That must have been two years ago? And in that time, how she has changed. Matured. Blossomed… the keys!
“I cannot find the keys!” he blurted.
Her eyes widened, and an expression of disbelief ruled her face.
“But… but surely you have the keys if you have the shackles…” she put in with more hope than anything.
For one horrified moment, Jeremy believed that he must have dropped them as he had walked in search of his raven, toying with the keys in his hand.
Surely I would know. I could not drop something and not realize that it was no longer in my hand!
Then he remembered. Remembered putting the keys into the pocket of his waistcoat before entering the library. His fingers dived, found the chill shape of metal, and relief snapped through him so sharply he almost laughed. Harriet must’ve sensed it too, for she sagged against the chaise, her free hand covering her eyes as if she, too, had been holding her breath.
Working one-handed and far less elegantly than he liked, Jeremy drew out a ring of three small keys. The narrowest looked promising. He angled it toward the tiny lock biting his wrist, the wards brushing the keyhole—
The door creaked.
He went stone-still.
“A magnificent library, is it not?” boomed a voice that was recognized immediately.
Chelmsford. Of course it had to be Chelmsford!
Harriet drew a breath to speak. He pressed his palm to her mouth. Her lips were warm against his skin—altogether, disastrously distracting. He met her gaze, a single warning shake of his head. She nodded; they became statues.
“The finest I have seen in many a year, Your Grace,” came an older voice in reply.
Those next words struck like a lash.
Winchester.
Heat fled Jeremy; ice rushed in its place. The key nearly slipped from his fingers. Of all men—now. Of all rooms—this one. If Winchester discovered him…
“Our own library at the house in town is much more modest, though an eclectic collection if I do say so myself,” murmured a female voice.
“Lady Margaret, you are too modest. The library of the Earls of Sutton is the talk of the town. I have heard the Regent comment on it,” Chelmsford replied, “come, let me show you the pride of my collection.”
Jeremy leaped to his feet as the footsteps began to near. Harriet followed, wincing as she put her weight down on her injured ankle. She leaned against him, and he put his shackled arm to the small of her back to steady her. The keys flew from his hand and skidded across the polished floor to disappear beneath a wrought iron bookcase that looked as if it weighed as much as a shire horse.
Three people appeared and stopped at the sight of Jeremy and Harriet. A large bear of a man led an elderly man and woman. He had a beard of brown, shot through with gray, and a shock of hair that was mostly white.
“Oh, I didn't realize there was anyone else in here…” he began, “and who might you two be?”
“I am the Duke of Penhaligon, Your Grace,” Jeremy replied as politely as he could, “and this is...”
“Lady Harriet Tisdale of Oaksgrove,” Harriet added.
“So the rumors are true… Youarebetrothed,” said the elderly woman.
She had the face of a hatchet and hands that showed prominent blue veins. She managed to look down the length of that nose to all gathered. The man next to her had a red face and a portly frame.
“Erm... yes,” Jeremy replied, pouncing on the opportunity, “our engagement has not been publicly announced as yet, so I would very much appreciate your discretion. We wished to get to know each other before the attention of the county descends upon us—”
“Without chaperone?” the woman cut in disapprovingly.
“Ah, her brother, our chaperone, declared he would be waiting outside the door, though I fear the taste of a good time has seduced him away.”
“Very commendable, nevertheless,” the old man declared, clapping his hands together.
