“Why do we not have oil lamps in here?” she asked.
“Because they smell,” James answered.
“Ah yes, there is that; however, sometimes they would be easier than candles.” She opened the door to her dressing room. The water in the pitcher on the white-and-gilt dresser was cold, but she nonetheless poured it into the basin and splashed her face. She gathered clothing from her armoire and took it back to the bedroom she shared with James.
In the summer, she had been surprised and intrigued to discover her husband slept in the nude. However, in winter, in deference to the nighttime chill in the house, he donned a nightshirt. As he rose from the bed and stretched, Cecilia thought the nightshirt didn’t matter—even covered as he was from his neck to his calves, he sent her heart deliciously fluttering. She was a lucky woman.
They dressed quickly and descended to the ground floor. The only staff they came across was a bleary-eyed footman lighting oil lamps in the foyer. He nearly dropped the glass globe cover to the lamp he was intent on lighting.
“Sorry to startle you, Nate,” said James. He put on his hat as Cecilia donned her gloves. “Please unlock the door. Lady Branstoke and I have an urgent errand to attend to.”
“Yes, Sir James.” The young man replaced the glass globe and hurried to the door. “Shall I inform Cook to hold back breakfast until you return?”
“Yes. And inform my valet and Lady Branstoke’s maid as well.”
“Yes, sir.” He bowed, then turned the locks and opened the door.
James grabbed Cecilia’s hand and led her down the steps. A bluish-gray fog had settled in the streets, a dense blanket save for the dirty yellow circles of light on the ground around the still-lit street lamps. Eerily quiet, the morning struggled to push back the night.
“Do you mind if we walk?” James asked. “It’s not far, and I’m loath to take the time to summon a carriage—if we could obtain one this early.”
“No! Not all. So long as you continue to hold my hand,” she said, coyly smiling and stealing a glance up at him.
“Minx.”
“Seriously, walking arm in arm is so staid and stodgy sometimes. And one must admit it is not conducive to rapid progress” she said, fairly running to keep pace. “James! It would behoove you to remember you have longer legs than I,” she complained, her voice growing breathy.
“I beg your pardon, my love.” He stopped and drew her closer to him as he looked about. “It has come to my attention that the only souls out this early in the morning are the chimney sweeps. I have seen two groups as we’ve been walking—neither with a small boy. It occurs to me this is the hour of chimney sweeps. They need to do their work on cold chimneys before the day’s fires are laid.”
He paused a moment, as Cecilia looked at him. “What is it?” he asked.
“How is it that you know about chimney sweeps and their habits?” she asked.
He thought seriously about her question, his head canted. “I’m not sure other than I read, I listen, and I observe,” he said.
“And commit to memory that which most of us would forget once our eyes moved on.”
His eyes narrowed. “I believe it is more about observation. See on that roof across the street? There is a sweep up there.”
“Where? And how can you see in this fog?”
He smiled. “Look up. “Up there to the left. By the chimney pots. I think he is using one of those mechanical devices I’ve read about. Many people don’t like them, they don’t think they do as good a job as a climbing boy.”
“Ah,” she acknowledged. They began walking again. “You are always so observant,” she said, with a touch of jealousy coloring her tone. He always saw things before she did. It was maddening.
He smiled softly. “Years of training,” he said.
“Military training,” Cecilia concluded.
He inclined his head. “As you say, military training.”
She noted he didn’t explain himself. He never did about that part of his life—at least not yet. She wasn’t as observant a person as he was, but she was sensitive to what was left unsaid.
“The house Mrs. Montgomery has taken is the next house down,” James said.
They climbed the steps. James pounded on the door as Mrs. Montgomery’s knocker had not yet been installed.
A man who looked like a pugilist in butler attire opened the door, scowling. “The knocker’s off. There is no one home,” he fairly growled.
