he’d wanted to ride alone with her in order to tell her something personal—such as that he longed for her, that he couldn’t stand to not kiss her again—died a quick death. She shook her head and sat up straight, taking a deep breath. Very well. If he wanted to talk about their mission, she could do that.
“I agree. In fact, I asked Wilhelmina if she knew of anyone else spending the night at the town house. She said she wasn’t certain.”
“No matter. We’ll find out when we arrive.”
“Very well,” Marianne agreed. “What should we do the night of the ball?”
“It’ll be important to watch for any interactions between Lords Copperpot, Hightower, and Cunningham. I’ll be especially curious to watch Hightower and Cunningham.”
“Yes, I agree that Lord Copperpot isn’t our culprit.”
Beau plucked at his lip. “Is there anywhere in Copperpot’s London house where we can surreptitiously watch the proceedings in the ballroom? If either of the other two men see me, they might recognize me.”
Marianne felt her cheeks heat. Indeed, there was such a place, but she didn’t want to admit how she knew. She had often sneaked to the small alcove above the musician’s stage in the ballroom to watch the dancing. She so enjoyed the music and the gowns and the lovely spread of refreshments and the tables full of flowers. On the handful of occasions last spring when the Copperpots had held a ball or a large party in the ballroom, Marianne had enjoyed nothing so much as quietly watching from the alcove.
“I do know of a place,” she said, pressing her lips together. “I’ll show you.”
Beau nodded. “You watch Lord Cunningham. I’ll watch Lord Hightower.”
“Very well, but you’ll have to point out Lord Cunningham to me. Unlike you, I’ve never met either of them before.”
Beau nodded again. “I will point them out.”
They lapsed into silence for a few minutes, each staring out the opposite coach window as the landscape moved past. Autumn was slowly arriving in the English countryside and the leaves had begun to change colors.
Finally, Beau cleared his throat. “What are the housing arrangements at Copperpot’s London town home? For servants, I mean.”
Marianne swallowed. “Much like the estate, the upper servants are housed in private rooms on the fourth floor. The family is on the second floor and the guests are on the third.”
Beau arched a brow. “Are the upper servants separated by sex?”
“The women are on the right and the men are on the left, if that’s what you mean.”
“A pity,” he said, shaking his head.
“Why is it a pity?” Even as she asked the question, she knew she would soon come to regret it. But she couldn’t help herself all the same.
His gaze locked with hers. “Because there hasn’t been a night that’s gone by since the last time we were together at Clayton’s house that I haven’t wanted to come to your bedchamber.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Lord Copperpot’s London Town House,
14 October, 1814
Perhaps Beau shouldn’t have said what he’d said to her in the coach two days ago. He’d wanted to kick himself afterward. Marianne hadn’t said a word. She’d just taken a deep breath and turned to stare out the window silently.
Regardless, what he’d said that morning had been nothing but the truth. An uncomfortable truth, perhaps, but one that he’d finally decided he needed to admit. If they never spent the night together again, it wouldn’t be because Marianne didn’t know how he felt. He wanted her. He’d always wanted her. He wanted her even now.
They’d ridden the rest of the way to the next coach stop in silence, and once they’d arrived, Beau had surreptitiously changed spots with the maids and hadn’t seen much of Marianne since…until tonight.
The ball was in full effect before he met her at the servant’s staircase on the fourth floor so that they could travel downstairs together. Guests had begun arriving a bit after eight o’clock, and it was nearing ten before Marianne appeared.
No longer clad in her blue maid’s dress, tonight Marianne wore a simple white sarsnet gown, one entirely unlike any of her others. Small embroidered flowers graced the neck and hemlines. Her bright hair was caught up in a chignon, and her blue eyes sparkled.
Apparently, she’d forgiven him for his remarks in the coach, because tonight she gave him a warm smile.
“Good evening, Mr. Baxter,” she said with a laugh as she curtsied to him.
“Miss Notley,” he replied, bowing in kind. He offered her his arm. “You are breathtaking. Would you care to