Page 79 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

It was Alexander’s custom to rise early in the morning, and travel did not change his routine. It was before dawn but he had risen and washed. He remained in his chamber in his plain breeches, boots and open shirt. The tavern was still quiet, and he knew Rupert stood guard outside the door. He sat with his tea and reviewed his recent correspondence, hoping against hope that he was right about this scheme. He seldom had doubts about his course, but in the final hours before a plan came to its conclusion, it seemed that all the other possibilities became infinitely more plausible.

What if he was wrong about Nathaniel Cushing being the thief?

No, he could not be.

What if he could not prove that Nathaniel Cushing was the thief?

There was a distinct possibility. If Cushing did not take the bait, if he did not try to steal the Eye of India, if he was not caught with it in his possession...Alexander rose to pace his humble chamber, restless with uncertainty.

What if Cushing changed the pattern of his behavior? It would have been ideal to have been at Castle Keyvnor the night before, but Alexander dared not take a second chance when the house was full of guests.

There would be severe repercussions if the true Eye of India was lost in the attempt. Alexander checked upon it again. He had retrieved it from the castle that first night and only Daphne Goodenham knew he had been there. It remained safely in his belongings at the tavern.

And what of Miss Goodenham? How had she guessed that he wore a disguise? Who had she told? He should have demanded her secrecy instead of assuming it. She might tell her sister, and who could tell where that girl would place her confidence?

Alexander gave a low growl of frustration and wished he had something stronger than tea. It was all too easy to think of his other source of frustration, that tantalizing kiss in the night, and the sweetness of Miss Goodenham’s lips. He disliked that Cushing talked to her so much. Surely she could not be Cushing’s ally? Surely she could not reveal Alexander?

How could he be certain?

When would he see her again?

How would he know she was trustworthy?

There was a commotion in the tavern below and Alexander frowned at the door. A woman raised her voice, her Scottish brogue thick and her voice high. “I must see His Grace!” she cried, which was remarkable given the early hour.

“His Grace is not receiving guests,” Rupert said firmly.

There was the sound of a scuffle and feet racing up the wooden stairs. Rupert swore and heavier footfalls echoed after the lighter ones. Alexander spun to seize his cloak but he was too late. He only had his hand upon it when the door to his chamber was thrown open and a woman in a hooded cloak flung herself toward him.

“Your Grace!” Rupert exclaimed, his annoyance more than clear. “I do apologize. She is as slippery as a fish!”

“Your Grace,” the maid cried as she fell prostate at his feet. “I beg you to aid my mistress!”

Alexander was astonished. He might have asked a question, but the maid stretched out her hand, offering a very familiar blue velvet bag.

It was not empty. He could see the shape of the gem through the cloth.

Why had she brought the counterfeit Eye of India to him?

He gestured to the door with an imperious fingertip, knowing it was too late to don his disguise. He would have to hope that the girl did not dare to look into his face. “Remain with us, Haskell, and stand witness to this business.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The door was secured and Rupert leaned back against it, his expression one of complete distrust. The maid remained on the floor before Alexander and he could see that she was out of breath.

“Who is your mistress?” he demanded.

“I dare not utter her name, Your Grace,” she said and something in her voice was achingly familiar. Alexander took a step closer as the maid lifted her head, letting him see her face for the first time.

It was Miss Goodenham herself.

Who showed considerable promise in mimicry.

“Oh!” she whispered, her eyes lighting and a smile curving her lips as she looked upon him.

“Oh,” he replied, then arched a brow. He was both vexed and intrigued, and uncertain which reaction to show her. He indicated the velvet sack. “Where did you get it?”

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Someone was in my room last night. Eurydice was asleep. I thought it might have been you, sir,” she confessed, blushing prettily.

Rupert cleared his throat.

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