alone, he always chose this room. The walls were painted primrose, and two matching walnut bookcases stood on either side of the fireplace, the mellow wood glowing in the late afternoon sun. Small as it was, the room was dominated by a decadently plush chaise longue upholstered in antique gold damask. Several fat cushions in the same fabric were piled up at the head end.
It was rather like a throne.
Closing the door behind him, Kit gave a happy sigh and began unbuttoning his coat. Once he had it off, and had rolled up his shirtsleeves, he removed his boots, then padded over to one of the bookshelves in his stockinged feet, reaching for the plain wooden box sitting there—his writing slope.
Humming contentedly, Kit carried the box over to the chaise longue where he settled himself down, placing it on his lap. After fussing with the cushions, he leaned back to unlock the box. It opened out into a wedge shape, high at the back and sloping down to less than two inches in height at the front edge, a perfect elevation for writing or drawing. The slope itself was covered in tooled red leather, and there were several ink bottles stored in the cubby holes at the rear of the box. The writing implements were held in a small side drawer, and some of Kit’s notebooks were kept in the document compartment hidden beneath the slope.
Kit pulled out the topmost notebook and turned to the next clean page.
He was thinking about what to draw when the knock at the door came.
“Come in,” he called.
Tom popped his head round. “Your tea, sir,” he said in the lofty voice he used when he was making his best effort at being a footman.
“Excellent, Tom, bring it in.”
It was not, of course, only tea. Alongside the tea was a plate of toasted crumpets. Mrs. Saunders was incapable of sending a tray to Kit without adding something to eat.
Tom set the tray down and poured a cup for Kit, adding milk without waiting for Kit’s direction. He didn’t hand the tea over though. Instead he stood there, staring at Kit, a disapproving expression on his face.
Kit smiled at him. “You can leave the tea on the table. I can reach it from here.”
Tom frowned and pressed his lips together as though trying to keep himself from talking.
Kit raised his brow. “That will be all,” he said sweetly.
Tom closed his eyes and for a moment, Kit thought he was going to manage to stay silent, but then he opened them and blurted. “You’re going to get ink on that sofa and ink stains is worse than port wine to get out.” Then he turned on his heel and stalked out, muttering under his breath about idiots who didn’t know the first thing about cleaning furniture.
Kit watched him go, smiling ruefully, then turned back to his notebook.
It was well over an hour later before he raised his head.
Again, it was a knock at the door that roused him, and he blinked, almost dazed, noticing the still-full cup of tea on the table and the untouched crumpets.
“Come in,” he called.
This time it was Clara.
Kit’s brows pulled together when she entered. Clara never ventured up here, treating this room as Kit’s private enclave. She had forbidden Peter from entering too, despite Kit saying he didn’t mind. She insisted that Kit needed at least one room in his own house to himself. Kit always reminded her that if he did not want her and Peter around, he would say so, and she would smile and nod. But the truth was, he did rather like having this one little room to himself.
Looking at Clara now, though, he could see that something was wrong.
“Clara,” he said worriedly, “what is it?”
It was only after the words were out of his mouth that he began to notice the other signs that pointed to her distress: her face was pale, her expression pinched into anxiety, and her light-brown hair—usually so neat—was coming down on one side.
She gave a faint sob, then looked horrified, as though she hadn’t expected to do that.
Kit quickly set the writing slope aside and rose, going to her and drawing her fully into the room. He guided her to the chaise longue and sat her down, settling himself beside her.
“Has something happened?” he asked, trying to sound calm even as his heart began to race with alarm. “Is it Peter?”
When she shook her head, he could not hold in his sigh