The room remained quiet, and soon drowsiness lured her gently away.
Rebecca was already dreaming when someone knocked on the door, startling her awake. Her room was dark except for the faint glow of embers from her fire. Who would be coming to her door so late? She looked across the room, trying to see John. Had he gone out to use the water closet? As her eyes adjusted, the chair across the room became more visible—empty, except for a heaped blanket.
She was about to whisper,“Who is it?”when a deep male voice breathed, “Halloo... ? Anyone home?”
The voice sent uneasiness washing over her. Faintly familiar, but not John’s. Nor Sir Frederick’s either.
Confusion puckered her brow. An unknown man at her room at night? Should she answer? She was not dressed for a caller, especially a male one. Quietly climbing from bed, Rebecca reached for her dressing gown, just in case.
It might be a page with a message, she reasoned, but if so, would he not identify himself?
Whoever it was rapped again. “Are you in there?” he hissed. “Look, it’s Ambrose Oliver. The author? I just want to speak with you a moment. Actually, justseeyou a moment and satisfy my curiosity.”
Rebecca froze, heart pounding.Please, God, don’t let John return while that man is at the door!
Oliver continued, “Mr. Edgecombe came to my room tonight and told me a young lady had sought him out. Wanted to talk to him about her brother—John Lane?”
The author’s voice, Rebecca noticed, was a bit sloppy, as though he’d been drinking.
“It made me wonder if you and I had met quite ... recently. You see, a certain young woman—perhaps a chambermaid, perhaps only dressed like one—came to my room earlier, asked me to read a manuscript or at least to pass it on to my publisher. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Rebecca cowered there near the closet, glad now she had not answered his knock. Surely he would give up soon and go away. He wouldn’t try to force his way in, would he? Just in case, she tiptoed over and quietly turned the key in the lock.
As if in response, the door latch shook. Rebecca pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. The nerve of the man!
Could Mr. Oliver somehow see her? Sense her presence? At the thought, her pulse pounded all the faster and she backed toward the balcony door and into the folds of its velvety draperies to hide.
Another rap, louder this time. “I know you are in there!” he goaded. Then he added, “At least, I think you must be.”
A second male voice joined the first. “May I ask what you are doing?”
Sir Frederick. Relief flooded her.
“Oh, good evening. I simply want to speak to the guest in this room, if that is any of your business.”
“I think it is. The occupant of that room is a friend of the family. A lady.”
“I just need to see her. See if she is who I think she is.”
“And I think you had better return to your own room.”
Oliver challenged testily, “Don’t you know who I am?”
Sir Frederick’s voice grew closer and chillier. “Yes, I know who you are and what you are. And I repeat, go back to your own room.”
“Ah ... now I recognize that stern face of yours,” the author slurred. “Sir Frederick Wilford. And is your ... friendly wife with you? Oh wait. That’s right. I heard she died. Do forgive me.”
Frederick’s voice dropped to a dangerous, grating tone. “I realize you have been drinking, so I will endeavor not to lose my temper. But I warn you, another word and I shall—”
“Now, now. No need for pistols at dawn. I’m going.”
Rebecca could almost hear, and could certainly imagine, the large man stumbling and grumbling back through the long gallery to his room.
After a quiet moment, a soft knock sounded.
“Miss Lane? It’s Frederick. Are you all right?”
Rebecca stepped to the door, laying her palm on the cool wood as though to touch him through it. His room was at the opposite end of the corridor, but she was thankful that he had been the one to hear and respond.
