Dicing with the Dangerous Lord - By Margaret McPhee Page 0,62
his. He clenched his jaw so tight that it was painful and escaped to the drawing room, but the picture on the wall was not straight. And beneath was the safe box and all that she had seen within it, exposing the secrets of his heart for her to trample upon. He wondered bitterly that she had not told Clandon about that as well as everything else. He straightened the picture, as if by so doing he could wipe away her touch from it, and let his gaze drift to the bookcase. He stood there like that for a minute, feeling more alone, more hurt, more angry than he had ever felt in his life, which was ridiculous given all that had happened between his family and Rotherham. Then he reached out and rang the bell.
‘Change the bedding, every last bit of it. Air the bedchamber and this one, too, anywhere that she waited. Leave no trace that Miss Fox was ever here.’ He showed nothing of emotion on his face, just his usual deadpan serious expression. Then he took up his walking cane and walked out into the clear autumn day. He needed to think. About Venetia. About where the game went from here.
* * *
‘Lord Linwood called for you, ma’am. I told him you had gone to the theatre.’ Albert hesitated. ‘I hope I did not do wrong in divulging such information. He was most anxious to see you and given that it was him...’ The elderly butler cleared his throat and looked embarrassed.
‘Did he say when he would return?’
‘He did not, ma’am.’
All through the day she expected him to call. She waited for his note. Waited for the sound of his carriage wheels, of his horse, of the brass knocker striking against the plate of her door. But there was nothing. And as the day wore on the joy in her heart faded a little and in its place grew a feeling of unease and disquiet. Even if he had not seen the blood, even if he did not know, she had thought he would have been as anxious to see her as she was to see him. She forced herself to read her script, to focus on her preparations for the opening performance of Rosina tonight. But amidst all the excitement and nervousness that an opening night entailed, the worry over Linwood throbbed like a dull ache.
* * *
He finally arrived ten minutes before she was due to leave for the theatre. She was in the parlour, trying to compose herself for the performance ahead when her butler showed him through.
‘Francis.’ She smiled and went to him, feeling her heart sigh with relief to see him. ‘Your timing is terrible. I must leave shortly for—’ And then she saw his face, and she knew without him uttering a single word that everything had changed. She stopped in her tracks.
‘Francis?’
‘You were not honest with me, Venetia.’ Both his voice and expression were as closed and controlled as the first night they had met.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I should have told you that I was a virgin.’
His mood was sombre, angry, nothing of what she had expected.
‘That, as well,’ he said.
Everything seemed to catch in that moment. Her heart, her breath, everything in the world all around her. Everything holding still, everything frozen with a sudden dread while she turned her eyes slowly to his.
‘You were gone when I awoke,’ he said.
‘For the sake of discretion. I thought I would see you today. That we would talk.’
‘And then I found your blood on my sheets.’
She swallowed and said nothing.
‘I came here and learned you had gone to the theatre. I was desperate to see you. Desperate to know that I had not hurt you.’ He gave a mocking laugh and shook his head. ‘I went to the theatre. To the stage door...just as you had told me.’
She closed her eyes, knowing what was coming and needing to hear it just the same. Her heart felt heavy, pounding each beat with the same dread that was seeping like ice through her blood.
‘When I came to your dressing room I heard a man’s voice from within—Robert Clandon’s voice.’
She pressed her fingers to her forehead. Lord, no! Please, no!
‘The nature of your conversation stayed my hand upon the door, Venetia.’
She took a shaky breath, knowing that she had to face this head-on, that she could not shy from it. ‘How much did you overhear?’