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Rhys shoved his chair back and traipsed to Hugh at the far end of the table, just as Morgan brought in the decanters.
“You seem a smattering out of sorts, Rhys,” declared Hugh, leaning back. “Is all well?”
“I need a favour of you.”
“Depends. Murder or just a beating?”
“What? No.” Rhys shook his head. “I intend to disappear for a while and if I don’t return, can you…cover for me with the ladies in the drawing room.”
“Hmm, what could I tell them, I wonder?” Hugh scratched his chin, a distinct smirk to his lips.
Rhys folded his arms… “I’m sure you’ll come up with a suitable yarn.” And cast his prime ducal glare – the one that could reduce even the Prince Regent to a stammer.
His heir solely grinned and held his palms up. “Pax. I’ll think of something. Off you go then,” he said, shooing him away.
Despite a strong sense of foreboding as to what Hugh would come up with, Rhys clapped him on the back in gratitude and departed for the hallway, heard the ladies chatting through the open door of the drawing room and so made for the servants’ stairs at the far end.
The second-floor landing held many a lit sconce but he paused to light a fresh candlestick in case Miss Beaujeu’s chamber still lay in darkness.
Was he being ridiculous to worry? And he hesitated before the governess’ door. His mother had hated to be disturbed during a megrim, just wishing to sleep.
He procrastinated.
And he never procrastinated.
Was perpetually in control and knew his own actions.
Hence he softly knocked.
No response.
He knocked once more before cautiously opening the door. “Miss Beaujeu? It’s Aberdare. I thought to ask if you needed anything?”
Not a sound.
And worry seared him.
He held the candlestick aloft and…
Letting his eyes adjust to the deep shadows, he first noted a pile of gowns haphazardly heaped on a chair – unusual as he considered her so neat.
A book rested on the desk, the pages torn out, scattered to the floor like fallen leaves.
He prowled in; the room felt chill and–
“Leave me be,” demanded a weak voice from the bed.
Perchance he would have obliged, but the crunch of glass underfoot put paid to any such thought, so instead he shut the door gently behind him and crossed to the dying fire, placing the candlestick to the mantel.
Prodding at the ash with the poker, he noticed the base still glowed, so added a few splinters of kindling and as they caught, laid on a few short oak logs.
Feeling more in control, he skirted the glass and lit one sconce, aware that more would pain her if she had the megrims.
He hadn’t been in this room for an age but was pleased to find it agreeable – not overly furnished but comfortable with a few rugs around for warmth. As he tilted his flame, a glint of silver caught his eye on the rug, so he placed the candlestick down and lowered a hand to–
“Don’t touch that,” said the voice from the bed.
Frowning, he bent to it instead.
