by Darcy Burke
Stratton’s gaze didn’t stray from Miss Derrington. So much for Rhys’s hopeful thinking. “I’ve said you’re welcome any time.” He moved forward and took her hand, bowing gallantly before pressing a kiss to the back. “A pleasure, Miss Derrington. Welcome to Stratton Hall.”
“Thank you, my lord. This is my companion and chaperone, Mrs. Edwards.”
“Chaperone, eh?” He darted a glance at Rhys, who had moved even closer to Miss Derrington—close enough that they nearly touched.
“I believe I included that fact in my missive,” Rhys said, perhaps a touch too coolly. He looked at Post. “Please see that they lodge together and that the accommodation is sufficient.”
Post nodded. “Of course.”
“In the east wing,” Stratton said.
Rhys wasn’t completely certain, but suspected that was where Stratton’s quarters were located, and that was unacceptable. Rhys did the only thing he could think of: he sidled closer to Miss Derrington and slid his hand along her waist. She tensed, but didn’t flinch away from him. Her lush eyes turned toward him, their depths burning in quiet question.
Rhys gave an almost imperceptible nod trying to communicate that she should just follow his lead. If Stratton believed Miss Derrington and Rhys had an arrangement, he would probably leave her alone.
Stratton took the bait, his gaze noting Rhys’s possessive touch. Thankfully, Mrs. Edwards was busy studying the artwork in the hall instead of paying close attention to her charge.
The earl turned to his butler. “I know precisely where to house our guests, Post. Put the ladies in the Orange Chamber and Mr. Bowen in the Knight’s Lounge.” Stratton said this with a smile and a conspiratorial wink directed at Rhys. If he had to guess, he would say his and Miss Derrington’s rooms were in close proximity, which meant Rhys could keep an eye on her. After last night’s invasion, he was loath to let her—and her book—out of his sight. Not just because he would be upset if the manuscript went missing, but because he suspected Miss Derrington would be devastated.
The question was, how serious would the devastation be? Simply emotional or were the financial implications of losing the book and the treasure disastrous to her and her aunts? He suspected the latter was a very real concern.
Stratton pivoted and motioned for them to follow him through the hall. “Come, let us take refreshment after your journey. Post will oversee the transport of your luggage upstairs.”
Rhys kept his hand at the small of Miss Derrington’s back as they trailed their host. He led them through a large drawing room and into a smaller sitting area bedecked with flowers and decorated in a cheerful yellow and blue theme.
Stratton stood to the side as his guests entered and waited for the ladies to seat themselves on a settee that faced the windows. He leaned close to Rhys. “The countess says this is the best room to greet guests, and she insisted on stuffing it full of flowers from the gardens.” His distaste showed in the pinch of his nose and the slight roll of his eyes. “Later, we’ll repair to my study and have a proper glass of whisky.”
Rhys figured he’d have to endure at least one evening of ribaldry with his cousin, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hoping to avoid it. With a nod, he took a chair across from Miss Derrington and Mrs. Edwards.
“Your flowers are lovely,” Mrs. Edwards remarked.
“Thank you.” The response came from a beautiful woman who strolled into the sitting room holding the hand of a young boy—maybe four years old.
Rhys jumped to his feet, recognizing Lady Stratton from his previous visits. He hadn’t, however, met his cousin’s presumed heir.
“Ah, my wife, and she’s brought down my son. This is Viscount Kersey.”
The boy clutched his mother’s hand and stuck close to her side. His eyes were round and gray as he contemplated his father, who paid him absolutely no attention.
A pang of sympathy struck Rhys square in the chest as he looked at the small boy. He would be raised as the heir until such time as Rhys decided Penn should know his true heritage. Was it possible that day would never come? Would it be it fair to deny Penn his birthright forever? No, just as it wasn’t fair to allow this boy to grow up in deception. But then life was rarely fair. If it had been, maybe Rhys would’ve had a mother and his life wouldn’t have revolved around books—something that had never bothered him until Miss Derrington had shown up. He banished the troubling thoughts from his head.
