Not only was the inn comfortable, but situated as it was just on the London side of the major posting town of Reading, it was generally overlooked by tonnish society. There were no members of the aristocracy or the upper echelons of the ton staying that night. A few well-to-do merchants, businessmen, and their wives, a clientele that no doubt accounted for the inn’s quality, but no one who would place either Clarice or him. He opened their door to a room steeped in darkness. He glanced around; Clarice had doused all the candles and left the curtains over the windows drawn. All he could see of her was a mound under the covers on the window side of the bed. She’d loosened the bed-curtains but hadn’t drawn them tight. Closing the door, cutting off what little light had come from the corridor, he crossed soft-footed to the window and drew the curtains wide. Pale moonlight spilled in, enough so he could see. He sat in the armchair and eased off his boots, then unhurriedly undressed, hanging his coat in the wardrobe, draping shirt and waistcoat over the straight-backed chair.
