She stepped inside the dark room, hoping the silver polish was readily apparent using only the light from the corridor. It was not. There was no help for it. She’d have to light a candle. Luckily one sat in a holder on the bureau near the door, a flintlock beside it. She lit the candle and held it aloft, searching the rows of shelves for the polish.
Still not readily apparent. Bother.
Not being particularly tall didn’t help, either. There was a small set of movable wooden steps to her left. She set the candle on the bureau, bent over, and pushed the steps toward a large closed cabinet against the back wall. If she could get up high enough to open the doors to the cabinet, perhaps she would find the elusive polish.
She climbed up and reached for the latch on the cabinet’s doors. She was forced to stretch far above her head. Her gown and stays compressed her chest and she momentarily felt as if she might faint. Why exactly had she thought this was a good idea? If she had any sense, she would simply inform one of the maids that her mistress required silver polish in the dining room and call for her coach to be brought around. But she had promised to locate the blasted polish and locate it she would.
She reached farther, straining, straining more. A loud ripping noise ensued and cool air rushed across her chest. Her gown had ripped clear down the bodice just as the door slammed shut and the candle blew out from the force of it.
“Blast it. No!” She clutched at the front of her gown.
First things first. She’d have to get down and relight the candle to assess the damage to her gown. The bodice was certainly ripped open and gaping away from her chest, but how bad was it? More important, how indecent? It feltquiteindecent. There was no way she could return to the dining room now.
She carefully made her way down the steps. Using her hands to feel her way toward the bureau, she located the candle, but curiously, there was no flintlock. She patted all around next to the candle where the flintlockhad been. Nothing. Had it fallen to the floor? Bother. Bother.
Very well. She would open the door to let in a bit of light and hope no one wandering by noticed the state of her bodice. In the pitch-black darkness, she felt her way over the bureau toward the door. She smoothed her hand down the wood until she located the door’s handle. She turned it. Locked. She turned harder. Still locked. She pulled with all her might. It didn’t budge.
She expelled her breath and clenched her fist in her thoroughly ripped bodice. God help her, she was locked in the abominable silver closet.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hart shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t care about his blasted wet shirt. Or the light-yellow stain that was already setting in. Instead, a quartet of other thoughts possessed his mind. The first was the reason for his clumsiness to begin with. Meg’s statement that she was leaving town. In a fortnight. What the devil could she possibly mean? Why would she be moving to the Continent?
His second thought centered on the reason why Meg had been gone for the better part of a quarter hour. How long did it take to find silver polish?
Then there was her reaction to the race. She’d looked stricken when he’d challenged Sir Winford. Did she wish he hadn’t? Surely, Meg had to know he was an excellent racer. His accident last autumn had been a fluke. Or was her concern for that fop Winford? She was obviously trying to secure an offer of marriage from the man. Lucy had made that clear enough. PerhapsHart shouldn’t have challenged Winford, but racing was his passion and the knight had so cavalierly indicated his prowess in the matter. Not to mention how the man was settled on his last nerve. Which was Hart’s fourth distracting thought. Was Sir Winford on the verge of a proposal to Meg? Would she accept? She’d be a fool not to.
Why did the thought of Meg marrying Winford make Hart want to put his fist through the nearest wall? It wasn’t as if she was suitable forhim. His father’s words burned through Hart’s brain. “Meg Timmons is the last girl on earth I’d allow you to marry.” What the hell did his father care? The man had been manipulative Hart’s entire life. Playing people like chess pieces, ordering them about. He treated his son like the most prized piece of them all, and he demanded obedience. That’s all Hart had ever been good for. Breeding stock. A dumb, beautiful, useless animal meant to be paired with another dumb, beautiful, useless animal for the sake of producing more useless progeny.
Hart glanced over at Lady Eugenia. She was lovely and accomplished and witty. She said all the right things and did all the right things. She had a hefty dowry. She was bloody perfect. He should offer for her immediately.
Yet she wasn’t the one he wanted to see him win the race with Sir Winford. It was Meg. But why? Why did it matter to him? He owed her, he reminded himself. At least hehadowed her. The reasoning for exactly what he owed her and why was blurry at best, but he had definitely behaved inappropriately with her more than once and she hadn’t deserved it. His debt was paid, wasn’t it? He should allow her her courtship with Winford. Challenging the knight to a race was probably nothis most clever idea. He’d surely beat the man soundly and possibly ruin Meg’s chances for happiness. But he couldn’t convince himself to withdraw.
“The steamed halibut looks delicious,” Lady Eugenia said pleasantly as the footmen delivered the next course.
Hart glanced up from his plate to see the butler stride into the room, lean over, and whisper something to Lucy Hunt. Lucy whispered back, and the man bowed and left the room. Had they been speaking about Meg? It would be rude to ask.
Hart concentrated on his halibut and making polite conversation with Lady Eugenia while Sarah smiled and nodded at him approvingly, but Meg’s absence made it increasingly difficult for him to answer Lady Eugenia’s questions with even a modicum of interest.
Finally, Lucy cleared her throat. “Lord Highgate, hasn’t Miss Timmons returned yet? She must come back soon or your shirt is surely ruined. Then she’ll have missed this lovely course for nothing.”
“I’m happy to go in search of her, Your Grace,” Sir Winford boomed, pulling his napkin from his lap and pushing back his chair.
Hart growled.
“Thank you, Sir Winford,” Lucy began. “But I daresay Lord Highgate should go in search of her since she was on a mission to save his shirt to begin with.” She turned her gaze to Hart and took a sip of wine. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Highgate?”
Hart frowned and narrowed his eyes on Lucy. Why hadn’t she asked the butler to find Miss Timmons? But Hart wasn’t about to argue. His heart raced. The truth was it was nothing but fortuitous that Lucy hadchosenhimto go in search of her. He wouldn’t be forced to sit any longer waiting and wondering.
Sir Winford opened his mouth to speak but Lucy’s lioness glare stopped him. The knight reluctantly replaced the napkin on his lap and settled back into his seat.
“My pleasure.” Hart stood, bowed, excused himself to Lady Eugenia and the others, and tossed his napkin to the seat of his chair. A footman rushed forward to fold it. “Though I’m not entirely certain I am aware of the location of your silver closet… if you’ll point me in the correct direction.”
Lucy nodded regally. “It’s down the corridor, to the right, all the way to the back near the servants’ staircase.”
“Right.” Hart bowed to her. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Lucy said as he left the room.
