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The marquess did not appear to have remembered she even existed, let alone stood before him, so Gwen carefully turned on her heels and—

“I managed to carry three glasses.” Sir James beamed, offering her one before turning to the marquess. “And one for you, Raven.”

Gwen stared between the two men as her previous betrothed took a drink and grinned boyishly at the other man.

“Thank you, Jim,” he said quietly, a flush covering his cheeks.

It was a good thing the two men were so wrapped up in each other, or else they would have noticed Gwen’s jaw quite literally dropping.

“I can never marry them. They are already married.”

The Marquess of Ravenshurst…and Sir James Stuart?

“You know, I rather like your suggestion, Miss Chance,” said a voice from a long way away, and Gwen blinked to see Lord Ravenshurst come back into focus.

“‘Suggestion’?” repeated Sir James politely.

The marquess smirked. “I marry your sister, and the four of us…live together.”

A smile very similar to that on Gwen’s previously betrothed spread across Sir James’s face. “Now why the devil didn’t we think of that before?”

“Because my aunt only met your sister a few weeks ago,” the marquess said wryly, “and I was engaged to Miss Chance here. Besides, neither of us could have guessed that Heather and Miss Stuart’s affection—I mean, connection—”

“I think I had better return to the party,” said Gwen hastily.

The two men started, looking heartily concerned.

“And I wish you two all the happiness in the world,” Gwen added, reaching out and squeezing Lord Ravenshurst’s hand in what she hoped was a communicative enough fashion. “All four of you.”

The marquess’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And you, Miss Chance? You will find your happiness, won’t you?”

Gwen tried to smile in return. “My happiness walked away, my lord. I am afraid that I think I am the sort of woman who only gets one shot at happiness.”

Chapter Eighteen

October 11, 1841

The trouble with needing to stay in London two more nights, when one had almost no money and no connections one was willing or able to draw on, was that the only option was…this.

The Golden Hind.

Ernest grimaced as the sounds of an argument roared through the thin walls of the room he had taken for three nights. The Golden Hind had not been his first choice, but the hotel in which he’d first staying when he’d arrived in London was fully booked, and when Ernest had looked at the coin left to him—even after staying for weeks with the Pernrith Chances—he’d realized hotels had no longer been an option.

No, it was a coaching inn he needed.

The Golden Hind was suitable for three reasons. Firstly, one of the stagecoaches left from here twice a week and went north, and that was precisely where he wanted and needed to go. Secondly, it was far enough away from the residence of the Pernrith Chances that he was unlikely to ever accidentally run into them—though as a second argument started to float through the opposite wall, Ernest wondered if the Chances would be completely impossible to run into.

And thirdly, of course, he could afford it.

The room was small, and cramped, and damp. There was naught in it but a bed and two rickety chairs that had seen better days. The fireplace was small, with only a few sticks crumbling to ashes within it, and though there was barely any curtain at the windows, that was quite acceptable. Because there was hardly any glass in the windows. Most of it was boarded up.

Unfortunately, that rather low cost meant that sometimes, he had to put up with nonsense.

The loud banging on his bedchamber door, for example.

“No, I don’t want to buy a woman!” Ernest snapped, marching to the door and wrenching it open.

He had expected to see one of the men—he could not in truth call them ‘gentlemen’—who had knocked on his door every hour or so throughout the day and night, offering him the pleasurable embraces of one of their ladies of the night.