needed rescuing,” Petra said. “But all’s well that ends well. So, if you could show me to a room upstairs. . .”

“Right this way, my lady. And I’ll send a maid up to you right away.” He bustled ahead of her up a creaky staircase and opened a door on the first landing. “This is the best room in the house, ma’am. I’ll have the fire lit in no time.”

“Thank you. And don’t forget the mulled wine.” She smiled at him and when he’d left leaned against the closed door for a moment feeling the quiet normality of the room settle around her. It was large, with a four-poster bed, a deep inglenook fireplace and an oak settle with a chintz cushion. There was no attached bathroom, but the inn was several centuries old and presumably lacked such niceties. She pushed herself away from the door as someone knocked.

A maid came in with two jugs of steaming hot water; behind her was a leather-aproned manservant with an armful of wood. Petra found a seat on the settle, careful to keep the folds of her wet and muddy skirt away from the crisp chintz cushion, and watched as the fire began to blaze.

“I’ll get the mulled wine going, ma’am,” the maid said, dropping a curtsy. “I’ll do it up here, shall I?”

“Yes, please.” The inglenook was begging for a trivet and saucepan of hot spiced wine on the fire.