—Samuel Johnson By the end of the day they’d reached their goal, The George in the village of Little Brickhill. Caro would have preferred a bedchamber to herself, but there was no chance of that. Not only did The George have only a single suitable room left—Ronnie and Welford’s valet were forced to take more modest accommodation at a neighboring establishment, The White Lion—but Welford refused to consider allowing her to sleep alone and unprotected in a public inn, without so much as a maid in attendance. No, they would be sharing a room. She and Welford dined in the inn’s sole private dining parlor. Not that it was really all that private, or even much of a dining parlor. It was a mere alcove off the taproom, with a wooden screen drawn across the open end to shield them from prying eyes—and that also left something to be desired, for there was a gap of several feet on one side where the serving boy passed in and out. As Caro sat picking at her food, she had to ignore the gaze of a blond gentleman in the taproom who sat ogling her through the gap.
