Marianne stood there for a few surprised minutes, blinking and wondering why exactly the maid had been so hostile to her. Now that she’d seen her up close, she didn’t recognize her. Marianne sincerely doubted she was one of Lord Clayton’s servants, who’d been nothing but friendly. No, this woman was one of the guests’ servants, and she clearly wasn’t employed by the Hightowers.
Marianne moved off toward the servants’ staircase cursing her ill luck. She’d hoped that, if she guessed at the woman’s identity, the maid would feel compelled to tell her who she truly worked for. That ploy had backfired, obviously, and Marianne was no closer to learning the girl’s name than she had been when she knocked on the door.
Marianne shook her head as she made her way past Beau’s door and down the staircase toward the servants’ hall. Whoever the maid was, she’d certainly been rude and unhelpful. In fact, she’d been so rude and unhelpful, Marianne began to wonder if she was hiding something. Something other than a man leaving her bedroom in the wee hours of the morning—something Marianne could hardly fault her for, having just done something quite similar herself.
As she stepped into the servants’ hall, a friendly voice greeted her. “G’mornin’, Miss Notley. Ye’re certainly up early today.”
Marianne turned to see Mrs. Cotswold, the housekeeper, busily trundling around the corridor, carrying a teapot toward the kitchen.
An idea leaped to Marianne’s mind.Shemight not know who all the servants were, but she guessed Mrs. Cotswold might know. “Good morning, Mrs. Cotswold,” she called back, a slight smile popping to her lips. “I need yer help, please.”
The housekeeper stopped and her smile widened. “I certainly will help if I can, Miss Notley.”
“Excellent,” Marianne replied. “I’m hoping if I describe a maid ta ye, includin’ the room where she be staying upstairs, ye can tell me who she be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In addition to the mind-numbing sex he’d shared with Marianne last night, Beau had had a particularly busy night and morning. After Marianne had tiptoed back to her room soon after they’d laid together for the second time in as many days, Beau had sneaked downstairs to speak to Kendall again.
He couldn’t help himself. He had to hear from the horse’s own mouth what had happened in the dining room between Kendall and Miss Wharton last night. Turned out, Miss Wharton had run away from the earl precisely as Marianne had described. And while Kendall had chased after her and attempted to explain himself, Miss Wharton had refused to listen.
Which is precisely what Kendall had done when Beau attempted to provide the man with additional unsolicited advice telling him he had to keep trying. Kendall had finally told him to get out, and suggested that Beau go speak to Miss Wharton directly if he wanted her to change her mind. Beau had thought about it for only a few moments before deciding to do exactly that.
Of course, he’d had to wait until morning dawned and Miss Wharton had gone to Clayton’s library as had become her habit. But Beau had sauntered in and had a brief talk with Miss Wharton, a talk he believed just might have served to change the lady’s extremely stubborn mind.
Beau wasn’t patting himself on the back quite yet, however. It still remained to be seen if Miss Wharton would, in fact, forgive poor Kendall. And the story Beau had told the young woman in an effort to convince her had come at a price.
For the second time in as many days, Beau had been forced to reminiscence about the worst mistake of his life.
“There’s not a day that goes by that regret is not my constant companion,” he’d told Miss Wharton. “Take it from me. The moment you make the decision you’ll regret for eternity can also feel very much like being perfectly right.”
Add that to the fact that there were only five more days left of the house party and he’d yet to uncover the Bidassoa traitor, and Beau was feeling entirely out of sorts. He desperately wanted to know who Marianne really was, but he knew that wasn’t possible while he remained unwilling to tell her the truth about his own identity. It would be both selfish and hypocritical of him to ask her to reveal her secret when he had no intention of revealing his own.
The worst part was, there was a large part of him thatdidn’twant to know the truth about who she was. What if he found out, and it meant they would be forced to end their affair? That was selfish of him too, but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting the affair to continue. He wanted her whenever he saw her, whenever he smelled her, whenever she was in his presence,andwhen she was out of it. It was ludicrous, but true.
Even now, as he stood in the servants’ hall waiting for a letter that he was expecting, he couldn’t help but want her. He was getting hard just thinking about her. Blast. Blast. Blast.
Marianne wasn’t here in the hall. Before she’d left his bed last night, she’d told him something about needing to be up early to see to a picnic for Lady Copperpot and Wilhelmina. But even knowing she probably wouldn’t be at the post call, Beau found himself searching the crowd of servants’ faces for her.
The butler calling out for Nicholas Baxter finally served to distract him, and he grabbed his letter—clearly another one from the Home Office—and made his way up to his room to read it.
The letter didn’t say much. Curiously, it still revealed absolutely nothing about Marianne’s true identity, and all it mentioned about Mr. Broomsley was that there was nothing suspicious whatsoever in that man’s past. Not exactly news to Beau. The letter asked him to concentrate on Mr. Wilson. He was their best lead at the moment, but besides noting the other night at dinner that the man had certainly appeared to be hiding something, Beau had made little progress in that quarter.
The only thing he’d done was locate Wilson’s bedchamber. It was three down from his own, on the opposite side of the corridor. His next move would be to sneak into the room and search for a writing sample. He wouldn’t have much more time to do it.
Beau took a deep breath. It was his sole goal for the entire day. After a morning thunderstorm, the Copperpots embarked on their picnic, and Beau had little else to do but search Mr. Wilson’s room.
Beau briefly considered asking Marianne if she would serve as lookout for him. But he quickly discarded the notion. Such a request would likely prompt her to ask more questions about what he was up to. And selfish or no, he quite liked the arrangement as they had it for the moment.
No, Beau had to search Wilson’s room quickly and alone.
He’d become a bloody expert at peering out into the hallway of the fourth floor to ensure the way was clear. He did so now, quickly and efficiently, pleased to discover the corridor was empty. At this time of day, he knew from experience, most of the servants were either tending to their needy masters and mistresses or down in the servants’ hall chatting with one another.
After closing the door to his own room, Beau quickly made his way down to Wilson’s door. Taking another glance each way, he pressed his ear against the door to ensure the man wasn’t inside. He waited a full two minutes by the count of the clock in the hallway. When he’d heard neither shuffling nor snoring, he’d decided it was safe to try the door.
It opened, thank Christ, and Beau was able to see at a glance that the small room was empty.
Much like his own, the room consisted of only a small wardrobe, cot, desk, and chair. And like his own, there wasn’t much lying around Mr. Wilson’s room.
