Chapter 9
Stroud showed me to my room, a spacious chamber that boasted a wide, canopied bed, a delicate set of rosewood furniture, blue floral wallpaper, and two windows overlooking the front drive. Compared to our room at the inn last night, the difference was almost amusing.
A footman delivered my trunk, and a maid left a tray with sandwiches and a steaming teacup. I stood in the center of the room, feeling out of sorts as I took it all in.
“Will you be needing anything else?” Stroud asked from beside the door.
In truth, I would have liked a bath, but I did not want to appear overly demanding, even to a butler. Or perhaps just this butler, who had seen my scandalously unbuttoned dress.
“No,” I said. “No, thank you.”
He nodded and left, frowning the entire time. Wonderful. How I enjoyed being mistrusted by everyone.
When the door clicked shut, I exhaled a shuddering sigh. I was finally alone.
I ate and drank to my heart’s content, then unpacked my trunk. I changed into my night rail and let down my hair. The bed called to me, soft and inviting. I slipped under the covers—terribly comfortable and smelling of lavender soap—and laid my head on the feather pillow. Bliss.
I was certain I would fall instantly asleep, as exhausted as I was.
But instead, I lay there in the dark, my body tense and my mind awhirl.
I still could not comprehend what had happened tonight, that Mr. Rawlings owned this estate, that he’d brought me here.
Heavens, it was only just occurring to me just how very wealthy the man must be.
I could not help but echo his mother’s questions.
Why on earth did he persist in a career at Bow Street when he had this?
My thoughts turned to Mrs. Rawlings, and I could not help a frown.
Her chilly reception had been disheartening, to say the least, especially considering I had to spent the next week or more playacting as her companion.
But we had sprung this on her rather unexpectedly.
I imagined that I would not have reacted much differently had I been in her place.
Perhaps tomorrow, after a night of sleep, we could both start again.
I heard footsteps in the corridor outside my room, brisk and purposeful. Mr. Rawlings. I sat up, listening. His steps slowed outside my door, then continued past. There was a creak and the soft thud of a door closing.
His room was near. It had to be intentional. In this great of a house, I could easily have been placed in a separate wing entirely. He likely wished to keep a close eye on me.
I tried not to think what Mr. Rawlings could be doing in his room, which was surely much larger and grander than even the room I’d been given.
Master of the house. It was very odd to think of him that way.
I’d only known him as the gruff and straitlaced Bow Street officer, but somehow, he had an entirely separate life, hidden from everyone he knew in London.
Despite my irritation with him, curiosity flared within me. What made him keep such a secret?
I burrowed my face deeper into the pillow, refusing to entertain my thoughts any more. How desperately I needed a full night’s rest. Hopefully I could sleep clear to morning without Mr. Rawlings and his middle-of-the-night awakenings to keep me—
Oh.
I’d helped Mr. Rawlings dress his wound last night at the inn. Did he have no one to help him tonight?
“Surely he does,” I whispered to myself. He had a dozen servants who could assist him. A footman or a valet or perhaps Stroud himself. Except Mr. Rawlings had asked me not to tell anyone about his injury. Did he mean to keep this from the entire household?
I deliberated a long minute, until I realized that the longer I waited, the more likely it was that Mr. Rawlings would attempt to do it himself.
I threw off my blankets and jerked on my dressing gown, muttering under my breath.
I did not want to help him after what he’d put me through tonight.
But I knew it would niggle away at me all night unless I tried.
I opened my door an inch and peered out into the corridor. Empty, with just a single candle burning in a sconce. I shut the door silently behind me and crept along, passing two doors until I spotted firelight underneath one. A shadow passed, blocking the light.
I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated.
This was foolish. Someone could come along at any minute, a servant or even Mrs. Rawlings, and there would be no explaining why I was outside this door.
But then I pictured his expression from last night, the twist of pain on his face, the horrible wound bleeding. I had to ensure he was cared for.
I knocked.
A pause, then footsteps. My pulse hammered.
The door opened, filling the corridor with sudden light, and I blinked up at Mr. Rawlings.
He’d removed his jacket and waistcoat and tugged his cravat so it hung loosely around his neck.
His sleeves were pushed up, revealing lean, muscled forearms. I gulped, forcing myself to breathe .
. . and trying very hard not to stare. I’d seen the man nearly shirtless, for heaven’s sake.
Why should his forearms send me into a swoon?
Mr. Rawlings froze, then his eyes darted up and down the corridor. “Miss Albright,” he said. “You should be in bed.”
It was less an expression of concern and more a pointed observation. What was I doing here, outside his door?
“So should you,” I managed, clasping my hands behind my back. “The doctor prescribed rest, if you’ll recall.”
