a reaction. An anticipation that might not be met.
Eleven o’clock. A lovely hour. The girl he’d assigned to be her maid was sitting in a chair outside her room, wise enough to be awake at his approach. “You may go,” he said softly.
“Where, milord?” she asked, startled.
“Do I look as if I care?” he said, caustic. “Far enough away that you won’t be listening to every bit of our conversation, close enough that you will arrive if she calls for you.”
“Yes, milord,” she said, ducking her head quickly. She scurried off, and he watched her go, impatient.
The door was locked from the inside. The key was still in the lock, keeping him out, and he suspected there might be a chair in front of it as well. He laughed to himself, and the pleasant tension in his body grew. He liked to play games.
There were two doors to the suite where he’d had Elinor placed, as well as two covert entrances. The rooms had once belonged to his great-aunt, whose appetite for lovers had astounded even the jaded French. There was always a way for an enterprising man to make his way inside the fortress.
She’d found the first one and blocked it, and his interest grew by measurable accounts. It was a panel in the hallway that would slide open if one touched the right part of the cherub that perched on the molding. Tant pis, he thought, moving on. There was one more entrance, this one through a cupboard in the adjoining room, opening up beside the massive, curtained bed. If she’d found that one he’d simply call for Antoine to beat down her door.
The adjoining room was still and quiet. In the daytime the damask covers on the wall were a peaceful gray-blue, while the faint light from his candle rendered everything into shades of black and gray. It was a large apartment, almost as large as his own, and he made the sudden decision to have some of his clothes moved in here.
The moon was almost bright, filling the darkened room with enough light to see his way. He blew out his candle, opened the cupboard door and reached for the latch.
There was a satisfying click. He pushed open the door and moved into her bedroom, as silent as a ghost.
She was sitting on the chaise, a candle by her side, a book in her lap. And the same, lovely little pistol pointed directly at his black, black heart.
“How in heaven’s name did you manage to regain that nasty little weapon?” he murmured, moving into the room.
“Charles Reading returned it to Jacobs. He thought we needed protection, living where we lived. And where is Jacobs?”
“Who, may I ask, is Jacobs?” He strolled across the room. The pistol didn’t waver.
“Our coachman.”
“You had no coach.”
“Don’t be pedantic,” she said briskly. “At one point we had any number of coaches. He came with us to France and stayed with us over the years, looking out for us.”
“Ah, the larcenous coachman. May I point out that his caretaking abilities fell short?”
“He did the best he could. Where is he?”
“I rather believe he’s accompanying your mother and your nursemaid’s bodies back to England for burial.”
She almost dropped the gun, which might have been unfortunate if it had gone off. “What?”
“I assumed both of them would rather be buried on English soil. I made arrangements for them to be brought back to your father’s estates and buried there.”
“And you didn’t think to ask me?”
“Obviously we had to move with a fair amount of speed, although winter made such a gesture more reasonable. You don’t think that’s what they would have wanted?”
“Nanny Maude, of a certainty. She always missed England. My mother would be rolling over in her grave to be buried with my father.”
“There was always that advantage as well,” he said solemnly. “You think your mother deserved eternal peace?”
“I think my mother had her own hell in this lifetime,” she said.
“True. However, she was more than generous enough to share it with her daughters, her older one in particular. I don’t happen to believe in heaven or hell, so I can’t imagine it will make any difference where she’s buried, but you’ll have to allow me my quixotic gesture.”
“I don’t really have a choice in the matter,” she said tartly.
“True enough. May I sit?”
“No.”
“Which leaves me with a quandary. If I sit anyway, will I simply be rude, or will you shoot me? You’ve been quite hard on my clothing so far,