She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Lady Angela shrugged her shoulders. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. He moaned. Then she burst into a peal of laughter. Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that before?’ ‘What are you talking of?’ ‘Never mind that now. Had Valade been to see him? Possibly even yesterday when he was followed by some young lad—and the girl, of course. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. Tight.
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