“Nor do I,” Ethel said. “Shall we seek one?”
Ariana laughed. “You take the air out of my complaining sails. If there was to be much more of it, I would. As it is, I need a good long walk.”
“Aren’t you supposed to stay out of sight until you’re in style?”
Ariana collapsed into a chair with a sigh. “I shall go mad.” She instantly sat up again. “A newspaper! At least I can read about the wider world. Lady Cawle must take one.”
“Do you want me to find out?”
“No,” Ariana said, standing up. “I’ll go in hunt.”
“Why?”
“I need exercise! A walk around the house will be better than nothing, and this provides an excuse.”
Ariana wrapped a warm knitted shawl around her shoulders and ventured out. The most likely place for newspapers was in the library, and she’d been shown the door to it last night. It was on the ground floor, but first she indulged in a brisk walk up and down this corridor.
Then she went down a floor and detoured to revisit the music room. She hadn’t felt able to poke around last night, but she’d noticed that it seemed to contain quite a selection of instruments. She’d been correct, and as expected, they were all from the previous century. As well as the harpsichord, there was a magnificent harp and a variety of wind instruments. On a chest was a set of kettledrums.
She carefully opened the smoothly operating drawers of the chest to find more recorders and flutes plus a clarinet and a mandolin. Lady Cawle must frequently host musical events where the guests were invited to play. Did she try to provide every possible instrument? A cupboard revealed a cello, and a number of violins hung on the back wall. In more drawers she found viols of all sizes, and finally a lute.
Ariana firmly closed that drawer and all memories it summoned.
The harpsichord tempted, but she would be heard, so she left the room to continue downstairs to the entrance hall and, finally, the library.
It was a small room, but fully lined with bookcases except for one window and the fireplace, where a lively fire kept the room pleasantly warm. She saw two newspapers on the central mahogany table—theTimesand theMorning Chronicle. Delighting in the sight and smell of books, Ariana decided she’d sit to read theTimesin one of the large high-backed chairs placed to face the fire. She closed the door and went forward to pick up the paper, but a movement startled her.
A man was rising from one of those chairs. He stood, but then clutched onto the back of the chair to keep his balance, muttering something that might even have been a curse.
Was he drunk? At eleven in the morning!
The wretch was dressed in what seemed to be a gentlemanly jacket and breeches, but his cast-off boots sprawled on the wooden floor. Had heslepthere? He wore no neckcloth, his shirt stood open the full six inches, and his buff waistcoat gaped unbuttoned.
Some drunken miscreant had somehow invaded Lady Cawle’s house in the night?
Ariana edged back toward the door, keeping her eyes on the danger.
The slovenly mess was topped by an unshaven chin and an unruly abundance of dark curling hair that looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days or barbered in a six-month. He got his balance and stared at her, and between stubble and dark brows, she saw deep blue eyes.
She might not have made the connection except for the portrait in Lady Cawle’s small drawing room, butcould this disreputable mess be the damnable Earl of Kynaston? Once she considered, she was sure. But why was Lady Cawle’s nephew languishing here rather than in a bedroom?
Eight years ago he’d worn his hair cropped short and the tight, dark curls had made an enticing frame for his beautiful features, but it was clear that he’d taken the ruinous path she’d feared for him. His complexion was sallow, his stance unsteady, and those memorable eyes were surely bloodshot—though it was hard to tell when they were half-hidden by drooping lids. From perfection he’d become a perfect picture of slovenly debauch.
She’d intended to summon servants to throw the intruder out, but he was no intruder. She couldn’t imagine how he had come to be in the library in such a state, but he was frowning at her in the same puzzlement. That was a gift from heaven. He hadn’t recognized her.
She still wanted a newspaper. He seemed fixed in place. In fact, he looked as if only his clutch on the back of the chair kept him upright, but drunks were unpredictable. Still watching him as she might watch a snarling dog, Ariana edged toward the table. “I beg pardon for disturbing you, sir. I came to find a newspaper.”
He gestured permission with a hand that retained much of its old elegance. She remembered that, and his signet ring—a carved red stone set in heavy gold. What a thing to recall about a man she’d spoken to only twice, and that so long ago. But she’d observed him back then—oh, yes—closely and frequently.
Keeping the table between them, she edged toward theTimes.
He suddenly cocked his head in curiosity. “Who’re you?” he asked, voice husky and slurred.
“A guest,” she said, progressing another few inches.
“So’m I.”
Ariana realized that she should pretend not to know who he was, or that he had a right to be here. She spoke slowly and clearly. “This is the house of the Dowager Countess of Cawle.”
