Chapter 6
The clock read ten minutes past midnight. The last chimes of the hour seemed to linger in the air.
Christian heaved a ragged sigh, downing the last of his whiskey. It was a good single malt, decently expensive, and he had drunk at least three glasses without tasting a drop. What a waste.
The alcohol tugged at his gut when he stood up. There was no dizziness—he would need to drink another three glasses at least for that—but he was vaguely aware that he had drunk too much.
Foolish. What if she came after all?
Well, she was not coming. Lady Thalia, despite her bold words and fierce stare, was not quite fearless enough to venture out into the night sans chaperone and straight into the carriage of a very suspect gentleman.
And I am a very suspect gentleman, Christian thought, biting back a smile.
He had turned down what might have been a very pleasant evening with Mrs. Murman, just as he had turned down other potentially pleasant evenings with her.
That was probably for the best. No doubt Mrs. Murman had plenty of other gentlemen friends who might keep her company.
He set aside his whiskey glass with a clink and stood over it, weighing the pros and cons of getting another tipple.
Probably not.
With a sigh, he turned away from the drawing room window. It was the window that overlooked the drive, and he had hoped to see the carriage trundling up it. Slouching down onto a chair before the fire, he propped his boots up on the hearth, staring into the flickering flames.
I was foolish to think she would come. I daresay I will see her again, but if she won’t come here to review the papers… well, I can’t imagine what possible use we might have for each other.
He had not meant to doze off. The hour was not particularly late. For some gentlemen of the rakish set, midnight was the equivalent of early evening. The night had barely begun.
However, the combination of the warm fire, comfortable chair, and the whiskey sitting pointedly in his stomach was more overpowering than he could have imagined.
One moment, he was staring pensively into the fire, wishing that he had learned German; the next, a gloved hand squeezed his shoulder.
“Your Grace?” the butler whispered anxiously, leaning over him.
Christian startled awake. He imagined that the resulting snort was comical, but of course, his butler was far too well-trained to display even a flicker of a smile.
“Good heavens, Hooves! Are you trying to give me apoplexy!”
Hooves reddened. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”
Hooves was rather young for a butler, not quite having reached the auspicious age of forty.
He was short, round, and more than a little plump with small and delicate hands and feet.
However, any misbehaving maid or naughty footman who believed they could outrun or outwit the mild-mannered butler would find themselves very mistaken.
When he trotted along at full speed, he could easily keep up with even Christian’s long-legged strides.
“I do apologize for waking you, Your Grace,” Hooves murmured. “It’s just that there is a lady in your study.”
Christian stiffened. “If Mrs. Murman has called—”
“No, no, Your Grace, not her. No, the carriage returned a few minutes ago. The lady you mentioned was inside it. I was not sure where to take her, and I thought that privacy might be the order of the day. She is in your study now.”
Christian blinked, absorbing the words. “A lady, you say?”
He had not used her name when explaining to Hooves that he might receive a late-night caller. Like all butlers, Hooves had a preternatural sense of discretion and knew in a trice what secrets ought to be guarded with his life.
The other servants, however, had no such scruples. All it would take was one scullery maid glimpsing Lady Thalia in his parlor for the news to travel all over town, and then they would both be ruined.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. Gentlemen’s reputations were like soft down cushions. They could become a little thin and worse for wear over time, but a good shaking and a change of scenery generally perked them right up.
Ladies’ reputations were like glass panes. One nick, trip, or slip, and they were shattered, ruined, forever beyond repair. It was the reason that Mrs. Murman danced on a knife’s edge with the company she kept, whereas her gentlemen callers faced only embarrassment and perhaps angry wives.
Of course, this double standard was deeply unfair. Railing against Society would do very little to change it. But that did not mean that he wished to be the cause of a woman’s downfall.
“Quite right, Hooves, quite right. You haven’t done anything rash like send a maid in to attend her, have you?”
Hooves pursed his lips. “No, Your Grace.”
“Naturally. Good man. This lady, can you describe her to me? I want to be sure it’s the right one.”
I want to be sure she hasn’t sent a maid in her place. Nobody else can know about the letters, not yet.
