Page 41 of A Masked Lady for Mr. Kenworthy
“Very well,” she said, attempting to curb her own fear. “What should we do?”
Selina gently pulled the journal from Faye’s hands.
“Firstly, give this to me,” she said. “It will be safer with me, should the marquess notice its absence and question you about it later tonight.” She paused, clearly trying to come up with a plan on very short notice. “Then, we must get you back to your bedchambers. If he comes looking for you and you are not there, he may come to check on the book out of suspicion.”
Faye nodded, feeling overwhelmed and on the verge of panic. She had been sent to get the book the countess now held. But now that she has obtained it, she was suddenly more afraid than she had been at any point throughout the mission. She had first thought that getting the journal would be the hardest part of the job. She now realized just how wrong she had been. What if Lord Turlington discovered them? What would he do to them if they were?
Selina tiptoed to the library door without another word, opening it as silently as she could manage. She peeked her head out, just enough to see the hallway, and she hesitated a moment. Faye assumed to make sure there was no one within eyesight or earshot. Once she was satisfied, the countess turned and motioned for Faye to come to her. Faye held her breath as she and Lady Salisdene slipped out of the library. They left the door just as Faye had found it when she had entered the room, then quietly made their way to the staircase.
Once they reached it, the countess motioned for Faye to wait for her there. She slipped up the stairs, leaving Faye on the bottom floor of the mansion confused and more than a little afraid. Why should the countess leave her alone, especially after what she had just said in the library? She waited, motionless, apart from wringing her hands at her chest, too afraid to even breathe. Time stretched on for what felt like forever, and she began to feel as though she had waited for hours for the countess.
When Selina reappeared at the top of the stairs, wildly but quietly gesturing for her to come upstairs, Faye nearly sobbed with relief. When she reached the countess, she took Faye’s hand in one of hers and held up one finger of her other hand. Then, she tugged Faye quickly to her bedchambers, quickly locking them both inside.
“I went to see if Lord Turlington was still in his room,” she explained. “Luck is with us, my dear. He is sound asleep and, from the sound of it, will be all night long.”
This time, Faye did celebrate her relief. She sighed loudly and embraced the countess, simply grateful to have such a competent chaperone on such a frightful, dangerous mission.
“You are wonderful, Selina,” Faye said against the countess’s shoulder.
Lady Salisdene patted her back, quickly releasing Faye. She pulled her over to the bed, where she began grabbing any of Faye’s belongings she could find.
“What are you doing?” Faye asked.
The countess did not look back at Faye when she spoke.
“Darling,” she said. “I have been having the most terrible feeling about us being at that house party tomorrow. Today, I spotted several gentlemen who were not from theton, and they had something of a lascivious interest in us, particularly in you. And now we have this book, and my feeling has intensified tenfold. We must get out of here first thing tomorrow morning.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Mayson prepared to settle at his desk and read some of the classified mail he had received from one of the French agents with whom he had been corresponding. He then realized he had left his notes on the most recent update from one of his London contacts in his bedchambers. Cursing to himself, he rose from his seat, slamming the quill back into the inkwell, ignoring the droplets of ink that splashed out onto the dark brown wood. He stormed from the study and up the stairs, moving with purpose down the hallway.
As he walked past the dowager countess’s room, he was taken aback at two things. The first was that the door was open a small crack, whereas it had been closed completely when he had gone downstairs earlier that morning. And the second was that the sickly woman was no longer coughing. Come to think of it, he could not recall hearing her cough for several nights. Usually, the sound of her barking roused him throughout the night unless he fell into an alcohol-induced slumber. But now, he could clearly hear she was not so much as struggling to breathe.
Slowly, he peeked through the open door, pushing silently against it to get a better view. A third surprise awaited him inside. The dowager countess was no longer laying in bed, looking as though she would die at any moment. Rather, she was sitting at her dresser, slowly brushing her hair. He stood staring for a moment, trying to understand the sight before him. She had been so near death just days before. What the hell was going on?
After a moment, he entered the room, huffing loudly to announce his presence. The woman turned quickly, looking at him with eyes widened by apparent fear. Mayson stared at her, taking in the bright color that had settled into her formerly pale, waxen cheeks. Her hands, though frozen in surprise, were strong and steady, not weak and trembling. He balled his hands into fists, his anger boiling quickly to the surface.
“What is this?” he growled.
The dowager countess seemed to come around to herself. She blinked, ridding her expression of her horror and giving him a nonchalant shrug.
“Can a lady not sit at her mirror and tend to her toilette?” she asked coolly.
Mayson trembled with rage. He took a step toward her, debating on whether to strike her for her insolence.
“Any lady might, indeed,” he hissed, “but not a lady who was so recently near death. What is the meaning of this?”
The woman turned back to her mirror, batting her eyelids innocently at his reflection.
“I am sure I have no idea what you mean,” she said.
Mayson looked at her suspiciously. She was trying to be calm, but he could hear the fear creeping back into her voice. Suddenly, it dawned on him. There was no possibility that a person as ill as she had been could so quickly begin to recover. That is, not without the help of medical treatment. Specifically, medicine.
“Is that so?” he asked, sauntering over to where she sat at her dresser. He grabbed her wrist and forced her hand onto one of the drawers. “Then you won’t mind opening these for me.”
He made the frail dowager countess with a firm yank open each of the dresser drawers, one by one. He looked through each one, carelessly tossing out items in his way. But when his search proved fruitless, the countess gave him a weak, smug smirk.
“I believe you have probably gone mad,” she said.
