The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,14
Sir Seymour out.”
“I am right here, and I do not like this conversation,” Sir Seymour said staunchly.
“It seems you don’t like much of anything right now.” A frosty note emanated through Niles’s voice.
“That’s true.” Sir Seymour whirled around and faced Colin again. “You stole from me.”
“Nonsense,” Niles said. “The duke has plenty of money. That is an absurd accusation.”
“I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about papers.”
Niles’s already pale face turned a whiter shade, as if this were February, and it had been even more months since Niles’s complexion had properly seen the sun.
“My valet told me you were in the house last Friday. And you weren’t at the ball.” He glanced at Niles. “I find that suspicious.”
Niles gave a nervous laugh but tiptoed away from Sir Seymour. His gaze was focused on the floorboards.
And Colin knew.
He knew Niles must have told someone Colin had visited Sir Seymour’s house. Damnation. Colin knew servants of the ton were often friends of other servants of the ton. Servants would never knowingly tell a scandal, at least not trusted ones like Niles, but perhaps Niles had only thought Colin’s visit a curiosity and had mentioned it in innocence.
“You have to leave, Sir Seymour,” Colin said sternly.
“Nonsense. I have to find those papers. I need them.”
“I won’t give them to you.”
“Then they’re here.” Triumph gleamed through Sir Seymour’s eyes, as if he were an explorer who’d happened upon a new section of the Americas.
Colin glanced at Niles. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to toss him out.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Colin pushed Sir Seymour from the room and escorted him downstairs.
“Open the door, Niles,” Colin said.
Niles rushed to the door, and in the next moment, Colin pushed Sir Seymour out.
“I’ll come back,” Sir Seymour shouted. “You’ll see. If you could break into my house, I can break into yours.”
“They’re not here.” Colin forced his voice to be firm.
Sir Seymour assessed him, then broke into a wide smile. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” Colin lied.
“No, I can always tell a liar,” Sir Seymour said.
“You probably have experience staring in the mirror while you lie,” Niles muttered.
“Excuse me?” Sir Seymour jerked his head toward Niles.
“N-nothing,” Niles said.
“That’s a lie too,” Sir Seymour shouted. “See? I can tell.”
Colin shut the door and locked it quickly.
Niles shifted his feet over the marble floor. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’m afraid I mentioned where you were—”
“It’s my fault,” Colin said. “I didn’t tell you not to do so. I—er—didn’t want you to be involved in this.”
Niles nodded.
Colin scratched his head. “But he’s right about those papers. I do have them here.”
“Then might I suggest taking them somewhere else?”
“I need to give them to Sandridge,” Colin said.
“In Cornwall?” Niles swallowed hard.
“We’ll go by water,” Colin said. “It will be quicker than taking a coach.”
“Very well, Your Grace. Then I shall pack.”
“But be quick about it. I want us on the next ship.”
NERVOUSNESS THRUMMED through Portia. She was going to be married. Daisy had arranged a ticket for her onboard The Empress, and she would be in Guernsey in two days. She pulled her trunk from the wardrobe and set it on the bed. She opened the clasps, conscious she would need to pack lightly, despite the ample space available in the trunk, if she wanted to carry the trunk outside with sufficient speed.
This was Jonesie’s and Cranston’s half day, and Portia trusted her guardian would confine himself to his library as customary, perusing tomes and scoffing that the rest of the world didn’t devote equal time to the contemplation of culture and classics.
Portia marched to her wardrobe and stared at her clothes.
“Why is your trunk out?” Jonesie’s voice startled her.
Portia turned around hastily, hoping her guilty conscience had simply created Jonesie’s voice.
But that was Jonesie.
Jonesie with her mouth open, and her blue eyes rounded.
“This is your half day,” Portia stammered. “What are you doing here?”
Jonesie shrugged. “It’s raining, and I finished my book.”
“Indeed?” Portia pushed her hand through her hair, despising how her fingers trembled. She forced herself to remain nonchalant and thought of lakes, the ones devoid of whirlpools, ice or monsters. “Would you like to borrow one of mine?”
Jonesie’s gaze remained focused on the trunk. “Why is your luggage on the bed?”
“I—er—simply wanted to see if I needed to buy a new one,” Portia lied, conscious her voice was wobbling rather too much. “Examine for wears and tears.”
“These trunks last decades,” Jonesie said sternly. “And you shouldn’t have it on the bed.”
“Oh?” Portia averted her gaze.
“It’s good I came back.” Jonesie marched