“Yes, well,” he said dryly, “a rather impertinent young lady knocked at my door. Makes it difficult to sleep.”
I arched a brow. “Do forgive me. Only I recalled how you wished to keep your injury a secret from the household—or, more specifically, from your mother—and thought that perhaps you might again require help with your bandages.”
“Oh.” Mr. Rawlings cleared his throat as if he’d expected me to say something entirely different. “Thank you, but I found help.”
“I am glad,” I said with a brisk nod.
“Are you?” He lifted a brow.
My lips parted. Was he implying I’d wanted to help him with his bandage and that he was depriving me of such an opportunity?
“I was under the impression that you are quite angry with me,” he said, “and would be glad to see me inconvenienced or, better yet, in some pain.”
I coughed, heat pricking in my cheeks. “I do not wish to see you in pain.” I tried for an air of superiority.
“But you mustn’t mistake my common decency for forgiveness.
Indeed, I am still thoroughly irritated with you.
I only offered my aid because of my misplaced sense of responsibility for your injury, which you have already insisted I should not feel toward you.
I admit it is rather a jumble, but then, that appears to be my life as of late. ”
Mr. Rawlings almost—almost—looked amused. “I know the feeling, I assure you.”
The corridor was chilly, and I pulled the edges of my dressing gown tighter about me.
I should have returned to bed, what with our rather precarious situation here in the corridor, but there was a question begging to be asked.
“If I may,” I asked quietly, “why is it you do not wish your mother to know about your wound?”
He did not answer right away, and I thought he might refuse altogether. But then he leaned against the doorway with his uninjured arm in a way that made me far too aware of his casual attire. “My mother,” he said, “does not approve of my working at Bow Street.”
“I gathered.”
He exhaled a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yes, she is not one to keep her opinions to herself.”
“She thinks it beneath you?” I ventured a guess.
“In a way,” he replied. “She believes I have a responsibility to this estate and that I should devote myself to its running.” He rubbed his thumb against his jaw. “If she learned I’ve been wounded, she would only use it as ammunition in our ongoing battle.”
“It is a compelling argument on her part,” I said. “Why keep a dangerous job in London when you have such a life here?”
Mr. Rawlings scrutinized me, no doubt guessing my game. His expression grew guarded once again, any sign of our earlier camaraderie vanished. “You look dead on your feet, Miss Albright. You should go to bed.”
I tipped my head to one side. “That was very neatly dodged.”
“One picks up a thing or two after a few years at Bow Street.”
“If I were not positively exhausted, I would press you now,” I said. “But do not think you’ve escaped my curiosity.”
“Is that so?” He sounded less than worried.
“Certainly.” I allowed a sly grin to take my lips. “I dislike being in the dark. If I am to serve as your mother’s companion, I shall use my position to shamelessly root out all your secrets.”
Mr. Rawlings shook his head. “I do not know that I’ve ever been so threatened by a young lady.”
“You must have very dull acquaintances indeed.”
“I am beginning to think so.”
The clock on the mantel behind him struck midnight, chiming into the quiet of the corridor.
“Heavens, midnight already,” I said. “You must stop keeping me up so late, Mr. Rawlings.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “’Tis a habit I shall attempt to break.” He stepped back into his room. “I trust you’ll sleep well.”
“And I trust you’ll know where to find me should I scream?”
“Hence the proximity of our rooms.” He paused, his hand on the door. “Good night, Miss Albright.”
“Good night, Alexander,” I said saucily.
I was rewarded by the startled look in his eyes before I turned on my heel and headed for my room. It felt good to catch him off guard. The man was impossibly set in his ways, so very sure of his every move. I enjoyed tilting him off-balance.
I reached my room and glanced back over my shoulder just in time to see his door close. Had he been watching me the whole way back?
Perplexed, I turned back to my door, more than ready to tumble to my bed in an exhausted heap.
Then I heard something to my left. A scuff. A breath.
I stared down the other end of the corridor, toward the stairs.
The candlelight glowed weakly against the shadows, and I could see only a few feet ahead of me.
I watched a few moments but heard nothing else, saw nothing else.
Yet there was something about the silence that filled my chest with dread. My heartbeat ticked faster.
I slipped inside my room and shut the door firmly behind me. I pressed my ear to the wood, listening. Again, I heard nothing. No footsteps, no breathing. I was being silly. Likely it had been a servant going about their work.
Still, I hurried to my bed, dropped my dressing gown on the chair, and slid under the covers. I clutched the edges, pulling them under my chin, and tried very hard not to listen to the noise of the settling house, the wind scraping the window.
And foolishly—hopelessly—I wished that Mr. Rawlings could sit in the chair beside me, watching as I slept.