Page 17 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
Chapter 6
Charley pausedat the mews to listen. A dim light seeped through the seams of the ramshackle stables behind the ill-kept garden.
Kingsley House was a very large dwelling situated on a respectable older street settled late in the century before last. There’d once been significant wealth here, but it had been lost by the current baron in bad speculation. That much he’d learned in his investigating that day.
At least one horse rustled and stamped in the small stable. Whatever other cattle Lord Kingsley kept were likely off with the new carriage.
A restless horse could be Lord Kingsley’s personal mount. Or...
Rattling stopped his thoughts. Dice, it was. A sound he knew well.
“Two sevens,” a man grumbled. “You win, and I’m done.”
“Give you a chance to win it back. Your master returns at dawn, and mine is busy inside.”
The accent was foreign. The chuckle that followed made Charley’s skin crawl.
He moved noiselessly through the darkness, picking his way down the crumbled stones of the path from the stables to the house, stopping at the steps that led up to the ballroom terrace. The windowed doors there might be the easiest access. The locks had been flimsy. The ballroom would be unoccupied.
However, he should at least test the door at the servants’ entrance. If they were not all gathered there drinking gin while their master was away, he’d prefer to slip in that way. And tonight, he’d gamble his last penny that they were all away.
He looked up at the house. All was dark, not so unusual with the master and mistress out. Not much light was needed to keep Miss Kingsley locked in her room.
Would there be guards set?
He slipped the latch on the door. Unlocked.
In the service entry, he paused to listen.
A dim light emanated from the larger room within—the servants’ hall probably. The scent of oil from a lamp tickled his nose.
No noise touched his ears and yet his skin rippled again. He peered through the doorway. The room was deserted.
At this hour at Shaldon House, there’d be a maid mending, or a cluster of servants chatting over their cups, or a footman at work servicing a pistol or honing a blade.
Carvelle was here, and Kingsleyhadsent his servants away. There was a special place in hell for men like them.
Across the room, a shadow edged along the other doorway. Charley eased back into the gloom, his breathing quickening.
Miss Kingsley poked into the room and swept her gaze around it. He dodged out of sight.
A chuckle bubbled up inside him. She’d been fully dressed, her hair was down, and in her hand metal glinted.
Her scent traveled in with her, a floral on top of other baser elements—woman, fear, and...blood.
“It’s Charles Everly,” he said into the darkness.
No sound, but he could smell the fear spiking.
“My coach is waiting on the corner,” he said. “My sister is waiting there also.”
Her clothing rustled as though she had decided she was free to make noise, and she stepped closer.
“Are there guards outside?” she whispered.
“A stable hand and another man. Is Carvelle here?”
“Upstairs.”