Lady Stratton moved forward so that Rhys could offer a bow and take her hand. “It’s lovely to see you again, Mr. Bowen.” She spoke softly to her son. “This is Papa’s cousin. Say hello.”
Kersey looked up at Rhys, the square set of his jaw mirroring that of his father and his unknown half-brother. “Hello.”
Rhys glanced at his cousin and saw the resemblance, but like Penn, Kersey was fortunate to take more after his mother. Rhys squatted down so that he was almost at eye level with the boy. “I’m pleased to meet you, my lord.”
“All right then, that’s enough of that,” Stratton’s voice jolted Rhys. “Time for Kersey to return to his nurse.”
Lady Stratton gave a slight nod, then turned and led her son from the room. Stratton murmured, “Pardon me,” and followed them, leaving Rhys alone with Miss Derrington and Mrs. Edwards.
Miss Derrington got to her feet and strolled toward the fireplace, a fair distance from where Mrs. Edwards sat. She inclined her head for Rhys to follow, which he did with alacrity.
Her hazel eyes were dark, the brown seeming to devour the green, as she peered up at him from where she pretended to study a figurine on the mantle. “What was that about, in the foyer?”
He kept his voice low. “I didn’t like the way Stratton was looking at you. I told you what to expect.”
“You did not tell me to expect groping from you.”
“Groping? I was hardly—”
“Never mind. If you have to put your arm around my waist from time to time to keep his attentions at bay, so be it.” Her gaze became more intense. “Will that be necessary?”
God, he hoped so. Touching her had given him a welcome shock of yearning. “I think it’s best that he believes we have a tendre for each other.”
She pressed her lips together. Lips that suddenly tempted him. “I see. How . . . lurid.”
“It doesn’t have to be. I can tell him we’re engaged, if you prefer.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t think that’s necessary, is it?”
A perverse part of him was enjoying her maidenly shock. “I believe I’ll see how things go.”
Stratton reentered and they broke apart. Rhys watched her return to her place on the settee as Post brought in a tray of tea and refreshments. After a few moments, during which Miss Derrington and Mrs. Edwards helped themselves, Rhys and Stratton took the chairs opposite them.
Stratton leaned over toward Rhys and spoke quietly. “Had to have a word with Lady Stratton. Can’t imagine what the hell she was thinking, bringing the boy downstairs.”
If Rhys had any lingering doubt about harboring Penn from his father—and he didn’t—it would’ve evaporated. In fact, he wished there was a way to take the other boy from him as well.
Miss Derrington set down her teacup after taking a sip. She offered a dazzling smile that Rhys made a note to tell her never to display for Stratton again. It was the antithesis of what she needed to do to dissuade his attention. In fact, it might be best if she wore a sack over her head, particularly given that look had entered Stratton’s eyes once more. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said. “After tea, might we inspect the book?”
“In a hurry, I see.” Stratton’s tone held a note of admonishment. If he became annoyed, he might turn obstinate and refuse their request to view it.
Rhys shot Miss Derrington a cautionary glance before turning to placate his cousin’s changeable mood. “No, we are not. We shall be delighted to peruse the manuscript when it’s convenient. We realize we came on very short notice. For all we know,
you’re engaged this evening.”
“As it happens, I am. I have, ah, some entertainment coming later. Nothing suitable for the ladies, I’m afraid, but I do hope you’ll join me, Bowen.” Another artful wink at Rhys.
Blast. Given Stratton’s peccadilloes, tonight’s “entertainment” could be just about anything, but Rhys would wager it involved women and spirits, based on his cousin’s preferred vices.
“Tomorrow then,” Miss Derrington said, persisting in securing a time for seeing the manuscript.
Stratton waved his hand. “Certainly. I want to show it to you personally, so it must be after I’m up and about. I shan’t be rising terribly early.” This time he sent a smirk in Rhys’s direction.
Rhys was fast approaching his endurance and they hadn’t even been there an hour. He’d have to come up with a good reason to beg off tonight’s “entertainment” and only hoped his cousin didn’t become difficult.
