One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,19
it if you said nothing more of the book. Now, regarding Dulsworthy’s house,” he prompted.
“Oh, yes. Right. I do occasionally call on him at his home, on matters of business. We share the guardianship of my sons, you see.”
“During such a call, would you be a liberty to explore—?”
She cut him off with a shake of her head. “He would consider that highly improper.”
Understandably, Major Stanhope’s—Magpie’s—concern for the fate of the book was no ordinary concern. But how could she possibly poke around in George’s house?
Realizing she had balled her gloves in her hands, she smoothed them over one palm, soothing herself by stroking the pliant leather. The answer to her quandary lay upstairs in the drawer of her writing desk—unless Mama had got to it already.
“Tomorrow night he is giving a ball.” In my honor, if the gossips are to be believed. “He’s been quite beside himself with preparations. Doubtless that’s the reason he forgot to return the—ah, the item. I’ll be going, of course,” she added after a brief pause, although she’d been trying for days to concoct an excuse to avoid it. “I can try to slip away and look then.”
“A ball,” Major Stanhope repeated, and his eyes narrowed, as if he were performing some complicated calculation—or trying to see something beyond the range of his vision. “Interesting. I’ll try to find a way to get inside, take advantage of the bustle to look around.”
An unexpected wave of disappointment crashed in her chest. Was this to be the end of her adventure? “I can do the looking,” she offered.
“No. I don’t want you to take an unnecessary risk.”
“Any right-thinking Englishwoman in times like these would surely be prepared to take risks, Major Stanhope. Or—or should I call you Magpie? It’s kind of exciting, isn’t it?”
His features settled into something closer to a scowl of disgust. “Lady Kingston, you don’t know what you’re saying. You haven’t the first idea of the danger involved—”
“No,” she agreed. “I suppose I don’t. What happened to the man who made me drop the—the item?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
His expression was inscrutable. “Can’t, or won’t?”
“I don’t know what became of him,” he said after a moment and with obvious reluctance. “He hasn’t been heard from since.”
A hard lump rose in her throat, which she at first struggled to speak past. “I—I’m sorry to hear that.” Then she thrust her chin forward. “But now you can’t say I don’t know the risks. And I still want to help, Major Stanhope. I want to do something.” His expression didn’t budget. “Please. You haven’t the first idea how dull my life is.”
It was an incredibly foolish, childish thing to say, the sort of excuse Philip would give for rule-breaking, for scrambling up one of the tall trees in the square when his grandmother wasn’t looking.
Mind your step.
Nevertheless, it drew a sort of half smile from Major Stanhope, along with a shake of his head. “And it’s my job to see it stays that way. I won’t involve a civilian. Particularly not a lady.”
“I know my way around the house,” she reminded him. “You don’t.”
He appeared to weigh those words for a moment before shaking his head again. His gaze traveled to the door through which the boys had disappeared. “You’d best go inside before your family misses you.”
For once in her life, she did not swallow her sigh of resignation as she turned toward the house. She had gone only a few steps when he spoke low.
“’Til tomorrow night, Lady Kingston. Don’t look for me. I’ll find you.”
Excitement surged through her, like flames roaring up a chimney. “Really?” She spun back to face him.
But he had already disappeared.
As soon as she entered the house, she accosted the first servant to cross her path. “My mother—where is she?”
The young woman, a kitchen maid holding a pair of heavy shears, evidently sent up from below to fetch some herbs from the garden, goggled for a moment at being addressed thus, and then shook her head.
Abashed at having frightened the girl, Amanda gave her an apologetic smile before hurrying on her way. Finding the library door open, she poked her head inside and found Mr. Matthews, the butler, directing Lewis, who was perched on a ladder, removing books from a high shelf so that the parlor maid could dust them. Motes twinkled in the sunshine streaming through the tall, street-facing windows.
“Have you seen my mother, Mr. Matthews?” Amanda asked, more mindful of her tone this time and reining in