Chapter Three
When desperation drove Prue from the bedchamber, she managed to navigate the corridors without encountering anyone other than a startled housemaid, her arms full of linens.
She left the house through the conservatory and stalked the length of the rose garden until the trembling in her limbs, which had plagued her since her father had been shot, finally abated.
But it was impossible to banish his image, flashing before her eyes, as he’d lain fatally wounded.
Angry at being so helpless, she tried to order her thoughts and decide what was best to do.
Tomorrow, she must face Roland, who she was sure would waste no time coming down from London.
There was nothing for it. She must leave tonight to search through her father’s papers for some clue to his assailant before Roland’s presence prevented her.
She re-entered Bain’s house and made for the staircase, but a couple embracing midway up blocked her way.
They took no notice of her. Prue gasped when the man ran his hand up the woman’s leg beneath her skirts and she giggled.
Her face burning, Prue swiveled and hurried back to the hall, searching for somewhere to conceal herself until they left.
Laughter and the clink of glasses behind one door gave clue to the guests inside having luncheon, so she moved on.
The next door she tried opened into an elaborately decorated salon with striped cream-and-gold wallpaper.
Gilded mirrors and paintings hung on the walls. It was blessedly empty.
With relief, she closed the door behind her and stood on the dense, red-and-blue patterned carpet, swallowing hard as hysterics threatened. She put her hands to her cheek. “Dear God! Is this a nightmare?” Her anguished plea sounded abnormally loud in the quiet room.
The rake, who’d had the effrontery to kiss her earlier, unfolded his long legs and rose from a grandfather wing chair where he’d been hidden from her sight.
She shrank back when he strolled across the carpet to where she stood, reaching for the door latch, ready to take flight.
His cool, gray eyes held her in sway, but he made no further move toward her.
His expression was polite, as if they’d just met and the kiss had never happened.
“You seem distressed, miss. May I be of help?”
“No, thank you.” Her face burning, Prue turned the handle. Wrenching the door open, she bolted along the corridor, only to cannon into a gentleman who smelled strongly of tobacco and spirits.
The man seized her, as if to steady her, but continued to grip her arms. “Where has this flower of womanhood appeared from?” he asked, his brandy-soaked breath making her blink.
“Let me go, sir!” Prue struggled to pull away from him.
He scowled, his fingers biting into her flesh. “No need to play the innocent with me. We’re all here to have a bit of fun.”
“Unhand the lady,” a deep voice said from behind them.
“No need for that, Hereford.” The man thrust Prue away from him. “Didn’t know she was yours.”
“I am no one’s!” Prue protested, seething with mounting rage. Who did they think she was? One of those women here for the men’s entertainment? Hadn’t they heard about her father’s murder?
The inebriated man shrugged and stumbled off toward the dining room. He entered to be greeted with drunken hoots. “No success with the ladies, Blenkinsop?” someone cried before the door slammed behind him.
Furious, while struggling to gather her wits, Prue forced a smile as she nodded to the viscount.
He had helped her, after all, although it was doubtful his reason for doing so had been altruistic, and she hoped he would now leave her alone.
Not waiting for his response, she hurried to the staircase.
At least the passionate couple had left.
The thought of spending a night under this roof made Prue shudder.
She wouldn’t sleep a wink while the male guests believed her to be available for their pleasure.
“Allow me to escort you to your bedchamber.” Lord Hereford’s voice, low-pitched and masculine, struck a strange chord in her. His large hand rested on the banister behind her. Standing so close, she felt the heat of his body.
Was he sincere? Or was this an attempt at further familiarity?
Could she believe him? Ask him to help her?
How foolish it would be to put her faith in him or any stranger at this drunken revelry.
A man who thought nothing of grabbing a strange woman and kissing her?
She took a deep breath and hurriedly pushed away the memory.
Trouble was, she doubted Lord Bain was prepared to offer any more help.
It appeared he wanted to see the back of her.
Taking a sharp breath, she caught the scent of Lord Hereford’s musky soap. “No need. I know the way,” she said over her shoulder before running up the stairs.
He continued up behind her in a more leisurely fashion, while oddly, keeping pace with her. “It’s no trouble to ensure you arrive there safely.”
But would he? Prue didn’t wait to argue.
She lifted her skirt and darted up the rest of the steps.
Gasping, heart pounding from exertion and panic, she gained the landing.
Shocked, she saw he was only a few steps behind her.
Did he intend to force his way into her room?
With a sharp breath, she swiveled to confront him. “Please! Do go away.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Certainly, when you are safely behind a locked door.”
And you along with me? “It’s just down there.” She gestured vaguely, not at all sure that in her haste she’d entered the right corridor.
“Then I shall watch you from here.” He lounged against a decorative pillar, his arms folded across his broad chest. Even that he did with grace.
Handsome rakes don’t have to lift a finger to attract women, she thought, biting down on her lower lip.
Well, she was not one of those women, and his charm had no effect on her.
Prue walked as quickly as the narrow skirts of her morning gown would permit and reached the bedchamber door she prayed was hers.
Opening it, she hesitated in the doorway.
To her relief, there was her pelisse folded on a chair along with her bonnet.
Her hand on the latch, she turned to face him and discovered he was as good as his word and hadn’t moved.
He nodded. “Lock it.”
“I have every intention of doing so.” Horrified at how shaky her voice sounded, she pushed the door shut behind her and turned the key.
She leaned her back against it, dragging in gulps of air in an attempt to ease her tight chest. Then she ran and fell upon the bed, wrapping her arms around herself.
Prue closed her eyes, trying to order her scattered thoughts.
She supposed she should have been grateful Lord Hereford had made no further move toward her.
He might easily have overpowered her, and there was no one here to stop him.
Was he just biding his time? He seemed well regarded, as the other man had deferred to him.
What if the viscount, or some other man here, might decide to force his way into her bedchamber during the night?
How vulnerable she was under Lord Bain’s roof.
He hadn’t considered it necessary to place a footman at her door, which would surely have been the correct thing to do.
Prue rolled over and sat up. Papa must have trusted him when he’d urged her to come here.
If only she knew his reasons. Had Lord Bain deceived her father into thinking he was a good man?
Papa had been no fool. He had been unlikely to be taken in, even by a smooth-talking scoundrel, which didn’t fit with her impression of Lord Bain.
It was impossible to understand anything.
The murderer still lurked somewhere out there, as free as a bird, and might even strike again.
Not knowing where he was made her decidedly uneasy.
She would think more clearly at home. But until she knew why her father had been murdered, it was impossible to move on with whatever life now held for her.
If the magistrate failed in his inquiries, she must try to discover the truth herself to find any peace.
Until the villain was behind bars, she would never feel safe again.
Left alone in the quiet room, Prue calmed herself enough to plan.
She would leave here after supper tonight.
Once it grew dark, she would creep from the house and make her way to the stables and borrow a horse.
Far better to be at home among the servants who would protect her.
Tomorrow or the next day, she must deal with her father’s heir, Cousin Roland.
She had always disliked him and hated his autocratic manner toward her, as if he considered women were inferior and he had some claim over her.
Would he take advantage of his unexpected good fortune?
What did he intend for her? Until her father’s will was read, she had no notion of how things stood.
Would Papa have left her enough money to be independent and live as she pleased?
Would the details of his estate even allow such a thing?
Or must she depend on Roland? The distinct possibility of the latter made her sick to her stomach.
As the hours edged toward nightfall, a young housemaid entered the bedchamber with a supper tray. She placed the dishes on the table and set the coals alight in the fireplace grate. With a bob, she left, closing the door behind her.