Page 39 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
“Very well.” Perry was finally giving up. “I’m going up.”
He heard the click of the door and slid further into the shadows.
Perry was right. Graciela was beautiful. A wealthy, beautiful Spanish woman.
With the key to a spy? No. It couldn’t be her. It must certainly be the Duquesa. Farnsworth had set him on this mission, and Farnsworth was Graciela’s guardian. If she was a spy, Farnsworth already held the key within his grasp. Besides, she didn’t move in the kind of circles where spies hovered. She hadn’t been allowed to move freely in any circles at all.
Another noise outside stirred him and he slipped behind the curtain to peer out.
A footman walked by below in the garden, outlined by the dim light of his lantern. Another man walked out, smaller, distinctively limping. It was the head groom.
He released a breath and backed away. And then behind him, he felt a wisp of a draft as if the door had opened.
Shaldon House was nota fortress in any of the normal ways. There were no turrets with gun slits, no moats, no ironwork lacing the window openings, yet Graciela’s late-night inspection showed her that the likelihood of Carvelle gaining entrance was small.
As was the likelihood of her, and her servants, and Reina walking out without notice. Alone, she believed it was possible, as it was now possible for her to move freely down the long corridors and flights of carpeted stairs.
And it would have to be a kind of escape. It was clear to her, from Charley and Lady Perry’s behavior—she could not walk out of here without a score of armed guards. It was rational, she knew, perhaps even kind, but it still chafed.
They had assigned her a very grand bedchamber, with an anteroom for Francisca and Juan. As she knew they would, her servants had chosen to remain in the nursery, Francisca in a bed near Reina, and Juan upon a pallet on the floor. Conflicted they’d been, though, Francisca convinced that Mr. Everly would try to enter her chamber and ravish her. Her own protestations meant nothing to Francisca. Lady Perry’s endorsement had calmed her somewhat, but only Juan’s chastisement had silenced her. Mr. Everly was an honorable man, he’d said, and Graciela had proven herself capable of self-defense. And later, after Lady Perry had left, he promised Francisca he would do as Captain Kingsley would to any man who tried to dishonor Graciela.
She was sorry Juan knew about Kingsley’s whippings and Carvelle’s attack. She would not be able to stop Juan, and the English would hang him. It was another dilemma. She must extract her own revenge, if possible, and get them all away from this place before Juan’s life was endangered by his sense of honor.
As she came down the grand stairs, a night porter shot to his feet and she tugged the heavy dressing gown tighter. They had found another set of soft, elegant nightclothes for her. The porter was armed, and though he studied the floor at her slippered feet, he had scanned her too quickly, for weapons, or for nefarious intent. There’d been nothing improper. This was no privateer’s ship.
“All is quiet?” she asked.
“Aye, miss.”
Well, then. “I...I am looking for the kitchen.”
Without catching her eye, he directed her toward the back of the house. She thanked him and moved on.
The kitchen would be guarded also, perhaps abuzz with guards resting between turns on the watch. That was not for her. She moved along the hall, outside the view of the porter, and began opening doors.
A series of salons, parlors, and eating rooms were quiet, dark. At the back corner of the house, she opened a door and spotted a dim candle. It sputtered in the draft from the door, and her heart skittered with it. The light touched upon rows of books, running off into the dark. The room was otherwise unoccupied. Some foolish soul had left a candle burning among all these valuable tomes.
Fire was a great fear. Smoking below decks had been a punishable offense. The cook fire was always carefully watched.
She slid into the room and closed the door. Perhaps this room had a comfortable chair. Perhaps she could find respite here. In any case, a candle should not be left unguarded in a room like this, in a house like this.
As she neared the taper she saw that it was safely ensconced in a glass bell. She lifted the candle in its holder and looked around.
Volume after volume of rich leather, in all colors, circled the walls, from corner to corner and floor to ceiling—though that last was a guess as she could no way see the height of the shelving around her. She would have to visit this room in the day, to see what books were housed here. Perhaps there would be a volume of Cervantes that she could read to Francisca.
For now, it was the windows she must visit. Tall casement windows, they were. The drop from the first floor would not be much, but perhaps Shaldon had planted some spikybuganvillabelow.
Although,buganvillamight not grow in this cold place, else she would have seen riotous color in someone’s garden. There would be some other sort of brambly bush. They would have to wrap Reina in blankets, and still she might cry.
She set the candle down, the light dancing and sparkling on the dark wooden table. Like everything else here, it was meticulously maintained. Except—she peered closer—for a small crescent of dust.
Shivering, she edged toward the window and looked out. The glow there must be the stables.
She slid the window latch and tugged at the window. It moved up without noise, letting in the dank London air.
Behind the house, shrubbery outlined the garden, but this way along the side of the house was clear, and not much of a drop. She rested her forehead on the window sash, letting the cool wood calm her, savoring the scents of new grass and flowers. Lady Perry had said they had roses and lilacs. She would miss those sweet garden smells, once she was free in Captain Llewellyn’s ship on the open seas.
Another scent wafted into her awareness and her chest squeezed again, making her heart race.
