Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,24
anatomy was expecting something it wasn’t going to get.
He cursed low and with feeling.
And then he recalled his other problem. Penelope.
He strolled up the main staircase and along the corridor leading to his room.
A burst of hope fired off in his chest at the sight of a figure lurking outside his door. Blast. The figure was male and was trying Penelope’s door.
‘Going somewhere, Bannerby?’ he drawled.
The man shot upright. ‘God, man, don’t you ever sleep?’
Garth smiled a nasty smile. ‘Not when there are profligates like you around.’
Bannerby glanced at the door and back at Garth. ‘I was worried about her. I thought to ask her if her headache had improved.’
‘At four in the morning?’
‘Her maid wouldn’t let me in earlier.’
Garth’s gut stirred with foreboding. ‘Did she make an assignation with you, through her maid?’
The other man grinned. ‘Is that any of your business?’
Damn the woman. Damn him for not keeping a closer watch on her. Damn him for being distracted by the thieving Mrs Travenor, actually, when he should have been doing something about Mark’s wife. He reached out and tried the door handle. The door remained firmly locked.
A door further down the corridor opened. Modestly wrapped in a heavy robe, Mrs Travenor stepped into the passageway. ‘If you gentleman don’t mind, some of us are trying to sleep.’
He almost laughed at her brazenness. He bowed instead. ‘Our apologies, Mrs Travenor.’
Her gaze dropped to his hand still on the doorknob. ‘As I understand it, Lady Smythe is not receiving at the moment. She is unwell.’
He wanted to curse. Instead he glared at his companion ‘That is also my understanding. Is it yours, Bannerby?’
The man shot him a glare and strode off down the corridor.
The light from the candle in the wall sconce caught the expression on Mrs Travenor’s face. Chagrin? She must have thought he and Bannerby were arguing over Lady Smythe.
He felt the urge to explain. Good God, he never explained himself to a female. Clearly, he was going to have to take swift action to get this one woman out of his blood. There was only one way to do break a woman’s hold. Get her into his bed. Once conquered, they lost their allure. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Travenor,’ he said silkily. ‘That is unless you wished to invite me in?’
She ducked back into her room and closed the door, a flimsy panelled block of wood transformed into castle wall, but the challenge lingered and they both knew it.
Something to look forward to on the morrow. He retreated to his chamber and poured a glass of brandy.
The next morning, Garth stood in the corridor, puzzling over the noises emanating from Penelope’s room. They sounded oddly hushed. His jaw tightened. Had she, despite his careful warding off of Bannerby, found a way to lure him into her bed?
He eyed the doorknob. Should he burst in and reveal her treachery once and for all? And if he did, would Mark believe him? His friend was remarkably obtuse when it came to his wife. And he used to be such a sensible chap.
The door opened. Garth prepared to confront the scoundrel.
Lil, Lady Smythe’s maid, stepped out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind her.
‘Lady Smythe not up yet?’ Garth asked.
Lil gasped, putting her hand to her chest. ‘You gave me a proper turn, my lord.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Got one of her headaches, she has. Started last night it did. Sometimes they last for days, they do. But this one don’t seem so bad.’
Really? Or was it a ruse? It wouldn’t be the first time she had faked one of her so-called headaches. It was how she had captured his friend. Sneaking out, when everyone thought she was ill in her bed, then getting caught so Mark had no choice but to do the right thing.
She had caught his friend in the parson’s mousetrap; Garth would be damned if she’d use the same trick to cuckold him. He pulled a silver shilling from his pocket and tossed it in the air.
Lil’s eyes followed the spinning coin.
‘I want the truth,’ he said sternly. ‘And this is yours. If you lie, I will know it and see you dismissed without a reference.’
The girl swallowed and pressed her hand to her heart. ‘I swear it, my lord. Couldn’t bear me drawing the curtains to let in the light, this morn. She’s always like that when the weather changes, poor little thing.’
The poor little thing had made mincemeat of his friend. ‘Are you sure?’