“It’s hard to describe her, Your Grace,” Hooves sighed.
“You will see what I mean. She was not keen to speak to me and refused tea. She said that she would speak to you immediately and that she would not appreciate being kept waiting when you had forced her out of her warm home at such an unsociable hour of the night.”
“It certainly sounds like her,” Christian mumbled, biting back a smile. “Thank you, Hooves. I shall take it from here. And please keep the carriage ready to take her back home when she wishes.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Shall I send up a tea tray?”
“No, thank you.”
Hooves nodded again, sketching a neat bow, and then melted away in the effortless, soundless way that butlers seemed to manage.
Christian let out a sigh, smoothing down his waistcoat.
She’s here, then. I wish I had not had that third glass of whiskey.
Down the hall he strode, eyes flickering this way and that. While most servants would be in bed at this hour, one could never rule out a sleepless scullery maid or a bored hall boy.
There were no such lurkers, and he reached the study door without seeing a soul. Pausing, he curled his fingers around the doorhandle and leaned forward, listening intently.
He was not entirely sure what he expected to hear. Paper rustling, perhaps? Instead, there was silence.
The well-oiled hinges did not creak when the door inched open.
Sure enough, a woman sat in the chair before his desk. At least, he assumed it was a woman. It was not clear because of the bulky cloak she wore, hood up.
He closed the door with a gentle click, and she started, leaping to her feet.
Yes, those were Lady Thalia’s eyes, poking out of several truly ridiculous layers of scarves and fabric wound round and round her head and face until only her nose and eyes were visible.
“My, my,” he drawled, leaning back against the door and folding his arms. “I wonder how you’re not suffocating in all of that.”
She flushed and reached up to her hood, flinging it back. Christian bit back a smile. A scarf lay underneath, hiding her hair and wrapping around her face.
“One cannot be too careful,” she said, voice muffled under all the fabric. “After all, I didn’t want your driver to recognize me.”
“My driver collected you from your house, my dear.”
“Well, he might have thought I was a maid.”
“He might. I doubt it, however. I don’t pursue maids.”
He was fairly sure that she blushed, but again, it was hard to tell.
“You are not pursuing me. At least, I hope you are not. That was not our agreement.”
“No, it was not,” he conceded. “Will you take tea? You have already offended my butler by refusing a tray, and I compounded the insult by refusing again, but I daresay if I ask…”
“I don’t want tea. I want… Oh, heavens, it’s so very hot in here.”
“Actually, it’s rather cool,” he sighed, gesturing at the dying fire. Only embers remained. The fire would continue to fade away to nothing and would be quite cold by the time the scullery maid made her way into his study with her clanking coal scuttle.
Lady Thalia narrowed her eyes at him, before her fingers rose to the thick silver clasp at her throat. Undoing it, she threw back the heavy, rough cloak from her shoulders, tossing it onto the chair.
“Good God,” Christian scoffed.
She was wearing a second cloak underneath.
Lady Thalia scowled. “I didn’t want anybody seeing my dress. They might recognize it.”
“In the dark?”
She ignored his comment and set about removing the second cloak. This one had several buttons down the chest, small and tight and rather threadbare. He suspected that she’d clawed the ratty old garment out of the back of her wardrobe.
He suppressed a smile at the thought of her dragging out this ridiculous collection of clothing and piling it on her bed.
The buttons resisted for a moment but ultimately gave. She tossed the second cloak onto the chair and began to work on the profusion of scarves.
Christian let his eyes trail down her figure. She wore a plainly cut dusky-pink dress that was probably more suited to a quiet evening in the house than a midnight adventure.
The dress clung to her waist and hips, and when she removed the shawl from around her shoulders, he saw that the neckline was perhaps an inch or so lower than was strictly proper, revealing a little softness below her collar.
Clearing his throat, he looked away.
With a soft sigh, Lady Thalia untangled the final scarf and stood before him, hands on her hips.
Her red hair hung in a simple braid down her back, with tendrils escaping.
A flush clung to her cheeks, probably from the ridiculous layers of clothing, and her spectacles were slightly askew.
Christian fought the urge to reach out and straighten them.
