James watched as the man tried the handle again. Why would someone else try to gain access like this? James could think of no other reason than that the man must be looking for something as well and that he didn’t wish to be seen. James considered his options. If the man was after the journal, he would likely be an Elector, in which case he might prove useful if James discovered his identity. But James wouldn’t be able to do so without revealing his own presence in the passageway, which could prove detrimental to his mission if the man turned out to be nothing more than a servant taking a shortcut.
The man turned away, blending with the shadows as he strode back in the direction from which he’d come. Keeping his lantern behind him in order to provide a minimal glow, James quietly followed while staying as close to the wall as possible. He passed the opening in the floor through which the ladder rose and continued toward the side of the house where his own bedchamber was located, aware that the passage would probably end soon, once it reached the newer construction.
Another step caused a creak in the floorboard. James paused, as did the footsteps ahead of him. A brief moment of silence followed before he heard the footsteps again, louder this time and moving quickly away. Whoever the man was, he’d realized he wasn’t alone and was trying to escape getting caught. An unlikely course of action if he was a servant and had the right to be there.
James’s suspicions grew and he increased his pace as well, determined now to discover the man’s identity. If he was an Elector, he might even prove useful in unveiling the rest of the members without the need of the book. Although James had his doubts about such a simple outcome, he wouldn’t say no to another tool in his fight against the organization responsible for the death of his parents.
A muted click sounded in the distance, then the scrape of wood against wood and the quiet thud of a door closing. Swinging his lantern in front of him, James ran forward while watching the wall for handles. He found one after twenty paces and, knowing that the next one would be too far, he pulled it back to activate the spring.
The door swung back without complaint and James stepped swiftly through it to find himself in a small nook a little to the right of the upstairs landing. Closing the door behind him, he moved forward and listened, but was only met by the unified ticking of clocks rising from below. Damn!
Starting back toward his own room, he wondered if he ought to give up on the earl’s bedchamber for now and look elsewhere. But what if the man in the passageway managed to gain access and find the journal there before James did? He couldn’t allow such a thing to happen. No. Somehow he had to get a better look at the escritoire and the other furniture as well.
Rounding a corner, he caught a flash of movement and turned toward it, instinctively ducking his head as he did so. But the dark shadow retreated, hurrying away from him and James gave chase, catching up to it in a few long strides. Reaching out, his hand latched onto a shoulder and held fast, forcing the shadow sideways until it slammed against the wall. A loud succession of pants followed and James lifted his lantern to illuminate the shadow’s face. “Scarsdale?” The earl’s eyes squinted against the yellow light. “What the devil are you doing sneaking about like this?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Scarsdale muttered.
James released his hold on Scarsdale but stayed close enough to catch him again in case he tried to run off. “Why were you trying to access the Earl of Duncaster’s bedchamber?”
Scarsdale stared back at him, his initial look of surprise replaced by one of fury. “What the hell are you talking about, Woodford?”
“I saw you in the secret passageway,” James told him, unwilling to relent. The body-type fit. It had to have been him.
“I don’t know anything about any secret passageways. And even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to explore them.”
James leaned closer. “Are you sure about that?”
“Perfectly,” Scarsdale gritted out.
“Then why did you run when you saw me? What are you up to?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was hoping to pay a visit to a particular lady.”
James’s stomach tightened like the string of a bow. “Not Lady Newbury, I hope?”
A malevolent smile touched Scarsdale’s face. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I really can’t say.”
James’s hand shot out, grabbing Scarsdale by the lapels. “Stay away from her,” he warned, his voice low and measured, but his tone as sharp as the edge of a blade.
“Why? What’s it to you?”
Unwilling to reveal the extent of his new relationship with Lady Newbury for fear that it might end up hurting her, Woodford released Scarsdale and took a step back. “Nothing, other than that I have the greatest respect for her and would hate to see her become the center of scandal. So if it is her, do have a care. Be discreet.” With rigid muscles, James moved away. He had no actual proof that Scarsdale was the man he’d seen in the passageway and without proof he had nothing with which to condemn him. Gut instinct just wasn’t enough, least of all where a peer was concerned.
By the time he reached his bedchamber and flung the door open, his anger had risen rather than subsided. With his jaw set, he tossed off his boots and crossed to the sideboard where he poured himself a large measure of brandy. The drink did little to ease the tension within or the pressure pushing against his skull. Another drink, and he was no better off, the worst part being that the rage inside him wasn’t so much related to the possibility of Scarsdale being an Elector who’d just slipped through his fingers, as it was to the prospect of Scarsdale potentially being Lady Newbury’s lover.
It wasn’t likely—not when he considered her. But the doubt that Scarsdale had just instilled in him burned, nonetheless.
Chapter 7
“Is he as odd as he looks?” Chloe’s friend, Charlotte, Viscountess Ravensby, asked as she reached for her teacup the following day. She and Ophelia, the Marchioness of Forthright, had known Chloe since childhood and were the closest friends Chloe had, besides her sisters.
Seated in the Chinese salon, the three women were enjoying the opportunity to share each other’s company for the first time in weeks.
