The moment she saw him she stopped short, and Beau had the fleeting impression that she’d actually mentally wrestled with the idea of turning and walking in the opposite direction, to pretend as if she hadn’t seen him.
Pasting a patient smile to his face, he cocked his head to the side and waited. Hoping against hope the three men wouldn’t choose now to exit the study. Copperpot would recognize him as his errant valet, but Hightower and Cunningham, if they looked closely, just might recognize him as the Marquess of Bellingham, and not only would his ruse be up, it would be exposed in front of Miss Notley—and for some reason, he particularly disliked that idea.
Apparently, Miss Notley thought twice about turning around, because she continued walking toward him, pasted her own patient smile on her face, and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Baxter.”
Beau bowed. “Miss Notley.”
Far from ignoring him, she surprised him by coming to a stop beside him. Apparently, she’d chosen this most inopportune time to want to chat.
“Wot are ye doin’ here?” she asked next.
Oh, wait. Did she want to chat, or did she merely want to know why he was standing around in the corridor for no apparent reason? The woman was as curious as he was.
Beau shrugged one shoulder as nonchalantly as he could. In a tone dripping with irony, he replied, “Why, I was listening through the keyhole, of course.”
“I wouldn’t put it past ye,” she replied, giving him a saucy wink, before she brushed past him and continued down the hallway.
Beau took only a moment to look after her, admiring the way her hips sashayed from side to side, before mentally breathing a sigh of relief and turning to go. He might just be able to get out of the corridor before the three noblemen came out. But he still couldn’t help himself. “Miss Notley,” he called, not even knowing why he was stopping her.
She halted and turned her face slightly the side to acknowledge him. “Yes?”
If she was going to be contrary, so was he. “May I ask what youbelieveI’m doing in the corridor?”
Miss Notley turned away so he couldn’t see her demeanor when she said, “I’ve no earthly idea, Mr. Baxter. But I do know that Lord Copperpot and his friends went inta that particular room some time ago, and I admit that you bein’ there makes me wonder about men with a penchant fer always seemin’ ta be in the wrong place at the right time. Especially when they look like ye do.” She didn’t pause, instead she lifted her skirts and marched from his view.
Frowning, Beau pushed his back away from the wall and made his way in the opposite direction. He plucked at his lip. What the devil had she meant by being in ‘the wrong place at the right time’? And whatpreciselydid she mean by, ‘Especially when they look like you do?’
But most intriguing of all was the fact that she’d apparently been paying attention to the room’s occupants, as well. What exactly wasshedoing walking down the corridor herself?
Beau only knew one thing for certain: his friends in the Home Office couldn’t get him information on Miss Marianne Notley quickly enough.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day, Marianne made her way down the staircase into the servants’ hall with tentative steps. She didn’t like it down here for one reason—Mr. Baxter tended to be here. In fact, the man spent most of his day down here when he wasn’t tending to Lord Copperpot. She might have a pretend truce with him, but Marianne had vowed to spend as little time as possible around Nicholas Baxter. He was too good-looking by half, and she still suspected he was up to something.
She’d been forced to come down to the servants’ hall this afternoon, however. Lady Wilhelmina had torn the hem of one of her gowns last night at dinner and Marianne needed to mend it. At present, Lady Wilhelmina and Lady Copperpot were taking naps in their respective bedchambers, so Marianne had decided it was time to go down to the servants’ hall to see if Mrs. Cotswold, the housekeeper, had any silver thread.
The hall was quiet and mostly empty this time of day. Marianne marched past the open servants’ dining room on her way to Mrs. Cotswold’s small office. There were a few odd workers in the dining room sitting on the benches behind the long table, but Mr. Baxter was not one of them, thank heavens. Marianne breathed a sigh of relief before knocking on Mrs. Cotswold’s door.
A quick conversation with the efficient, matronly housekeeper ensued, and a few minutes later, Marianne found herself walking down the corridor to look in the storage room at the end of the passageway for the spool of thread Mrs. Cotswold had promised.
The door to the storage room was slightly ajar. She pushed it opened only to see Mr. Baxter, of all people, sitting atop a keg in the corner. His booted feet were dangling along the side of the keg. His buckskin breeches were indecently tight, and his white lawn shirt was open at the throat, showing a sinful glimpse of his muscled chest. No cravat. No coat. No hat. His blond hair was ruffled as if he’d recently run a hand through it, and he was staring at his lap, in which he appeared to be writing a letter. A small inkpot sat on a crate next to him and he held a quill in his left hand.
“Ye can write?” The words flew from her lips before she had a chance to choose them.
He looked up and a wry smile immediately spread across his handsome lips. She gulped, wishing very much that she hadn’t said a word. Instead, she wished she’d backed up quietly and left before he’d looked up.
“I can,” he replied in a tone that was a mixture of amused and sarcastic. “Can you?”
He’d added that just to be contrary. She knew it.
“I can,” she replied, her back stiffening.
“Excellent. That makes two of us.” He dropped his gaze back to the letter.
What was he writing? She couldn’t help but wonder. No doubt one of many love letters to women who believed they were the only one. The way this man looked, he probably had a lady in every town. She shook her head. She shouldn’t be thinking such things about Mr. Baxter. She shouldn’t be thinkinganythings about Mr. Baxter. She’d come here to fetch thread, and that’s all she needed.
She glanced around the small room. There were scores of supplies of every type. Bags of flour and sugar, kegs of ale, bottles of wine, tins of beans, and all sorts of dried herbs in small pots. But she didn’t see any thread.
