“There’s no need for belligerence. I’m not going anywhere.”

You had to give her credit. The lady wasn’t easily rattled, although having organized this performance-with witnesses to boot-bespoke a certain audacity on her part. He slid off her and rose from the bed. Lifting his overcoat from the chair on which he’d dropped it, he slipped it on, buttoned it, then exited the room and made his way downstairs to speak to the proprietor.

Isolde debated dressing, but should he return quickly, she ran the risk of being caught in some degree of nudity, and with a forward fellow like this actor, she was safer where she was. Her purse was within reach. Furthermore, there was no doubt in her mind that they could reach a monetary agreement. Malmsey had already paid him for his night’s work, but the life of an actor was one of financial insecurity. So she’d simply ask him what he required to forget that he’d been here and she’d pay it.

Downstairs, Oz was offering the proprietor of Blackwood’s Hotel a rueful smile. “A slight problem has arisen, Fremont. Room thirteen is occupied by an unknown person.”

“My apologies, sir.” The trim, dapper man quickly flipped through the guest ledger and a moment later glanced up with a genuinely pained expression. “My most profuse apologies, my lord. I should have said room twenty-three.” His face was beet red. “I most humbly beg your pardon.”

“Rest easy, Fremont,” Oz replied good-naturedly. “No great damage has been done. Although, if you’d be so kind as to inform the lady in room twenty-three that I’m unable to meet her tonight, I’d appreciate it. Tell her that a business matter of some importance has delayed me.”

“Naturally, sir, as you wish, sir.” Relieved he wouldn’t meet with the baron’s wrath, the proprietor deferentially added, “Would you like me to express your regrets to the lady?”