One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,45

her sons—and supplied it. “Mary, sir.”

“Thank you, Mary. I’m Stanhope.”

“Shall I bring you some hot water, Mr. Stanhope?” Once more, the maid’s gaze raked over him, this time openly appreciative. “You might like to freshen up.”

“That would be most welcome, Mary. And I had a valise with me when I entered the house.”

With a smile, she was gone, appearing perhaps half an hour later with the requisite items, having made shift in the meantime to freshen up herself, he noted. He refused her offer to unpack his scant few items of clothing and began to think he would be obliged to refuse an as-yet-unspoken offer to help him strip off his shirt and wash, when a woman’s voice called up the open stairwell. “Lud, that’s Mrs. Hepplewythe,” Mary gasped. From the dossier, he recognized that name as belong to the housekeeper. The maid hurried off to her work.

The remaining hours of the afternoon passed with restless languor, as he paced the schoolroom, wondering what went on below and when he might have an opportunity to sort matters with Lady Kingston and begin his real work here. Dinner was brought on a tray by a footman he didn’t recognize and who was not inclined to converse. An hour or so later, the boys trudged upstairs, their expressions still a mixture of curiosity and resentment. After dutifully mumbling their goodnights, they disappeared into their room to make themselves ready for bed.

He pretended to do the same, though the hour was ridiculously early for a grown man to retire for the night. Twilight had only just fallen. He was exhausted, though—could hardly recall a time when he had not been. Waiting, doing nothing, was frequently the most fatiguing mission of all. He plucked off his spectacles and laid them on the washstand. Perhaps he would just stretch out on the cool, crisp linens for a few moments…

All was dark when he awoke. Night had fallen while he slept, but the usual coolness had not accompanied it. The air of the little room was heavy. His shirt was once more damp with sweat.

He pushed to his feet, stretched away the familiar stiffness of sleeping on a sagging rope bed, splashed tepid water on his face, and scrubbed his palms over a day’s growth of beard.

The window over the washstand still stood wide open, though it brought no relief. He peered out through the doubled layers of rippled glass, the lower sash pushed up over the upper. Rather like exploring the world through the wrong end of a spyglass. In the distance, lightning streaked the sky. But below, far below, wasn’t that…?

He fumbled for his spectacles, tucked them over his ears, and looked again. Yes. His modest quarters overlooked the back of the house. And despite the rapidly approaching storm, Amanda—Lady Kingston—was in the garden, pacing along the flagstone path. Anxious? Sleepless again?

What he had to tell her would not help to set her mind at ease.

But he could not deny this was the opportunity for private conversation he’d been waiting for.

Hoping his movement did not alert the boys, that the hinges did not squeak nor the floor creak, he crept from his chamber, across the schoolroom, and down the stairs.

* * * *

Having reached the point in her well-worn path where the broken gate impeded further progress, Amanda paused, tempted to grab the bars and rattle them like a caged creature.

When the poor things in menageries behaved so, were they frightened? Or frustrated? Or angry?

A combination of all three, if her current mood was anything to go by.

After a deep, steadying breath, she turned back toward the house and discovered Major Stanhope standing in the morning room, watching her pace. The discovery did not improve her wild mood one jot.

She quickened her step back toward the house, just as he opened the door and trotted down the steps. A half-dozen long strides from each of them brought them toe to toe in the middle of the garden, where the perfume of roses was strongest.

“My lady,” he began, all politeness and propriety, as if they were not meeting in the darkness for the third time—or the fourth? Heavens, she’d lost track—and he clad only in his shirtsleeves.

His cravat had worked loose, revealing the notch at the base of his throat and a hint of dark hair on his chest. The sight of it, much like the sight of his spectacles earlier, made something strange happen inside her. Sent a rush of sudden warmth to her