Chapter Eight #2
He was frowning up at the house. “I would have thought Mrs. Parker’s staff would keep the house looking spruce in her absence,
so as not to attract burglars.”
So he thought something was amiss, too.
He touched the gate.
They exchanged a glance when it swung open.
It shouldn’t have been unlocked.
He turned to scale the steps up to the door, and she followed him.
“Ought we to knock?” she asked.
He seized the knocker and rapped.
They waited.
He put his ear to the door. “Nothing is stirring in there.”
He rapped again, with the same results.
He tried the doorknob.
The door was locked.
He pressed his lips together in thought.
“Perhaps one of the neighbors will know whether Mrs. Parker has returned?” she suggested.
Marchand scanned the street, then returned to staring at the door.
“Give me one of the five hundred and eighty-two pins you use to hold your hair in place, Miss Woodville. But be careful, because
one wrong choice and the whole structure will come down.”
“Nonsense.” He was more or less correct, of course.
“The hairs that have already escaped their confines prove my point. The rest seem just as anxious to do that.”
She gave a short self-conscious laugh. The curls at her temples were purposeful, but she was not going to stand here and explain
hairstyles to a rogue on a dead earl’s former mistress’s front stoop.
He watched her pull a pin with fixed avidity, as if he was picturing with relish all of it coming down.
Which made her feel not unpleasantly warm. Her hand was a little clumsy as she handed it over, and she was ostentatiously
careful not to brush his fingers. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Use it to protect myself from your advances, of course.” He dropped to his knees and guided the pin into the lock.
“You’re going to break into the house?”
He jiggled and maneuvered it for a few moments with seeming deliberation. This obviously wasn’t the first time he’d done such
a thing. “Yes.”
“But . . . what if the neighbors notice?”
He paused and looked at her. “What if they do?” He sounded amused.
Oh, God. As she’d said to him the night before, he’d proved he was all too capable of the unexpected.
What did she know about this man?
“What if there’s a bolt on the inside?”
“Then I’ll go in through the servant’s entrance, or a window,” he said distractedly.
“And are we going to steal the vase?”
He stopped to fix her with a reproving stare.
“For heaven’s sake, Miss Woodville. No, we’re not going to steal it.
What kind of monster do you think I am?” His affront was wholly feigned.
“We’ll ascertain whether it’s even in the house, and then .
. . decide how to proceed from there. But I definitely think something is a bit off, and I want to know what it is.
I’m worried she might have been robbed, or otherwise harmed. Call it an instinct.”
He returned to jiggling.
And then something gave with a click.
She caught her breath.
Marchand tried the doorknob.
When it turned, she caught herself just as she was about to clap her hands in delight. What kind of lady felt triumphant instead
of chagrined that they were breaking into a house?
“Stay behind me,” he whispered. “I’m not leaving you out here alone.”
Which is when she noticed he had a gun in his hand.
He had a gun in his hand!
“Why the gun?” she whispered indignantly. “Where did that come from?”
“You should always have a gun in your hand when you break into a house. Close the door. Quietly.”
Dense, cold, musty air engulfed them. She saw at once that the candles in the sconces wore a fine coat of dust, as if they
hadn’t been lit or replaced in some time.
He put a finger to his lips and an arm out to stop her. They listened.
She heard it then, too: Low, desperate voices, in the cadences of a furious argument.
“Give it to me. Give it to me now.”
“Do you want it like this?”
“Yes, damn you! I want it!”
Her heart was now pounding so hard her chest felt bruised.
“Are they arguing about the vase?” she whispered to Marchand.
He was frowning and looking perplexed.
Which was none too comforting.
“Stay behind me,” he whispered again, unnecessarily, because she hardly inclined to dart ahead of him. “And walk quietly.”
Why on earth she obeyed him instead of hiking her skirts in her hands and running out the door was beyond her. It was too
late; curiosity was her besetting curse.
They moved through the foyer, toward what she suspected was a drawing room, the usual architectural configuration in a town
house like this one. The door of it was ajar about a foot.
As they drew closer, other sounds, confusing ones, gradually became audible: a rhythmic smacking of some kind, as though someone
was striking a smooth object. A peculiar dry scrabbling, like mice living in upholstery. A kind of creaking noise, the sort
a rocking chair in motion might make. Muffled oaths. All in all, it sounded like some kind of scuffle.
She threw a sharp, frightened look up at Marchand.
Oddly, his expression had subtly transformed to one of pure bemusement.
Gently, very, very slowly, he pushed the parlor door wider.
She peered past him into the dim room.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to something pale near the back wall.
She froze, transfixed in disbelief as her vision adjusted.
It appeared to be a vast pair of white buttocks.
The buttocks were bobbing up and down on the settee, which was swaying and squeaking violently on spindly legs. Two feet,
clad in women’s sensible walking shoes, were perched on either side of the buttocks. What looked like serviceable wool stockings
were bunched around their ankles.
The owner of the feet gave the buttocks a loud smack. “Give it to me faster!”
The buttocks complied with speed.
“Argh! Oh no! WHY?” Ginny shouted before she could stop herself, and slapped her palms over her eyes as if someone had cast acid into them.
Marchand leaped between her and her view of the heaving bodies and fanned out his arms.
He could do nothing to drown out the shrieks, grunts, oaths, squeaks, and rustles as the lovers scrambled apart and attempted
to reassemble themselves.
There fell a silence.
“Miss Woodville, why don’t you wait in another room while I have a conversation with . . .”
He swung the gun in the direction of the settee.
“Mr. Benson and Mrs. Cartwright,” the man breathlessly volunteered. “Is you robbers? Please don’t shoot us. We ain’t robbers,
neither.”
She noticed that none of the names were Henrietta Parker.
“. . . while Mr. Benson and Mrs. Cartwright get sorted out.”
He did not have to make that suggestion twice.