Page 79 of Love and the Shameless Lady

“When you’re ready to trust me, let me know. Lock the door behind me.” He bowed, a curt, distant sort of gesture, and left.

Then immediately returned. She hadn’t moved. “Didn’t I say to lock the door?” he demanded.

“I will, not that I am in any way obliged to obey you. Why did you come back?”

“To tell you that my things have been moved to the bedchamber next door, since supposedly we are married.” He sounded disgusted, and no wonder. She wasn’t even worth bedding, while he, because of a chivalrous impulse, was burdened with their false marriage. Well, he would just have to declare his ‘wife’ dead.

“I’ll be there if you need me.” He left again, and this time he didn’t return.

She locked the door behind him, undressed, and went to bed. Luckily, she was used to taking care of herself. The last thing she wanted, in this frame of mind, was to ring for a maid. She crawled under the coverlet and curled into a miserable little ball.

She couldn’t sleep. She heard Melinda come up to feed the baby. A while later, voices drifted from the landing. Miles and the marquis, she thought. Footsteps sounded—some loud, undoubtedly Lord Hythwick’s, and the stealthier ones of servants. The house grew quiet, and still she tossed and turned. Her mind went round and round, from her own misery to the fact that she’d more or less fallen in love with Julian.

Maybe it was only infatuation. He was kind and attractive and understanding, while she was vulnerable. As a Warren, she should know better than to delude herself about love. And yet, she liked him so very much, felt so safe and comfortable with him. How horrid of her to cause him unhappiness in return.

Lord knew she didn’t want hurt him. Perhaps . . . perhaps she should just go ahead and trust him with her sad, sordid little story. She didn’t think he would blabber it about. In that sense, she did trust him, and he would be relieved not to have to marry her. She would talk to him in the morning.

That decision made, she decided to stop thinking about it for fear she would change her mind. Instead, she concentrated on the thefts and how they could possibly be related to her story. She must solve the mystery quickly, not only for her own sake, but for that of the collectors who had lost or would soon lose their prized possessions . . .

Well, she could do something about that. To hell with her stupid reputation. If telling the authorities meant revealing her authorship, she would do so. The Warren family was burdened with so many scandals that one more would scarcely matter. In the morning, she would go straight to Miles, and—

It struck her all at once. True, they weren’t in Manchester, the site of the next theft, but they weren’t far away. If Melton Mowbray was close enough to Leicester, Garrison House was certainly near enough to Manchester. And the next charm was a queen, the most powerful player in a game of chess. What if the object of the next theft was indeed Miles’s Spanish set, one of his favorite possessions?

She could do something about that.

She got out of bed, lit a candle, pulled on a wrapper, then slid her feet into a pair of slippers. At the door, she hesitated. Truly, there was no danger. The likelihood remained low that the thief knew where she might be, and in any case, a footman patrolled the house. She’d forgotten to get powder and shot for her pistol, but . . . So why not take a knife? She was used to being armed. She felt more comfortable that way. She strung a ribbon through the loop on the sheath that held her knife and tied it around her waist, under the nightdress.

She picked up the candle and peeked into the dark passageway. All was quiet and still. She shut the door softly behind her and crept toward the stairs. The old boards creaked beneath her feet.

She paused at the top of the staircase, listening hard. No sound but her own breathing . . . Leaning on the bannister to take some of her weight off the treads, she made her way slowly down.

The Great Hall was a pool of silent shadows. She shivered, feeling watched by invisible eyes, but passed that off as a case of nerves. She had nothing to fear here in her cousin’s house. In fact, the footman was close by. The beam of a lantern and slow, measured footsteps heralded his approach.

She didn’t want to encounter him, so she crossed hurriedly to the drawing room and pushed the door almost shut. The chess set remained on its board, the pieces ready for a new game. She set the pieces aside, turned the board over, and stowed the pieces within it, then shut it. The click as she latched it sounded sharp and loud in the stillness. She could no longer hear the footman’s steps. She blew out the candle and eased the drawing room door open. Across the Great Hall, the footman mounted the carpeted staircase. How thorough of Miles to have the man patrol upstairs, too.

She tiptoed quickly forward, comforted to know that the way back to her bedchamber was entirely safe. Halfway across to the stairs, she heard a moan.

She stopped. Listened hard. There it was again, faint but distinct. Heart thudding now, she crept in what she judged to be the direction of the moan . . . Near the doorway to the servants’ quarters at the rear of the house . . .

A man lay curled up before the door. He wore no coat or breeches, only a shirt. She set down the chess set, held up the candle, and turned him a little. She recognized him. Gerald, one of Miles’s footmen. He must be the one on watch.

In which case, who had just climbed the stairs?

What was that dark blotch on his head? It was sticky, oh heavens, that was blood, but he was breathing, and he didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore. Someone had hit him over the head and taken his clothing.

And had now gone upstairs.

She had to get Julian. And Miles. Get them both, get them now. But she dared not go up after the intruder. She must wake Reams and another footman. She stood to go through the door to the servants’ quarters.

A shape leapt from the shadows, arms tightened about her from behind, and the candle clattered to the floor and went out. She opened her mouth to shriek, and a hard hand clamped over it.

“Hush!” her captor whispered. “It is I, Philippe de Bellechasse. You are in grave danger.” He removed his hand. “Come quickly. You must hide.”

Oh, thank God, it was only the marquis. He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the billiard room, and she came willy-nilly. They went through the French doors and hurried along the path through the rose garden. “Where are you taking me?”

“To a safe place. It is a pity you allied yourself with Sir Julian. He plays his part well, the quiet, scholarly gentleman, but he is not what he seems.”

What was Philippe talking about? What did he mean?

“Make haste! We must get you out of sight quickly.” He well-nigh dragged her to the summerhouse, letting go only when they were inside with the door shut. “You will be safe here.” Light from the full moon penetrated the windows. He moved the easel and chair aside and pulled the rug away from the trapdoor that led to the room below, with its Roman mosaic floor.

Astonished, she stared at him. “How did you know where the trapdoor is?”

“I have been here before,” he said. “Come, I will need your help.”

“With what?” She came to stand next to him as he lifted the trapdoor and set it gently down.

“Now, I must apologize.” He grabbed her hands and swung her over the opening in the floor. Too late, she struggled. He lowered her, kicking, through the hole and let go.

She landed with a thump, one ankle askew. “Ow!”

“I am sorry if you are hurt,” the marquis said. “It was never my intention to harm you. But you are a woman of courage. A little darkness will not daunt you. When it is safe again, I shall return to fetch you.”

The trap door clanged shut, leaving her in darkness and silence.