“No.” Louisa paused outside his bedchamber door. “He’s not. Will you keep watch?”
Henry’s eyes scanned her face before he nodded. “I’ll be in the corridor. Go.”
She needed no other encouragement, pushing the door open and hurrying into the room. Like every other room in the house, it was neatly furnished, comfortable without being extravagant. Knight was not given one of the best rooms, understandably, but given the shabbiness of his own house, this likely felt like luxury. The bed was a four-poster, there were a few books piled neatly on the bedside table, and a leather armchair—distinctly male—sat by the fire. There was a newspaper over the arm. A writing desk, beautifully inlaid, sat before the window, which looked out across the rolling countryside, now dimmed by dusk.
The writing desk seemed the most obvious place to look, and she crossed to it immediately. Evidently he had not anticipated her stealing into his room, and she flicked through the correspondence. Most seemed mundane, although she pocketed them anyway. Two stood out, however. One had been folded and refolded so many times, there was a dark crease through the middle of the page where the ink had smeared.
Arabella, the writer had signed.
The other was from Thomas Hyatt, expressing his intention of being in London by the end of the week.
None were from Bolton.
Not wanting to waste time, she tucked the letters under her arm and continued her search of the room, looking for any hint of a rolled painting. Under the bed, behind the curtains, in the cushions of the armchair. She had just opened his closet when Henry’s voice hissed her name from the hallway.
“Louisa. He’s coming.”
Henry hardly knew how he moved so fast. A relic from army days, he would have said, but not once had he been required to creep around like a spy. He had been a captain, leading his men. A figure of authority, not one of deception. And yet, when he heard the sound of footsteps, he entered Knight’s room, took hold of Louisa’s wrist, dragged her out and into his bedroom before his mind caught up with his body.
Beyond a hissed curse—she truly had a foul mouth, and he did his best to hate it—she posed no objection, and then she was pressed against his door, her chest against his, her eyes wide and green and almost fearless. They were both panting, the fear of discovery in both their veins. She clutched a pile of letters in her hands, and they were both aware that when Knight discovered she had been trespassing, he would raise hell.
A gleam of ironic amusement rose in her eyes, even as they both listened to the footsteps, quick and impatient, moving to Knight’s room. He’d been right, although he hardly knew how he had known. An inner instinct he’d had little time to examine.
Louisa’s chest rose and fell with each breath, and he was suddenly crushingly aware of her proximity. The temptation. She was mesmerising, just as much so now as she had been at twenty; perhaps even more so now, that cynicism having elevated her in a way.
“He is about to discover the letters missing,” she breathed, her head tipping up to his.
“Did you find the paintings?”
She shook her head. “And none of the letters directly pertain to the evidence. Either he has the letters on his person, or they’re still in London after all.”
Her perfume rose around him, befuddling his senses. Jasmine. Vanilla. Her hair smelt divine, the delicate curls that fell around her face a provocation. No doubt she was unaware of all the multitude of ways she had tested him over the years. Now, even more so.
He ought to move back, but he could not bring himself to give her the space they both so desperately needed. Her eyes were still locked on his; there was a flush on her cheeks that travelled down her throat, and he had the dizzying urge to kiss it. To feel the skin with his own, to taste her blush.
In the past, he had been convinced there would only be a matter of time before she was his. No urgency, no sense of galloping time, of opportunities slipping through his fingers. He had believed that fortune favoured the patient.
Perhaps it did, but he was under no illusions that it favoured him.
A curse from beyond the door caught his attention, and he raised his head, listening intently. Underneath him, as silently as she could, Louisa turned, so her front was pressed to the door instead of her back, one delicate hand flattened against the wood. He spent a second too long looking at her hand and the shape of it before returning his attention to what was transpiring outside the door.
“I’ll kill her,” Knight was muttering. “Her bedchamber, perhaps. Or—” There was a pregnant pause, and Henry knew instinctively what was coming. Taking Louisa’s elbow, he hauled her across the room to the bed.
“Under it,” he hissed. “Now.”
Her eyes widened and her chest swelled as though she was going to argue, but there was a knock on the door and she did as requested, dropping to the floor. Henry barely gave her time to disappear before striding to the door and opening it, giving Knight his best aristocratic stare. Bored, entitled. Derisive.
“Yes?” he drawled.
For a second, Knight’s rage faltered into confusion. He glanced around the room, evidently confused by the lack of Louisa. The lack of any sign of a lady’s presence at all, in fact. As well there wouldn’t be.
“Where is she?” he barked.
Henry had not often had reason to play a bored gentleman, but he did his best to embody the role. “Excuse me?” he asked coldly.
“Lady Bolton. I know she’s in here somewhere.”
“Do you indeed.” He cast a glance around the room. “Odd. I don’t see her.”
