Free A Difficult Disguise by Kasey Michaels Page B

sir, do you truly believe it warrants our spilling our respective claret in the innyard?”
    “I most certainly do,” Whittington blustered hotly, if not quite so hotly as he had before Fletcher had brought up the subject of bloodshed. “Now, who are you? I am James Smith, sir, and I insist you answer my challenge.”
    “Smith, you say?” Fletcher repeated quietly, as if thinking aloud. “There must be an epidemic of Smiths this year in the Lake District. Perhaps this past winter was too mild to kill them all off. No matter. I bid you good evening, Mr. Smith.” Fletcher walked to the bottom of the bed, knowing that his face was now visible in the candlelight, watching as James Whittington’s bulbous blue eyes widened in sudden recognition... and fright.
    Beatrice, who had been cowering beneath the sheets, chose that moment to peek out, wide-eyed, from behind her woefully inadequate disguise.
    Fletcher casually looked in the barmaid’s direction, bowed low, and inquired silkily, “Ah, and you must be the ever so lovely Mrs. Smith, I presume? Smith, my compliments, sir. Your wife is most lovely—and such a perfect match for you.”
    As Billy choked on relieved laughter, her own tension eased, Fletcher spoke again. “Smith, I remain your servant, and I can only hope you might reconsider what you are suggesting, not that I should be so cowardly as to run off, you understand, if you were to remain adamant, but you do have Mrs. Smith here to consider, as well as all the little Smiths. Please feel free to call on me in the morning if you truly wish to renew your challenge. The name is Jones, by the by, Fletcher Jones. There seems to be a rash of ordinary names in the region, doesn’t there? Ah, well, ta-ta for now. I shouldn’t want you to keep Mrs. Smith waiting.”
    James Whittington “Smith,” who was in the midst of babbling nearly unintelligible apologies for having overreacted to a simple error, “Ha-ha, such a silly business, and a mistake that anyone could make, don’t you know,” didn’t call Fletcher back.
    Once the door to the room was closed behind them, Fletcher looked down at Billy and said, “Let that be a lesson to you, Billy.”
    “Never open a door without knocking, sir?” Billy asked cheekily, grinning, for the sight of the occupants of the bed had been more amusing than sordid.
    “No,” Fletcher answered, thoughtfully picking up his own pack and heading down the hallway.
    “Never believe a barmaid named Beatrice when she says she knows how to give very good service?” Billy persisted, skipping along behind him.
    Fletcher peered at the number on the next door, satisfying himself that this time he had chosen the correct one, and placed a hand on the knob.
    “No, again, Billy,” he corrected without rancor. “The lesson is this: when trying to hoax somebody, never give the sadly uninspired name of Smith. It is entirely too obvious, which is what got you into trouble with me in the first place. And just think: if I had believed the lie you told me, you might even now have been trying to explain away a possible relationship to that unimaginative buffoon.”
    Billy couldn’t help herself. The events of the past few minutes had been too delicious for Fletcher to possibly spoil the moment for her. She walked into the room, dropped her blanket roll on the floor, and collapsed into a chair, laughing until her sides ached. “Did you see his face? It was purple,” she exclaimed, wiping her streaming eyes. “When he finally recognized you, he all but groveled on the floor, which I will be endlessly grateful he did not do, for he was fast losing his fight with Beatrice for the sheet, and we had already seen more of the man than anyone should. It must be above everything wonderful to be so feared, Mr. Jones.”
    Stepping over his groom’s outstretched legs, Fletcher picked up a sulphur match and tinderbox in order to light a small brace of candles. “Yes, I suppose it is, now that you mention