They endured another quarter hour of stilted conversation, mostly led by Mrs. Edwards, before Miss Derrington declared her intent to rest before dinner. “We will be having a dinner, won’t we?”
Rhys worried that her tone might offend Stratton, but he laughed. “Of course. We serve at half-six. I’ve assigned a housemaid to see to your needs, she will help you prepare.”
Miss Derrington stood. “Thank you, my lord.” She flicked a glance at Rhys. “Mr. Bowen.”
Rhys got to his feet as she and Mrs. Edwards left the room.
They’d barely crossed the threshold when Stratton turned toward Rhys, his blue eyes animated. “Eye of Christ, she’s a beauty! I could barely wait to sink my claws into her porcelain flesh, but then you had to go and ruin it for me. Though I find it difficult to believe you’re dipping your cock in that well without the aid of the parson’s trap. You’re far too prude for such proclivities, particularly with a miss like her.”
Rhys didn’t bother trying to persuade him that it wasn’t “prude” for a gentleman to refrain from seducing a young, unmarried woman. “It’s nothing so . . .” He borrowed Miss Derrington’s word. “Lurid. We’re to be married.” He latched on to the excuse both to give credence to their ruse and to hopefully avoid having to participate in Stratton’s festivities later. She’d understand, he hoped.
“You held out on me!” Stratton stood from his chair, having failed to get up when the ladies had left, and slapped Rhys on the back. “Now, you must join in the fun later. Very soon you’ll be leg-shackled, not that I let that stop me.” No, he didn’t, and he was fixated on coercing Rhys into joining him.
“I’d rather not,” Rhys said. “I hope you understand that though we aren’t yet married, I am committed to Miss Derrington in my heart.”
“Not surprising that you’re a romantic. All those damned books and poems you’re obsessed with. I’m just glad you’re finally living in the real world. She’s a fine piece. In fact . . .” He leaned closer. “There’s a secret door between your chambers. It’s visible on your side, but not hers.”
The vile bounder. How many unsuspecting female houseguests had been set upon via that scheme? “I’m afraid I can’t contain my disgust. That you would allow men to raid a woman’s bedchamber—”
“Don’t get yourself in a dither.” Stratton frowned at him, his thin lips pulling taut. “We only give the chamber to women who are expecting visitors and who might have a companion with them. Exactly like your Miss Derrington. You don’t need to use it, but it’s there if you change your mind.”
As horrified as Rhys was by the secret door, he had to admit it was comforting after what had transpired at the inn in Hereford. “Thank you, cousin. I didn’t mean to offend.” Not that everything you do isn’t offensive in some way.
“I accept your apology. Care to join me for that whisky?”
Rhys rarely drank before dinner and even if he did, he would’ve begged off. He’d had enough of Stratton for a while. “Thank you, but I think I’d like to clean up before dinner.”
“As you prefer.” Stratton shrugged and led him from the room. They encountered Post as they exited, and the butler guided Rhys to his chamber.
Situated in the west wing, the Knight’s Lounge was a large chamber with a massive bed dominating the space. It included an expansive fireplace, a small antechamber for a valet, and that secret door. Set in the corner of the room, it screamed its presence and also that of the woman residing on the other side.
Rather, women.
Rhys would do well to remember that Miss Derrington wasn’t alone. He would also do well to remember that she was a young, unmarried miss with whom he could never dally—secret door or no. The fact that he’d contemplated it, even for a second, scared him witless.
Though Margery was tired from the long day, she couldn’t sleep. She turned over in the large bed, having lost count of how many times she’d sought a new position. But it was no use. She simply couldn’t turn off her mind.
Dinner had been an odd affair. Lord Stratton had spoken freely of his plans for later that evening in front of his wife. And Lady Stratton had seemed not to care. Margery had practically choked on her stuffed pheasant.
She’d snuck a look at Mr. Bowen to gauge his reaction and had been pleased to see the flesh around his mouth whiten and his jaw clench. She’d also been pleased to hear him decline Stratton’s offer of entertainment, pleading exhaustion after their journey. Did that mean he might’ve been interested in participating on another night? Tomorrow evening, perhaps?
