The Charmer

by CJ Archer

  ***

  It was easy enough to get into Sutton Hall. Like many country homes, one of the service doors had been left unlatched. There was little need to secure a house when everyone knew everyone else. Besides, all the truly valuable items like the silver plate would be locked away. Orlando carried his boots past the larders, scullery, and kitchen, up an inner stairwell to where he guessed the master's apartments to be. Modern manors followed a similar layout with the best private rooms on the first floor overlooking the prettiest views. In Sutton Hall's case, the prettiest views were across the valley to the north, so it was that wing he investigated first.

  There was enough moonlight coming through windows to make out furniture and doors as he carefully opened the first one off the landing. With any luck it would lead to Lynden's study. Beyond that would be his private chambers including his bedchamber and wardrobe.

  But it was an empty room. He cursed his pride for not asking Susanna for directions. It was only now that he was faced with finding his way through a large house that he realized how foolish that pride was, particularly since he wasn't angry at her but at himself. He was the one who couldn't stop new and unwelcome thoughts from getting in the way of the task at hand.

  She seemed to be having no such difficulty.

  Bloody hell. Susanna's suggestion that she knew him as little as she knew Monk, and the implication that she didn't trust him, had sent him reeling. He may have lied to her, but she could trust him nevertheless. How could she not know that after what had passed between them during their lovemaking? Had she not felt what he'd felt?

  Damnation. He wasn't supposed to feel anything.

  Concentrate, Holt. If he didn't stop thinking about Susanna, he was going to find himself in the wrong room at the wrong end of a sword.

  He tried the second door off the landing with more success. The moonlight streaming through the large window illuminated a desk, chairs, and coffers. The study at last. He went inside but left the door open a little. The desk was long and papers littered the surface. He read some, but they appeared to be estate accounts and letters to London tailors. No letter to or from Lord Whipple or anyone else Orlando recognized. He checked inside a casket on the far corner of the desk but it held only spare quills and ink. The only other casket on the desk was locked. The two large coffers on the floor were also locked. He tried the casket first.

  The thin tools made of bone that Hughe had given each of the Guild members when they joined quickly opened the padlock. Orlando lifted the lid and angled the casket to the moonlight. Inside were dozens of pieces of crumpled and torn parchment.

  He removed the small pack from his back and tipped the pieces inside. With the pack slung across his back and his boots once more in hand, he was out the door and down the stairs before the count of five.

  "Halt! Who's there?" shouted out a voice. Monk.

  Hell.

  Orlando ran. Monk ran after him.

  "Halt, fool, or I'll use my blade."

  Try.

  Orlando detoured into the kitchen and headed for the door leading outside, but someone had locked it. He pressed his back against the wood, assessed his options. It was dark and he could only just make out the shapes of the table, stools, pots, the fireplace. Monk.

  "Do not move," Monk said. "I'm armed." Armed but foolish. He'd not raised a hue and cry to rouse the rest of the household. That was a mistake.

  Orlando drew his knife out of the sheath strapped to his forearm and approached Monk carefully, slowly. Metal flashed in the other man's hand. He too held a knife. Another mistake. He should have brought his sword.

  Why hadn't he? If Orlando had awoken to sounds of an intruder, the first thing he would have done was grab his sword, if he had one.

  Perhaps Monk hadn't been asleep when he heard Orlando. Perhaps he'd been roaming around the house too with the less wieldy knife for protection. It explained why it seemed like he'd been waiting for Orlando in the service area when he ought to be sound asleep in a bedchamber upstairs.

  Well, well, why was the mysterious Mr. Monk sneaking about his employer's house?

  "Who are you?" Monk growled.

  Orlando said nothing. Speaking would give his identity away. It was so dark in the windowless kitchen that even his blond hair would not be visible.

  "I said—"

  Orlando hunched over and charged. He hit Monk side-on, using his body to force the other man out of the way. Monk grunted and slammed against the wall near the door. Orlando ran out of the kitchen, past the larders and other service rooms toward the narrow passage leading to a different exit.

  But he didn't see the object in his path. He tripped over it and skidded across the flagstone floor. Bloody hell! What fool had left a crate or whatever the hell it was in the way?

  He got to his feet, keeping his pack close, but was shoved back down again by the full force of Monk's body. He managed to stand again only to receive a punch to the stomach.

  Orlando couldn't breathe and pain rippled through his middle. The hit was a solid one. Monk knew what he was doing. Orlando swung back and his fist crunched against Monk's face. Monk grunted then lunged.

  Orlando didn't see the knife until too late.

  He leapt to the side but the blade sliced through his sleeves and slashed his arm. It stung like the devil, but he made no sound.

  Enough. Time to end it.

  Orlando ran off again, through another door, and found himself in a small room whose function he couldn't determine without light. Perfect.

  Monk was right behind him. But instead of running, Orlando flattened himself against the wall near the door. Monk tripped over Orlando's boot. He went sprawling across the floor and crashed into what sounded like pails.

  Before he could get up, Orlando stepped on his hand. Grunting in pain, Monk let go of the knife. Orlando snatched it up then hauled Monk to his feet, and hit him in the stomach. Hard. He didn't pull back.

  Monk doubled over, gasping for air. He fell to his knees and that's when Orlando left. He didn't look back. Didn't need to. No footsteps followed, and he knew Monk wouldn't be able to breathe properly for some time.

  Now all he had to do was sneak back into Stoneleigh without getting caught.