Page 33 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“She took me keys,” she announced, her hands clutched at her waist, her brow deeply furrowed.
“She?”
“Your wife.”
“For what purpose?”
She gave her eyes an exaggerated roll. “To open doors.”
He’d assumed as much. In hindsight his question was rather pointless. He hadn’t even bothered to consider how Portia would fill her day. Obviously by wandering the hallways and sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
“She’s yet to return them, and it’s nearly dark. They’re my responsibility. I warned his Lordship—”
“You spoke to my father about them?”
She nodded. “I wanted his approval before handing them over to her. She’s not the marchioness.”
“She is, however, the lady of the manor.”
Her eyes widened at his forceful tone, which he had not meant to come out so sharp, but regardless of how little he might personally care for Portia and her greedy little fingers, she was his wife and as such would be accorded the respect she deserved.
Mrs.Barnaby’s mouth turned down. “Your father said the same thing.”
Of course he had.
“Where will I find Lady Locksley?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not her keeper. Wandering about somewhere I suppose.”
He wasn’t particularly pleased with her answer. He and his father before him had been rather lax with the servants. Perhaps it was time he prodded Mrs.Barnaby toward retirement. He’d consider it. Meanwhile he had a wife to locate.
She could be anywhere in this massive mausoleum. As he began trudging through it, he considered that she had probably gone in search of a bedchamber that she could claim without his knowing. Upstairs then. He should have asked how long she’d been in possession of the keys. There were maybe fifty bedchambers. How long would it take her to go through them, to find one that suited her?
Having her own bedchamber would be a waste. She had to understand that. Every moment of every night was going to be spent with him. He’d made that clear.
He was halfway up the stairs when he stopped, considered. Perhaps she’d merely wanted to explore. He and his father’s wards had certainly done their share of nicking the housekeeper’s keys and sneaking into rooms at midnight. Perhaps he’d plan a little adventure for his wife, take her on a tour in the wee hours when everything creaked and moaned. He thought of her clinging to him—
No, she wasn’t one to cling. He knew that instinctively. She’d probably be leading the way.
Night was falling. Soon she would be looking for him. He should simply settle in his library and wait. Only as he headed back down the stairs, he wasn’t in the mood to wait for her. He wanted to find her, discover exactly what she was up to. It was possible that she was planning to collect small items that would fetch a pretty penny, things that she believed wouldn’t be noticed missing. Although the truth was that he couldn’t see her as a thief, no matter how much money seemed to matter to her. It had irritated him when she’d asked for her seventy-five pounds that morning, had irritated him more when he could tell that she wanted to count it. Theirs was a business arrangement. Security for an heir. It was silly of him to fault her now when he’d known all along that she cared about only titles and coin.
She wasn’t going to steal anything, but he suspected she was taking inventory, striving to determine how much they were worth. She would no doubt be methodical about it. If she was unlocking every door, examining the contents of every room, he doubted that she’d have made it upstairs yet. No doubt, she was still on the main level somewhere.
He strode briskly down hallways, trying doors. Locked, locked, locked.
But as he came to the end of one monstrously long and wide hallway, he could see a faint swath of light that could only come from an open doorway. Quieting his tread, he cautiously approached and peered inside, completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him.
With a scarf covering her hair and her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, she was on her knees near a bookshelf, pulling items off the bottom shelf, wiping them, setting them aside. Suddenly with a screech, she jumped up and back. He saw the huge spider scurrying out, racing past—
She lifted her skirt slightly and stopped the creature’s progress forever with a hard stomp.
He stared at the foot, which had come down with unerring determination. “Are you wearing one of my Hessians?” he asked incredulously.
With a start, she faced him squarely, her eyes wide, that luscious lovely mouth of hers slightly open. “You’re home.”
He didn’t like the way that her words seemed to pierce his armor, made him glad that he was in the residence. He was accustomed to having his bath, a drink, a quiet dinner, an evening reading. Alone. Always alone until he looked in on his father before retiring. Solitude had been the order of the night. She was going to change all that, whether he wanted her to or not. “Indeed I am. The boot?”
Raising her skirt, she extended the foot, turning it one way then the other as though surprised to find the polished black leather encasing a good part of her leg. “Your feet are much larger than mine, which makes it easier to kill the spiders and provides a little distance from them as I do so.” She glanced up at him. “There are an inordinate number in here. And they are remarkably large. And beastly ugly.”