“I wouldn’t say he’s odd,” Chloe said. The conversation had turned toward the Earl of Woodford, whose acquaintance Chloe had just confessed to making when Ophelia had spoken of a run-in she’d had with him a few days earlier. Chloe now wondered if she’d made a mistake by saying anything, for her friends were now curious for all the details, some of which Chloe would rather not share. Selecting a thin cucumber sandwich from the plate on the table, she peered at it for a moment as if it held the answer to Charlotte’s question. “He’s very different, if you must know. In fact, he’s unlike any man I’ve ever known.”
Ophelia’s eyes widened a little while Chloe took a bite of her sandwich. “In what way?” Ophelia asked.
Chloe paused before saying, “He’s more reserved, I suppose—not at all the sort of man who’d approach a lady for any reason.”
Neither Charlotte nor Ophelia looked pleased by that statement. Both ladies frowned. “Why ever not?” Charlotte asked.
Chloe shrugged. “I can’t say.” Because even though the earl exuded confidence, she sensed that he had little interest in attracting women and did not doubt that his relationship to her was accidental rather than intentional.
“But it’s a man’s job to sweep a woman off her feet with his charm,” Charlotte insisted.
“If you’ll recall,” Chloe said, looking at each of them in turn, “my husband did precisely that—not only with me but with other women as well. Unfortunately for me, he was also extremely good at it.”
“Forgive me,” Charlotte said hastily. “I did not mean to—”
“It’s quite all right,” Chloe told her gently. “However, while I can appreciate the appeal of men who apply such tactics wi
th women, I have long since decided that I will never fall prey to that sort of playacting again. But that is neither here nor there since Lord Woodford and I have no intention of engaging in a romantic relationship of any kind.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, although it did suggest that she and Woodford were less involved with each other than they actually were.
“So you plan to enjoy his friendship as you do with Lord Scarsdale,” Ophelia said. “I swear, Chloe, I cannot for the life of me comprehend how you avoid temptation where he is concerned. The man is simply divine!” She leaned forward in her seat—eyes sparkling with the knowledge of a truly satisfied woman. “Have you never once considered—?”
“No.” Raising her teacup to her lips, Chloe took a sip in an effort to hide her discomfort with the subject. “He is good company, to be sure,” she said, unwilling to share the conversation she’d had with Scarsdale in the conservatory, “but, as difficult as this may be for you to believe, he is not the sort of man I’d care to engage in a liaison with—the attraction simply isn’t there.”
Her friends nodded. They seemed to understand, despite their brief look of surprise when Chloe had mentioned her lack of attraction to Scarsdale. What else could she say? The man just wasn’t her type and that was discounting the fact that he’d turned out to be a complete ass.
“Let’s forget about Scarsdale then,” Charlotte suggested, “and talk about Woodford instead.”
Chloe groaned while Ophelia nodded with great enthusiasm. “We know next to nothing about him other than that he always looks as though he’s about to fly into a rage. My heart certainly jolted when I walked into the music room and found him to be the only person present. I’d been hoping to practice my skills on the pianoforte. Instead I fled like an absolute coward.”
“I suppose he can seem a bit frightening,” Chloe said, recalling the way he’d made her feel when she’d brought up his time at Eton. Since then, however, his scowls had only served to heighten her curiosity about him—to tempt her with the prospect of discovering the reason behind them.
“And yet you’ve just told us that you have spoken to him at length on more than one occasion,” Charlotte said. “How on earth did that come about?”
“I confess I may have stumbled into him,” Chloe said. “Clumsy of me really, though he didn’t seem to mind overly much.”
“Why would he?” Ophelia asked with amusement. “I’m sure he rather enjoyed the experience of having a beautiful woman pressed up against him.”
Chloe frowned. “Nobody was pressed up against anybody.”
“Are you quite sure?” Charlotte asked. “You’re blushing all the way to the roots of your hair.”
“So she is,” Ophelia agreed with wide-eyed amazement.
“You may be able to convince yourself that you’re interested in nothing more than his friendship,” Charlotte said as she leaned back against her seat and took a slow sip of her tea, “but you can’t convince me, my dear. Not by a long shot. Now, my greatest concern is that you won’t realize your tendre for Woodford before it’s too late.”
“Honestly,” Chloe said, annoyed by her friend’s insinuation. “There is no tendre on my part, nor will there ever be.”
“If you say so. Just don’t think I’ve forgotten about all the tears you cried over that abominable scoundrel of a husband of yours, or the vow you made never to get hurt again.”
“Thank you, Charlotte, but you really needn’t worry,” Chloe said. She was grateful for her friend’s concern, but at the same time she also knew she would never give another man her heart.
And yet, she’d sought comfort in Woodford’s arms only yesterday. Annoyingly, she’d lain awake late into the night wondering what it had meant and, more to the point, if it hadn’t been a remarkable mistake for her to do so. With a shake of her head, she said, “The biggest problem with my marriage was that I was desperately in love with my husband. Woodford is different from Newbury though. In fact, he’s nothing like him at all.”
“Which is precisely why I’m so worried,” Ophelia said with a sage expression.
