Page 107 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
“The gentleman is expecting me. He will take my meeting.”
“That may be, sir—” Burgess began.
“Not maybe.Is.”
There contained a graveled edge to the enigmatic fellow’s baritone, like he’d consumed glass and chewed on the shards while he spoke.
“But,” Burgess said with greater adamance, impressively so, “his lordship is not at home.”
The unknown caller bore his gaze into Burgess. And even behind the servant as she was, she felt that stare drilling all the way into the kindly servant and into her.
“I’ll wait,” the gentleman said.
Before Burgess could shut the door in the stranger’s face, the gentleman shouldered his way inside. Presumptuous as could be, he claimed as his own throne the bench that Cressida had previously made hers.
Burgess’s mouth moved, but no words came out. She practically saw the other man—the kinder, less authoritative one—contemplating calling the footmen to eject the man.
Cressida sized him up: three or four inches past six feet and all strapping muscle. It would take a near army to do so.
It was as if Burgess only just remembered Cressida’s presence.
“Miss, you shouldn’t be here,” he murmured.
Cressida, however, had eyes only for the mystery guest looking for Benedict at this late hour.
“Are you employed by his lordship?” she demanded.
From where he sat like the king of the foyer, the gentleman looked up at Cressida like he’d only just seen her for the first time.
His stony silence indicated he had no intention of speaking a word to her. For Cressida’s part, she’d had enough. She’d grown damned tired of being invisible, and speaking and not being heard. Benedict had helped her find her voice.
“I asked you a question,” she repeated, hardening her gaze.
“Unless I’m now speaking with the Earl of Wakefield, I’m not here to take questions about what I’m doing here.”
Did she imagine the slight glint of amusement in his otherwise opaque gaze? It must have merely been a flick of the light in the sconces. For as quick as a flame fluttered to life, it was gone.
Cressida narrowed her eyes further. He wasn’t one accustomed to being questioned. She used that to her advantage.
“Are you here in the matter of a servant named Trudy?”
A vein pulsed at the side of his right temple.
“Miss Smith,” Burgess said imploringly.
They both ignored him. Cressida grabbed the stranger by the lapels of his jacket.
“Is this about Trudy?” she repeated more insistently.
His expression revealed nothing. Cursing silently, Cressida set him free. He might not answer her, but she had enough information in his being here and his silence to give her hope. And if he was, in fact, here regarding her nursemaid, then his waiting for Benedict to arrive only put Trudy in greater peril.
“Miss Smith.” Burgess’s voice contained the threat of tears.
Ignoring him, Cressida set over to the door with the same urgency of before. And this time, when she threw it open, she let herself out and bolted in search of the nearest hack.
With Burgess’s cries following after her, she scrambled into a waiting coach. She shouted her directions and then sat tensely on the upholstered bench as the churn of the carriage wheels rolled over first smooth cobblestones and then increasingly rough, uneven ones.
She fought to keep her heart from racing. Benedict would be upset and displeased.
