Lips as thin as his, eyes every bit as narrow, she folded her arms, watched him scoop up his sodden clothes. “I’ll wait here.”

She knew better than to try to deny him; never in her life had she managed that, and it didn’t seem that anything had changed between them.

He nodded curtly and stalked past her to the door. The innkeeper-still gawping-hurriedly stepped back and Ro went out.

The instant he was out of her sight, some measure of her accustomed acuity returned; her mind literally cleared. Just as well. If she knew Ro, and she did, she was going to need every wit she possessed.

The innkeeper coughed, then whispered, “Miss-if you want to slip away to your room, I’ll escort you up. There’s a sound bolt on the door. You could move the little chest across it, too.”

She glanced at the man, had to search her memory, seesawing wildly between the past and the present, for his name. She considered, then spoke, her voice cool, calm, faintly imperious. “That’s entirely unnecessary, Bilt. You need have no fear. I have more than sufficient years in my dish to deal with his lordship.”

She hoped. She most definitely prayed.

A suspicious look entered Bilt’s eyes. “You and his lordship know each other?”

She could imagine what tack his mind had taken, what meaning his “know” was intended to imply. “Indeed,” she replied repressively. “Childhood friends.” When Bilt’s suspicions didn’t immediately evaporate, she added somewhat waspishly, “Oh, do use your wits, man! If our relationship were any other we’d be meeting upstairs, not in your parlor.”

It took a minute for Bilt to accept that not even Rogue Gerrard would be likely to prefer a parlor over a comfortable bed. Given Ro’s reputation, Lydia couldn’t blame Bilt for the hesitation, or his earlier suspicions.