She didn’t think so. She’d come to know him, at least a little, in the few days of their acquaintance and he struck her as an honorable sort, even if he had lied to her at the outset. Part of her worried that he was angling for priority access to the book—that this was why Stratton wasn’t showing her the manuscript until tomorrow. What if he’d already shared it with Mr. Bowen? She shook her head, annoyed by her own suspicion. Even if Mr. Bowen had already seen the text, he would’ve had to have detected the code, something he couldn’t do without her book in hand.
She sat up and tied the curtain back to allow the light from the lamp on the side table in. After everything Mr. Bowen had told her about Stratton, she’d left it lit. And now she could look through the book for the hundredth time.
Opening it, she ran her fingers over the title page. Where was the code embedded? Was it in one of the pictures? Was it somehow buried in the text? Since learning of the code’s existence, she’d spent countless hours at the White Lady in Monmouth and at the inn in Hereford trying to discern where it might be and what it might say. Having to wait to see Stratton’s book until tomorrow frustrated her greatly.
Partway through the book, a loud mumbling came from the small chamber where Mrs. Edwards was asleep on a comfortable, but narrow bed. After running afoul of sleeping in the larger bed at the inn in Hereford, she’d insisted on taking the maid’s room.
Margery got up from the bed and went to peek on her. She was asleep, just muttering indecipherable words. Perhaps a code. Margery grinned to herself and went back to the bed. Caught up in her amusement, she tripped over the leg of a chair situated opposite the bed. She landed on the floor with a loud “oof” and worried she’d awakened Mrs. Edwards.
Getting to her feet, she froze as the corner of her chamber simply opened up and a large figure strode into her chamber. A scream formed in her throat, then died as Mr. Bowen came fully into the lamplight.
He charged in, his dark brows drawn dangerously low over his eyes. Unlike last night, he wore a shirt.
Pity, that.
She, however, was garbed in nothing but a nightrail. She ought to be dashing to the bed to shield herself beneath the covers, but her feet were rooted to the Aubusson carpet.
He took a step toward her. “Are you all right? I heard a noise.”
“I think the more pressing question is how you came into my room through the wall.” She wanted to go over and investigate how he’d done it, but that meant walking past him and just now, she didn’t think increasing th
eir proximity was a good idea.
“It’s a door in my room.”
“It’s not a door in mine.”
He glanced away, but only for a second. “I didn’t mean any harm. After last night . . . I preferred to err on the side of caution as opposed to propriety.”
She was certainly glad he’d done that last night, and she could understand why he’d done the same tonight. Now that he was here, the question that had been burning her mind rose to the fore and begged to be asked. “What did you and Lord Stratton do this afternoon?”
“Scarcely anything, why?” He studied her with a bit of skepticism, or maybe that was just her own silly suspicion reflecting back on herself.
“I was only curious.”
He made a sound that might’ve been a stifled laugh. “You’re a terrible liar. You thought I’d received a private viewing of the book, didn’t you?”
She raised her chin and crossed her arms over her chest, again aware of her lack of covering. “Perhaps.”
His gaze was warm, engaging. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“You’ve proven yourself to be untrustworthy.”
“Only by omission and that was before we forged a . . . relationship . . . an alliance. I promise you can trust me completely.”
She suspected she could, but the notion frightened her. Trust opened one up to a level of emotion that she shared with very few people—two, to be exact. Better to keep her guard up. “You didn’t tell me about the secret door.”
He leaned against the bedpost. “And how would I have done that? Blurted it out over the soup course at dinner?”
“Why not? Your cousin doesn’t censor his tongue.”
His mouth curved up. “Forgive me if my manners are just a smidgeon better than his.”
She couldn’t keep from smiling at that.
“Be careful, Miss Derrington. I’ve successfully warned Stratton away from you, but if you dazzle him overmuch with your beauty, he’ll throw what little discretion he possesses to the winds.”
His words heated her darkest places, made her think of what it might be like to encourage Mr. Bowen. Here he was, standing in her bedchamber, leaning on her bed . . .
