“Then I need not beat about the bush. You are travelling with a young gentleman who is said to be your cousin, I understand. A young gentleman who, if my maid is to be believed, answers to the somewhat unusual name of Pen.”
“Yes,” said Sir Richard. “We should have changed that.”
“Pen Creed, Sir Richard?”
“Yes, ma’am! Pen Creed.”
Her gaze did not waver from his impassive countenance. “A trifle odd, sir, is it not?”
“The word, ma’am, should have been fantastic. May I know how you came by your information?”
“Certainly you may. I have lately supported a visit from Mrs Griffin and her son, who seemed to expect to find Pen with me. They told me that she had left their roof in her cousin’s second-best suit of clothes, by way of the window. That sounded very like Pen Creed to me. But she was not with me, Sir Richard. It was not until this morning that my maid told me of a golden-haired boy who was putting up with his cousin—yourself, Sir Richard—at this inn. That is why I came. I am sure that you will appreciate that I felt a certain degree of anxiety.”
“Perfectly,” he said. “But Pen is no longer with me. She left for Bristol this morning, and is now, I must suppose, a passenger on the London stage-coach.”
She raised her brows. “Still more surprising! I hope that you mean to satisfy my curiosity, sir?”
“Obviously I must do so,” he said, and in a cool, expressionless voice, recounted to her all that had happened since Pen had dropped from her rope of sheets into his arms.