“Quite unlucky,” Meg echoed. “Therefore, if you are fortunate enough to find the flintlock and light the candle, I’d be ever so thankful if you would turn your back when you do so.”
Hart chuckled.
“Is my misfortune amusing to you?” came her pert voice.
“Not at all. I’m merely considering the ridiculousness of all of this.”
Two moments ticked by before Meg spoke, a decided laugh in her voice. “It is quite ridiculous, isn’t it?”
Hart was already feeling his way across the top of a bureau, trying to locate the elusive flintlock. “Do you think the breeze caused by the door knocked the flintlock to the floor?”
“I got down on my hands and knees and felt around but wasn’t able to find it. My next attempt was going to be to call for help. Your voice is louder. They’re certain to hear you. Go ahead.”
“Nonsense,” Hart replied. “I’m not about to call for help like a ninny. I’m going to find this flintlock, light the candle, and open this blasted door.”
“Are you calling me a ninny?” she asked, but the lightness in her voice remained. He could tell she found it amusing.
“No. I’m saying I don’t need help from a servant to escape a silver closet.”
“Very well, I’ll wait here with my ripped bodice while you save the day. Please proceed.”
Hart shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him do it. He slowly lowered himself to the floor and on hands and knees scoured every inch of the floor of the silver closet while Meg quietly waited near the back of the small space.
“I don’t understand it,” he said, finally. He pushed himself up to sit on the floor, his back against the cabinet next to Meg. He drew up his knees. “I laid out the floor in a grid. I know I covered everywhere.”
“As did I ten minutes before you.”
“I touched every bit of space on the bureau, too.”
“As did I,” she said.
“It’s not in here.”
“My conclusion exactly.”
“How can that be?” Hart asked.
“It’s an excellent question and one I intend to pose to Lucy the moment I see her next, but for now, are you at all interested in calling for help?”
Hart sighed loud and long. He stood and made hisway carefully to the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled it as hard as he could. His shoulder wrenched but he pulled again. He took off his coat and tossed it atop the bureau. This time he put his back into it. He tugged, strained, and pulled with every ounce of strength he possessed. Still nothing. All he’d managed to do was work up a fine sweat. He swiped his wet hair away from his eyes. “Blast. Blast. Blast. Sorry,” he said, remembering a lady was in the room.
“I don’t blame you,” Meg replied. “I said many similar things while trying to pry open that door. Let me know when you think it’s time to call for help.”
Hart sank back to the floor and propped up his knees, resting his arms atop them. He thumped his head back against the bureau behind him. Once. Twice. “Blast. There is only one problem with calling for help.”
“What’s that?” Meg’s voice held a note of surprise.
“We’ve been in here together, alone, for at least ten minutes and your bodice is ripped. If we call for help we could do irreparable harm to your reputation.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There was no arguing with that logic. Meg bit her lip. It was true. Depending on who came to open the door, a scandal might well ensue.
“If Lucy comes, she won’t tell. We can simply explain what happened.” Meg desperately tried to think of the best possible outcome.
Hart’s voice was grim. “If one of the servants comes, the entire household may know before the night is through.”
“If the butler comes, I’ve no doubt he’ll be discreet. He’s a duke’s butler after all,” she countered.