“Well,” Lady Thalia stated, “I’m here.”
“So you are.”
“I must say that I don’t appreciate being dragged out of my home at such an hour.”
“You would have preferred a more reasonable time?”
“Yes, I would.”
Christian chuckled. “Perhaps shortly after supper? You might have waved to your neighbors as you skipped over to my carriage and kissed your brother goodbye before leaving. How pleasant.”
She cleared her throat. “Well, of course, I didn’t want to be seen,” she muttered sourly. “That goes without saying.”
“Apparently, I did need to say it,” he observed.
“I should like to point out that my reputation would not be helped by your being seen here. Rakes may flirt all they like and consort with all sorts of ladies of dubious reputation, but seducing innocent young ladies with impeccable birth? Unforgivable.”
She cleared her throat again. “There is no seduction involved.”
“No, but you must think about the look of the thing. And the pseudo-engagement you suggested will not, of course, end in marriage.”
She tossed back her hair. “Of course not.”
He tilted his head, eyeing her thoughtfully.
It seemed a fair assumption that the poor girl was terrified.
A woman of Lady Thalia’s standing was scarcely allowed to traipse around her own house without a companion.
He doubted that she had ever left the house before without a chaperone.
Her brother would take her to social events, and a maid would accompany her on walks or outings.
It seemed unfair that young women coming out into Society had their freedom curtailed so aggressively, whereas young men were encouraged to spread their wings further with each passing year.
Not the point, he scolded himself.
“You look a little flushed,” he commented, which, of course, had the effect of making her redden even more.
“I am fine.”
“You are too hot. It is a warm night, and I happen to know that the carriage I sent for you is warm and well-padded. You ought to have some refreshments. Even a glass of water—”
“No, thank you,” she interrupted sharply.
“Let me be clear, Your Grace. I am here because I have to be here. This is your request. Every minute I am away from home, I risk being found out. You speak of your own reputation, but let’s not fool ourselves.
I am the one bearing all the risk. I want to get safely home as soon as possible, and that means getting this ridiculous errand over with promptly.
No refreshments. I shall refresh myself when I return home. ”
“Impeccably put,” he drawled, eyebrow quirking.
She pressed her lips into a thin line and angrily adjusted her spectacles. “Enough games, Your Grace. Show me the papers at once.”
“A forthright lady who gets straight to the point,” Christian murmured softly. “I like that in a woman.”
Lady Thalia sniffed. “I could not care less about what you like in a woman, Your Grace.”
“Aptly put,” he said mildly.
While it was fun to stand and exchange witticisms—there was no doubt she had further jibes in her—she was right. The sooner she returned home, the better for all parties.
And yes, she was bearing all the risk. So, instead of shooting more comments her way, he moved over to his desk.
“The papers will not leave this room,” he stated. “If you don’t believe that you can dedicate enough time to their translation and interpretation tonight, we shall have to arrange another time. I am sorry, but I cannot let you take them home.”
“I understand.”
He met her eyes, searching them. She returned his stare squarely, and he gave a faint nod.
Crouching before the desk, he produced a key from his pocket and slotted it into a keyhole under the desk. The wretched keyhole was never easy to find, especially with such a tiny key.
Lady Thalia watched with interest as the lock clicked and a previously unnoticed drawer slid open. The papers rested inside, weighed down with a smooth paperweight. Christian gingerly removed them, setting each page face-up on the desk. Letting out a slow sigh, he stepped back, letting her look.
“And what if I can’t interpret them?” she asked, almost off-handedly, stepping forward to inspect the papers.
Christian bit the inside of his cheek. “Then my last clue to finding my sister is gone, and I am at a loss. There is still no sign of Laura. No letter, no clue, nothing. She is simply gone. I keep reassuring my mother that she will be safe and that she will be found soon, but I confess that I cannot bring myself to believe it.”
Lady Thalia tore her gaze from the papers, clear eyes fluttering up to meet his. “You have reassured your mother?”
He blinked. “Of course. I would not have her worry. I am the head of this family. The burden lies with me.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes, of course.”
“My point is, Lady Thalia, you had better try to interpret these riddles. Try as hard as you can.”