Page 67 of One Dangerous Desire
A clock on his mantel indicated the midnight hour, and she was thankful to encounter no servants and find the lights turned low as she made her way downstairs. Slipping the front door latch proved a precarious business, but she managed it without rousing Mrs. Hark and made her way out into the moonlight.
The walk back home was a short one. She went as quickly as she could, lifting her skirts to pick up her pace when a gentleman stumbling up to his townhouse startled her.
Once inside her front door, May collapsed against the wood, listening for any noise or movement in the house. A wheezy rattling sounded in the darkness, and she turned the hallway’s gaslights up enough to determine that no one else was in the hall. The sound came again, and then again, at even intervals, and she patted the spot over her racing heart when she realized it was Mr. Graves, snoring loud enough to be heard from his upstairs bedroom.
She made her way to her own room and meant to undress, but the moment she sat on the edge of the bed, drowsiness won out. Lying back, she could think only of Rex. No hope seemed too audacious, no challenge too daunting, as long as they were together.
Suddenly, a voice startled her awake. Her maid greeted her as she did each day when drawing the drapes aside to let in morning light. Except this morning, the girl gasped and stood staring at her with a hand clasped over her mouth.
“Good morning. Is my father at home?”
“H-he hasn’t returned yet, miss. Shall I bring a tub up so you can bathe?”
“Yes, thank you.” May tried for the imperious tone her mother used with mastery, but she ended up sounding giddy and overwrought. “Has Mr. Graves gone down to breakfast?”
“Just, miss.” With that, the girl scurried from the room as if she’d seen a ghost rather than a disheveled woman wearing a man’s dress shirt.
May chewed at the nail of her index finger, heard her mother’s voice chastising her for the breach in decorum, and forced her hand down to her side. She couldn’t wait for a bath and being fastened into all the layers of an elaborate day dress. A notion, more like a plan, had begun to form in her mind, and she knew just the man to aid her.
Making her way to the breakfast room, she repeated her proposal in her mind.
“Good morning, Mr. Graves.”
She caught him midbite, and he choked on a square of toast and slurped a few sips from his teacup before turning to face her.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
One look at her and he shot up from his chair, making his place setting rattle and sending his napkin fluttering to the floor.
“My God, what’s happened to you?”
Before she even considered telling him the truth of it, heat rushed to her cheeks. Perhaps she should have at least changed out of Rex’s shirt.
Mr. Graves pointed at her, eyes widened in a horrified expression. “There’s blood on your collar.”
Somehow she hadn’t noticed, but now that she looked, the splotches and stains were plain. All shed from Rex’s wound. “Please don’t worry, Mr. Graves. It’s not my blood.”
He waved his hand, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it now that he was done pointing, and spluttered, “Am I not to worry that you’re wearing a man’s shirt covered in blood?”
It was a valid question but not at all what she’d rushed downstairs to say to him.
“Let’s sit. Shall we?”
He followed suit when she took a chair, but his gaze remained fixed on her—or rather, Rex’s—shirt collar.
“How did you blackmail Rex six years ago?”
His jaw worked and his mouth opened, but nothing came out beyond sounds of offense and disgust. Finally, he managed, “It’s hardly the worst thing Seymour has asked me to do.”
“Never mind that. Did you actually have the means of framing him for theft, or did you just threaten it?”
May recognized his discomfort. He sat up straight, jaw tensed, as if she’d wandered into distressing conversational territory.
“Let’s choose another topic, Miss Sedgwick. You are, in fact, wearing a gentleman’s bloody shirt.”
She waved off his moral outrage and insisted, “Forget the shirt, Mr. Graves. I need your help to assist Rex. You and my father owe him—and me—for what you did six years ago.”
“Your father won’t see it that way.” Whether he felt chastised or sympathetic, May’s words seemed to soften Mr. Graves. His brow furrowed into the concerned look he often wore. “I will always assist you, if I am able. What is it you wish me to do?”