Chloe frowned. “I don’t—”
“Well, well, well . . .” a husky female voice remarked, “if it isn’t Lady Newbury and her boring group of housewives.”
Turning her head toward the door, Chloe stiffened her spine and forced back a sharp retort as her gaze came to rest on the notorious Dowager Marchioness of Dewfield. “I wasn’t aware that you would be holidaying here as well.”
Lady Dewfield’s eyebrows rose in pointy arches above her calculating eyes. “I just arrived.”
Forcing herself to remain calm, Chloe struggled to say something else when Charlotte beat her to it, saying quite primly, “And to what exactly do we owe that unfortunate pleasure?”
A snort was Lady Dewfield’s only response as she eyed each of the ladies in turn. She eventually shrugged one shoulder and said, “Seems to me that all the eligible gentlemen have congregated here at Thorncliff. I didn’t want to miss the fun.” Turning around, she then headed for the door. She stopped just before reaching it though and looked back at them over her shoulder. Something menacing flickered in her eyes, and then she smiled with frightening glee and said, “Speaking of which, I just happened upon Ravensby and Forthright out in the hallway. Such handsome men. I wonder if they’ll prove to be as entertaining as Newbury was.”
“How dare you?” Charlotte hissed, rising to her feet.
Getting up, Chloe moved to stop her friend, effectively catching her by the elbow before she could dash after Lady Dewfield who’d already departed the room with a condescending chuckle. “Don’t let her goad you. Your husband is nothing like Newbury and neither is Forthright.” Chloe looked to Ophelia who appeared horribly shaken and pale. “They’ll never fall prey to a woman like her and she knows it.”
“I know,” Ophelia said. “But just the thought of watching her try makes my stomach churn. It would be so much easier if she weren’t so beautiful.”
“Listen to me, Ophelia,” Chloe said firmly as Charlotte stiffly returned to her seat, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. “You are just as lovely—more so even because you exude kindness and generosity. Qualities Lady Dewfield clearly lacks. The only sort of men who would bother with her are either unmarried rakes, unhappy with their wives, or utterly naïve. Since Forthright clearly adores you, I see no need for concern.”
“Chloe’s right,” Charlotte said with a measure of sadness. “As unfortunate as it is, Newbury was not an honorable gentleman. He did not care for our friend as he ought to have done. In retrospect and with his character taken into consideration, it’s hardly surprising that he and Lady Dewfield were well acquainted with each other.”
“Perhaps we ought to discuss something else,” Ophelia suggested, her eyes resting on Chloe. “I find this subject entirely too depressing.”
“How about you give us an update on your fencing lessons, Chloe. Are you making progress?” Charlotte asked.
Chloe blinked, surprised by the question. “I’d like to think so,” she said. “Spencer says I’m doing much better now than I was in the beginning, but that’s not saying much, is it?”
“Well, I think it’s marvelous that you’ve taken up the sport,” Ophelia remarked, “however unconventional it may be for a woman to do so. After all, it’s always been a man’s sport and we all know how much men detest being challenged in their own domain—especially if the woman proves capable of besting them. I suspect it damages their masculine pride.”
“Spencer doesn’t feel that way,” Chloe said. “He’s been more than happy to teach me.”
“That’s different,” Charlotte said. “You’re his sister so the stakes aren’t so high as far as his reputation is concerned. I think it would be entirely different if he were to fence against Lady Sarah whom he hopes to marry.”
Chloe wasn’t sure she agreed. “I
think it depends on the man and the extent of his confidence.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Ophelia said. “I should ask Forthright to teach me—see what he says.” She smiled mischievously. “By the way, he frequents Angelo’s School of Arms on a regular basis and has occasionally mentioned seeing Woodford there. Apparently he’s quite accomplished.”
“Ravensby made a similar observation one day when he returned from Angelo’s,” Charlotte said. “He remarked on Woodford’s excellent form and unexpected skill, claiming the earl had beaten his opponent with shocking alacrity.”
“I don’t suppose you happen to know who his opponent was?” Chloe asked with interest.
Charlotte smiled just as broadly as Ophelia. “I most certainly do. It was Scarsdale, and according to Ravensby, Scarsdale was furious about the loss—kept claiming that Woodford cheated.”
Chloe sat back with a start. “And did he?” she asked, even though she instinctively knew the answer.
Ophelia shook her head. “No.”
Noting Charlotte’s smirk, Chloe asked, “What is it?”
“Nothing much, other than that it does appear as though your shared interests are increasing.”
Catching on, Ophelia grinned teasingly. “Perhaps you should challenge Woodford to a fencing match—see if he’s willing to do his best against a woman.”
“Heavens no,” Chloe said. “I can’t believe that you would suggest such a thing—not even in jest.”
“Suggest what?” A familiar voice asked.
“Spencer!” Chloe said as her brother strode into the room with Lady Sarah and Lady Duncaster on either side. “How wonderful of you to join us. And with such lovely company too!”
Lady Duncaster smiled brightly as they all greeted each other and the newcomers claimed the available seats. “I trust that you’re referring to Lady Sarah, Lady Newbury, for I fear I’m long past my prime.”
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