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to end before it wrecks the Trayces and the Mallorens both.”
    Ash looked away, scanning the room full of people with simple problems. “Ending it would be pleasant,” he said, then looked back at Fitz. “But when two swordsmen stand with points at each other’s throat, who lowers his blade first?”
    “That demands an impartial intermediary.”
    Ash laughed. “Whom Rothgar and I would both trust? Enough of this,” he said, returning to practicalities. “Someone must pursue Molly, and I have to escort the great-aunts.”
    He saw the sudden tension of resistance. “For Zeus’s sake! It’s as if you fear to let me out of your sight. You’re neither my guardian angel nor my conscience.”
    “Perhaps I simply enjoy your company,” Fitz said in his usual light manner. “Life with you is certainly never dull.”
    “Life chasing Molly Carew won’t be dull either.” Ash wondered if he’d imagined that expression, but he didn’t think so. That sort of thing had happened before. Perhaps Fitz really did see himself as his guardian against folly and sin.
    Perhaps, Ash thought, he needed one. Fitz had beenpart of the shift in his life over the past six months or so.
    He rose and clapped his friend on the arm. “I don’t suppose she’s gone far, but if you don’t find her soon, don’t persist. Rack up for the night somewhere. Molly’s not worth your death of cold.”
    “I’m not one of the pampered great.” Fitz drained his flagon and stood, picking up his cloak and gloves. “If she eludes me, I’ll catch up with you.”
    “We’d probably miss each other on the road. Go on to Garretson’s and I’ll join you there. I go no farther tomorrow than my cousin’s door.”
    “I’ll return to the London house.”
    Ash remembered that Fitz had no high opinion of Nigel Garretson, who was hosting a bachelor Christmas party near Kent. Strangely, he had no great enthusiasm for the gathering himself.
    “What do I do if I find Molly?” Fitz asked.
    “Drag her to London by the hair and keep her there. Good hunting!”
    Ash watched Fitz leave, then asked the barmaid the way to the entrance hall of the inn. It was reached by a narrow corridor that ended with a door. He opened it, then stepped back.
    People were arriving. He had no desire to be recognized and have to play social games. When he glimpsed the Brokesbys, he congratulated himself. They were casual acquaintances he’d made through Molly, but just the sort to presume upon it.
    Then questions stirred. Were they, too, here as part of Molly’s plan? Of Rothgar’s plan?
    Perhaps he should have taken Fitz’s advice. He was feeling ensnared—an unpleasantly familiar sensation since the night last January when he’d left a masquerade with Lady Booth Carew, widow. In April she’d claimed to be carrying his child. When he’d denied it, she’d wailed all over London about his promises and cruel abandonment.
    When that hadn’t moved him, she’d fled to Ireland, but kept up the barrage from there in letters to friendsat court. Letters full of revolting details about swellings and aches.
    Ash had expected the absurdity to die, but it had become an issue with the king. How clever of Rothgar to use King George’s desire for propriety to strike such a blow. Of course, Rothgar, plague take him, had the king’s ear.
    The Brokesbys were going upstairs with a maid now, leaving the innkeeper alone. Great-aunts first. Ash walked into the hall.
    “Mr. Dash!” the innkeeper said, professional smile appearing. “You’ll be back for your cape, then, sir.”
    “No, I’m back for my great-aunts. I discovered that Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope Trayce are here. Since they seem to be cast up by the storm, I feel I should succor them.”
    The smile wavered. “But it isn’t storming, sir.”
    Ash reined in a temptation to do the man violence. “A figure of speech only. If you could direct me to their rooms? And I will stay the night.”
    The smile disappeared entirely.