Page 22 of Too Wanton to Wed
She stared at him. “No? Why on earth not?”
“You are not my master.” He leaned against the closed door as if he did not quite trust the locking mechanism. “He asked me to wait for him here. This is my post, until he says otherwise.”
Violet was starting to see why Lillian had resorted to kicking people. “In that case, may I please borrow your key so that I can getinmy bedchamber?”
“Absolutely not.”
Grinding her teeth, she glared right back up at him. “Let me guess... Because I am not your master?”
He lifted a brow. “If Master wanted you to have a key, you would have a key.”
She supposed the logic was sound, but he didn’t have to look so smug about it. As if he enjoyed thwarting her. As if her distress made him feel superior. Well, he wasn’t superior. He was a member of the staff, just like her. A human being, just like her. The disgrace here wasn’t the state of her day dress but rather his utter lack of empathy.
“Mr. Roper,” she said, keeping her voice as bland and sincere as possible. “I understand your position. Do you think, this once, it might be acceptable to—”
He turned to face the other direction.
Her jaw dropped. She had just been cut by a fellow servant.
Eyes narrowed, she pushed away from the wall. He didn’t want to loan her his key? Fine. He didn’t have to. She would simply take it. After all, it washerbedchamber.
“Very well,” she said aloud. “I shall wait quietly at the door until some random soul happens by to let me in.”
His scarred chin lifted slightly, as if he found that to be a splendid idea indeed.
He would. She brushed past him and stumbled, taking care not to land upon her swollen ankle.
Reflexively, his arms shot out to steady her. She rested against him for a brief second, ostensibly to regain her equilibrium. Then she continued down the hall with her head held high.
His snort of derision was just audible.
Not until she rounded a corner did she finally slow. She uncurled her fist to reveal a thin brass key nestled inside. Mr. Roper might fancy himself the most uppity manservant in Shropshire, but he hadn’t a lick more sense than the uppity fools who fell for the oh-pardon-me stumble in London alleyways.
Violet allowed herself a small smile. She’d apologize later—and then demand a key of her own. But first, she needed a bath. An hour’s solitude sounded divine. Her limbs practically melted at the sight of her door. With trembling fingers, she fit the key into the lock, and—
Fit thekeyinto thelock, and—
Oh, God help her. She’d nicked the wrong bloody key.Nowwhat?
She sagged against her stubbornly locked door and sighed. Nothing else for it. She’d have to return the ill-gotten key to that prig Roper and admit defeat.
But he was no longer there.
She hopped down the empty corridor in disbelief. All his palaver about his sacred duty to lounge against a locked door, and the man had up and left not ten minutes later. Perhaps he hadn’t been driven by a manic desire to cleave to the letter of his master’s word after all. Perhaps he simply despisedher.
Fists at her sides, she cast her incredulous gaze down one side of the corridor, then the other. Now what? Hunt down Mr. Waldegrave? She tugged on the handle to the door his manservant had allegedly been guarding, then attempted to fit the stolen key into the lock.
It refused to budge. Lovely.
She couldn’t return to the catacombs without a working key. Nor could she return to her chambers. She couldn’t even ring for help without a key, because all the bloody bell pulls were locked inside rooms, not dangling about the passageways.
Had she thought the Waldegraves lived a life of privilege? They lived a life of utter madness.
Perhaps she could find the kitchen, if it were located in this structure. A crust of bread, a dram of milk, a spot of water to dab the ink from—oh, who was she fooling? Her stained fingers would eventually fade to normal, but nothing at all could save her dress. The fabric was barely even sticky anymore. It just happened to boast the world’s largest inkblot.
She paused when she reached an intersection at the end of the corridor. Neither of the attached corridors was lit, and she had no candle with which to light her way.
Of course, the only working sconce behind her was the one beside the locked door leading to the catacombs. She supposed she could wait there for Mr. Waldegrave, but what if hehadreturned while she was attempting to break into her own chamber? That would explain Mr. Roper’s mysterious disappearance. There was no sense standing around waiting for the arrival of someone who wasn’t en route.
