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encountered.”
    Sarah chuckled at his effortless repartee and wondered how many exotic places he’d been. She was still battling the giggles when the mayor reached them.
    â€œThank you for the invitation, Elliot. Delighted to meet you.”
    â€œI’m sure,” Michael replied, sending Sarah a puzzled glance.
    By way of weak explanation for penning the invitation to Fordyce in Michael’s name, she said, “Everyone is eager to welcome the Complement.”
    Fordyce bowed. “Good evening, Lady Sarah. You’re lovely, as always. That’s a Tremaine gown, is it not?”
    The sapphire-blue silk was a design created by the exclusive Viennese modiste. Agnes had sent it to Sarah last summer on their birthday. She was saved a reply when the innkeeper led them to a private salon off the public room.
    An extraordinary fire roared in the wall hearth, and the table had been formally set for three. A pair of crossed Lochaber axes embellished one wall; the others bore landscape paintings done in the Dutch grandeur style. Sarah chose the chair facing the door. Michael took the seat nearest the fire, leaving the mayor to view the ancient Highland weapons.
    â€œA refreshment before dinner?” the apron-garbed innkeeper asked.
    Michael turned to Sarah and lifted his brows. “My lady? What is your pleasure?”
    Continued good luck throughout the evening was her first request. Being allowed to speak directly to the innkeeper and have him answer to her was her second wish. She cursed the man who had begun the ridiculous custom of making women speak to one man through another. “Tell him I’ll have the claret, if it’s smooth,” she said to Michael. “If not, I’ll have Johnson’s newest ale.”
    â€œFor a certainty, sir. ’Tis the very same wine the Complement drank last night.”
    Michael said to Sarah, “You’re fortunate there’s some left.”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    â€œSome of my friends took a liking to it last night.”
    The jovial proprietor slapped his thigh. “Which ain’t to say the Complement didn’t make a bonny affair of it after you retired, sir. That new fellow you broke in—little of him was seen above the table, except his nose. After that, he lay still from necessity.”
    â€œI’m sure he has an aching head for it today. What will you have, Fordyce?”
    The mayor held up his empty glass. “I’ll venture upon a few more drops of wine.”
    â€œA bumper of claret, then,” Michael said. “And leave the door open.”
    Most considerate, Sarah thought—especially so, minutes later, when Count DuMonde and his mistress took a table in the main room directly in Sarah’s line of vision. DuMonde sat with his back to Sarah,but she did not need to see his face to know he was smiling fondly at his mistress. Their shared joy was obvious in the lady’s eyes.
    Sarah felt oddly discomfited. She’d seen that adoring look many times before: her stepmother gazed at Lachlan MacKenzie in that very way; David Smithson mooned over Lottie at every occasion.
    â€œIs something wrong?” Michael asked.
    â€œNo, everything is delightful.” According to Notch, Lady Winfield was DuMonde’s mistress. But that was obvious, now that Sarah had seen them together.
    â€œI was just about to broach the subject of the weather with Mayor Fordyce,” Michael said, his brows lifted in entreaty to Sarah.
    â€œIt’s been cold of late,” she said.
    â€œMuch more so than in India, I assure you.”
    They chatted amiably over a feast that began with succulent lamb flavored with thyme and costly cracked pepper. Between courses, Sarah continued to sneak glances at the couple in the next room.
    Envy filled her, but not because she wanted to take Lady Winfield’s place. Oh, she liked the Frenchman; he was gay and entertaining—too much so to be considered