Page 31 of A Scoundrel in the Making

Chapter Nine

They were forced to leave Mr. Russell’s chambers through the secret passageway, in order to return the torch they’d used to the dungeon. They reached the great hall, then the second floor without encountering anyone. There, however, in the hallway, a man emerged from a room four doors down.

“Mr. Wilson, if I’m not mistaken, and that is Lady Jane’s room he’s exiting,” Abigail whispered.

Mr. Wilson glanced back at them, but his face remained in shadow in the dimly lit hallway. He turned around and hurried away from them.

“House parties are typically nothing more than an opportunity for clandestine trysts,” Reade said.

“A perfect setting for a scoundrel such as yourself, sir.”

He looked down at her. “But of course.” The sensual note in his voice sent a shiver down her back.

Who would he be visiting once he escorted her safely to her chambers? Certainly not Lady Julia, if he had any brains, and he had brains. She hadn’t observed him flirting with any other women. But then, they’d only just arrived today. Two weeks remained for him to make other conquests. Why did the idea bother her? Because, like most of his conquests, she was a fool.

They hurried down the long hallway, around a turn, and reached her chambers. Would he concoct a ruse in order to get into her bed chambers? Was she on his list of future conquests? What would she do if he kissed her again? She hadn’t forgotten their kiss in the hallway. That had been a ruse to keep Mr. Chaluim and his companion from knowing that they’d overheard their conversation. What would it be like if he kissed her because he truly wanted to?

“I will see you at breakfast, my lady,” he said. “Sleep well.” Without another word, he turned and began walking down the hallway.

Disappointment bubbled up. What was wrong with her? She should be glad he had enough restraint not to try to bed a woman with whom he worked. This showed great character on his part. She respected a man who took as serious a mission to aid Scotland. But that only meant she’d be spending another night alone.

Abigail entered her room and closed the door. She leaned back against the wood. When had she become lonely? In Paris ballrooms she’d had no time to think. Was that the answer? No time to think? Her gaze caught on the man’s coat and cravat that lay over the back of the wing backed chair to the left of the small table in front of the fire. Abigail straightened from the door. A man sat in the other wing backed chair to the right of the table. She could see only his head above the chair back and the shirt clad arm that rested on the armrest.

“I thought perhaps you’d decided to spend the evening in another room.”

She recognized that voice.

Lord Chaluim.

Under any other circumstances, this would be the perfect opportunity to try to get information from him. But Abigail felt certain he was not in an information sharing mood.

“May I ask what you’re doing in my room, sir?”

“I cannot tell you how long I have dreamed of meeting you like this.” He remained seated in his chair.

“And here you are,” she said.

He released an audible sigh. “I thought you were a woman of sense and propriety.”

The calmness in his voice unnerved her.

“I assume you no longer feel that way.”

“A woman who makes love to a man in a public hallway isn’t a woman of sense or propriety.” He rose and faced her.

The first three buttons on his shirt were undone. He had certainly made himself at home. When a man took such liberties in a lady’s bedchambers it seldom boded well for the lady.

“Not to mention, being caught in a man’s private washroom with another man,” he said.

“I am sorry to have disappointed you,” she said. “Surely you understand I am not a maiden, but a widow.”

“Who has spent much time in France, I hear.”

She understood perfectly his line of thinking.

“Perhaps it would be better if we spoke tomorrow, sir.”

“Speaking is not your best suit, my lady.”