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“Good for her.” Georgiana gave a nod of satisfaction as she stood up. “Aren’t you coming to bed?”
Sylvia shook her head, too restless to sleep. “Not yet. I’m going to the library to pick a new book to start tomorrow.”
“All right. Maybe one with a little more romance this time?”
Sylvia grinned. “Excellent idea.”
“Make sure to take a candle,” Georgiana reminded her. “It’s horribly dim out there.”
Mr. Wardale had plans to add electric light to the castle eventually, but until then it was candlesticks and oil lamps. They said their good nights, and Sylvia exited the suite. Georgiana was right. The low flicker of wall sconces provided some light but not much. Sylvia held her candleholder up as she walked down the hall, feeling rather like a Gothic heroine in one of Mrs. Crawford’s novels. A chill ran down her spine as the floor suddenly groaned beneath her feet. She had heard guests whisper about the castle being haunted. It was the usual tale about a lonely young woman, the beautiful eldest daughter of a long-dead baron, who had been abandoned by her lover, a Scottish ruffian, and now roamed the grounds for all eternity, searching for him.
In other words, absolute drivel.
But as she continued down the hall, the chill turned into a different sensation. Almost as if she were being watched. Sylvia paused and glanced down the hallway that led to the other guest rooms. Including the one occupied by Mr. Davies. The hour wasn’t so late for a man like him. He might not be abed yet.
Or he might not be alone.
Sylvia’s jaw tightened, and she hurried in the opposite direction. The uneasy feeling dissipated the farther away she moved, and by the time she reached the library, her head was swimming with unwanted questions about a certain guest’s nocturnal activities. She took a moment to gather herself before pushing open the door and stepping into the room.
Then she got her answer.
“Well, good evening, Miss Sparrow,” said the man himself, who was lounging in a chair and—most shocking of all—wearing a pair of adorably unfashionable wire-rimmed spectacles. “Fancy meeting you here.”
***
Miss Sparrow flushed quite prettily at his greeting, which shouldn’t have pleased Rafe so much. Then her wide gray eyes assessed the situation before her. Continue into the room or turn back? A cautious young lady would turn around without a word, but Rafe had a feeling about Miss Sparrow.
She then lifted her chin and stepped toward him. “Yes. Hello, Mr. Davies.”
Rafe’s smile grew despite her flat tone. By God, she was game. As he removed his spectacles and tucked them in his breast pocket, he could have sworn a strange look of disappointment flashed across her face. But it must have been a trick of the light. Then he closed the book he had been reading and set it on the chair as he stood. Her eyes immediately skimmed over the cover.
“The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire?”
She didn’t even try to hide her surprise. Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Even rogues like to know a bit of history.”
She blushed again. “My apologies. And please, don’t let me interrupt your reading.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “I welcome the intrusion.”
She didn’t respond and instead moved toward a shelf that took up nearly the whole length of the room and began to diligently scan a row of book spines. Rafe stepped closer until the faint smell of lavender soap filled the air between them. “Looking for something in particular?”
“Mrs. Crawford enjoys penny dreadfuls,” she replied, still keeping her eyes firmly on the shelves. “The more macabre, the better. I’ve been readingThe Mystery of the Red Monkto her.”
Rafe chuckled. “A classic of the genre.” And, from what he remembered, rather salacious. He liked the old lioness even more. “You probably won’t find anything over here, though, unless you want to read about the natural sciences.”
Miss Sparrow paused in her inspection and frowned. “Oh. Right.”
“Come.” Rafe gestured for her to follow as he led her deeper into the cavernous library. There was a long silence before he could hear her light steps as she moved to catch up. Rafe turned on his heel and swept a hand toward a much larger section of books. “I believe this is where the popular literature is kept.”
Miss Sparrow cast him a glance as she walked past him. “Thank you,” she said primly.
Rafe stood a few steps behind her and watched as she resumed her search. He should return to his book. She hadn’t asked for his help, or pretended to be confused by something commonplace, or used any of the other brazenly transparent reasons women typically employed to keep his attention. No, Miss Sparrow studiously ignored him. And Rafe liked her all the more for it.
“Have you read this?”
As he reached over her left shoulder, Miss Sparrow’s sharp inhalation threaded through him. He bit his inner cheek and pulled a book out from the shelf right above her head.
She looked down at the cover as he held it out to her, giving him an excellent view of her profile. “No.”
