“No, your explanation is most helpful. I’m glad Lord Wellough is not in this passageway. He stared, making me frightfully uncomfortable.”
Sarah giggled again. “Oh, aye, he does look, but as long as he’s not too bosky, he doesn’t paw us maids, not like some gentlemen.” Dorothea’s face must have fallen, for she added hastily, “Not here, miss. Lady Alice won’t allow it, and Lord Restive never touches the help, not even the ninnies who are no better than they should be. But my cousin Lizzie ran away from her master in the dead of night, she was that frightened.”
“How dreadful,” Dorothea said. “I hope she found a better employer.”
“Yes, miss, she got taken on at the Rose and Crown, and last year she married the innkeeper’s son! Now she has the most darling baby you ever saw.”
Dorothea wished to have babies of her own, but that was impossible without a husband. Her thoughts flew instantly to Mr. Hale, who wasn’t attracted to her. How unfair, she thought, and then, how ungrateful of me. She should be ashamed of herself, for along with the advantages of birth and beauty, she would inherit a tidy sum. She didn’t need to marry, and if she had to do without children, so be it. Far better than to find oneself tied to some pompous, unintelligent man.
“Everyone’s betting Lord Restive will go to bed with the Contessa.” Sarah clapped a hand to her mouth, dropping the hairbrush. She bent to retrieve it. “Sorry, miss! But she’s a beautiful widow and he’s a handsome man. I don’t know what Lady Alice was thinking, inviting her here, for surely she knew it would mean goings-on.”
Would Restive visit the Contessa’s chamber, or she his? Hopefully the former, for that would give Dorothea the chance she needed to search his room—but she could hardly ask.
She didn’t need to, for as Sarah put the finishing touches on her hair, she said, “I hope that sort of behavior won’t offend you, miss, what with the Contessa being right next door, so to speak. But the walls are thick, so mayhap they won’t disturb your rest.”
“I’m sure they won’t,” Dorothea said.
At dinner, which included some excellent beef and the best pheasant soup Cecil had ever tasted, he was seated next to Dorothea, with the vicar on his other side and his wife on hers. Judging by Lady Alice’s twinkle, she had rearranged the seating on purpose. Dorothea sat across from the polite Dufair rather than her scowling mother; the vicar’s wife was kindly and entirely respectable, and as for Cecil—he was considered safe.
Which he was, at least as far as action was considered, but his mind sneakily conjured images of himself and Dorothea in decidedly unsafe activity. Lord Wellough’s lecherous glances showed he harbored similar thoughts. Fortunately, he was stuck next to Lady Darsington, or perhaps she was stuck with him—either way, it served them both right. Wellough asked Lady Darsington how the spying business was going these days, and she replied huffily that such matters were confidential. Which meant, Cecil knew, that Sir Frederick made sure his indiscreet wife never overheard anything she might disclose in so-called confidence. Meanwhile, Restive and the Contessa made it clear they enjoyed one another’s company a little too much.
Perfect. Cecil made up for almost a year’s worth of lost time by flirting with Dorothea. Gradually, spurts of laughter rewarded his efforts.
He glanced down the table and caught Lady Darsington eyeing both him—which didn’t matter—and her daughter with malicious intent.
“Damnation,” he muttered.
Dorothea turned startled blue eyes on him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I spoke my thought aloud.”
Her gaze flicked to her mother and back to him.
Cecil nodded, surprised at her immediate comprehension. “I thought we had spiked her guns. Now I’m not so sure.”
“I wish it were so easy, but fortunately, I’m as stubborn as she. Thank you so much for trying to flirt with me.” Her sweet lips curved in a shy smile, and his heart turned over. She turned to speak to the vicar’s wife, and Cecil spent the next half hour listening to the vicar explain the difficulties of writing sermons that inspired his parishioners to change their ways. Or rather, appearing to listen, for all he could think about was Dorothea’s smile.
Chapter Five
It was unexpectedly easy to flirt with Cecil—and what fun! How kind of him to worry about Mother’s reaction, but nothing could be done about her. Dorothea must simply get on with recovering the St. George medallion.
What had got into Papa, to take it from the place where it was securely hidden and put it in Edgar’s hands? Legend said it brought victory to whomever held it. She didn’t know whether it really had special power, but belief mattered a great deal in the case of holy relics.
By the time the ladies withdrew from the dining room, she was ready with the excuse of fetching her knitting. The gentlemen were safely downstairs, passing around the port, and with luck all the servants would be elsewhere, too.
When the others went into the drawing room, Dorothea hurried upstairs. The staircase and corridor were lit by sconces, and bedroom candles were ready on a table on the landing. She lit one, glanced both ways, and turned right instead of left.
Resisting the urge to tiptoe, she trod softly to the first door—Lord Restive’s—and peered inside. Welcome darkness greeted her. She went boldly through, as if this were her Mother’s chamber from which she meant to fetch a shawl. If she were caught, her excuse would be that she had turned the wrong way and become confused.
She went first to the bedside table. The drawer contained The Romance of the Forest, a few partial sheets of foolscap, and several keys. No medallion.
A table by the window held a travel desk. It was locked. She hurried back to the bedside for the keys, and with trembling hands tried them one by one. At last one worked, but the desk contained only paper, pens, penknife, ink, and a pounce box. Drat!
She gazed about. The door to the right must lead to his dressing room. Perhaps he had put the medallion with his jewelry. If she weren’t so nervous, she would have thought of that first. She was at the door when she remembered to lock the travel desk and return the keys to the bedside table.
She had just reached the dressing room door again when soft footfalls penetrated from the corridor, halting close by. Heart thudding, she slipped into the dressing room, pushed the door almost shut, and peered through the crack. Lord Restive’s door opened and light shone in. She pushed the dressing room door to and looked frantically about.
There were a couple of clothes presses, coats hanging along one wall, some shelves, a dressing table with a jewel case, a door leading to the passageway, and another to what must be Lord Wellough’s dressing room—and nowhere to hide. More footsteps made the decision for her. She would have to search later. She hastened across the room, snuffed her candle, and went into the passageway, closing the door behind her. She stopped to catch her breath and turned.
Cecil Hale stood only a yard away, looking like thunder. “What the devil are you doing here, Miss Darsington?”
The instant the words were out, Cecil regretted them.
Dorothea drew herself up, the picture of affront. “I beg your pardon?”