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They opened the doors to the library together. Hughe Camden scrambled to his feet from the floor as if he had been stung. Blanche Middleton, on the other hand, remained lying where she was, in a tangle of silks and taffeta, revealing a great deal more shapely feminine leg than Smythe had ever
seen before, and looking up at them with insolent amusement.
“Uh… we were… uh… just talking and… uh… the lady fell,” said Camden, hastily, his face beet red. “Aye, she fell… that is to say… she swooned, doubtless from the strain of all tonight’s events…”
“No doubt,” said Shakespeare, with a perfectly straight face. “With all of the activity tonight, it must have been quite a strain for her.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” said Camden, hastily, regaining some of his composure. “I was merely trying to help her up, you see, and I misjudged her weight…”
“I beg your pardon!” Blanche said, from the floor.
“That is to say, the angle, you see, I misjudged the angle, and we both fell, and so now…”
“Now you are back up again,” said Shakespeare.
“Um, precisely. Well. Well, then.” He turned back to Blanche and bent over slightly, holding out his hand to help her up. “Milady…”
She simply gazed up at him, wide-eyed, saying nothing. She made no move to take his hand. “Perhaps these two gentlemen could assist me,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I am sure that between the two of them, they could certainly manage the weight.”
Camden straightened up and cleared his throat, awkwardly. “Ah, well, to be sure, if milady would prefer…” He bit his lower lip, flustered, searching for the proper exit line. “Well, uh…”
Blanche saved him, after a fashion. “Thank you, Master Camden, for your concern and your attentions.”
“My pleasure, milady. Uh… that is to say… you are most welcome. Most welcome, indeed.” He cleared his throat once more. “Gentlemen…”
Shakespeare gave him a small bow and Smythe followed his example. Camden made haste to leave the room.
“I think perhaps I should go after him,” said Shakespeare, “and see if he has heard the news.”
“Aye, perhaps you should,” said Smythe. “I shall be along shortly.”
“No hurry,” Shakespeare said, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows. He turned and left the room.
“May I assist you, milady?” Smythe said, offering his hand to Blanche, trying not to be distracted by the fetching sight of all that leg.
“Thank you, good sir,” she said, taking his hand. He gently helped her to her feet and she quickly readjusted her clothing, brushing herself off. “I am really not sure what came over me,” she said. “I suddenly felt so faint, I must indeed have swooned.”
“It must have been a very trying day for you, milady. You should get some rest.”
“I think you are right,” she replied. “If you would be so kind as to lend me your arm and escort me up the stairs? I fear that I might swoon again and lose my footing.”
“Of course,” said Smythe. He offered her his arm. “Tuck Smythe, milady, at your service.”
She took his arm, her fingertips resting lightly on the back of his hand. She smiled at him as they left the library and headed towards the stairs. The hall was deserted now and quiet.
“What news was your friend speaking of just now?” she asked, as they approached the stairway.
“Oh, uh… well, perhaps now is not the time,” said Smythe. “You are unwell and perhaps tomorrow would be better.”
“I want to know,” she said, as they began to climb the stairs.
“Milady, truly, I would not wish to disturb you.”
“Is it disturbing news then?” she asked, her eyes wide. “You have to tell me now. I insist. I could not sleep without knowing. I would stay awake all night and wonder.”
They had reached the landing. “There has been another murder,” Smythe said.
She stopped and gasped. “No! Who?”
