His niece Imogene stood in the center of the gallery, onetheatrical hand on her throat, another clutching what was surely the largest lamp in the house.
Beside her, Timothea stood in her dressing gown, studying Ian’s position with Miss Trelayne like an artist preparing to sketch life models.
Besideher, stood Ivy, looking on with concerned interest, her arms filled with their demon cat.
Behind this trio stood a scrum of servants, from Greenly the butler, to Mrs. Hearst the housekeeper, to seemingly every last maid and footman and, unless he was mistaken, the boy who delivered the milk and eggs at dawn.
Ian looked down at Miss Trelayne. She stared up at him, teal eyes wide with disbelief and horror. She slid her hand from his shoulder and dropped it over her eyes. She turned her face away.
When she moved, one long curly strand of hair slid from the bench and swung back and forth, nearly sweeping the floor.
Ian swore, looked back to the assembled witnesses, swore again. He sat up, maneuvering his body in front of Miss Trelayne to shield her as best he could.
He acted on instinct, as he always did in his many wrong-minded, ill-advised, disastrous moments of life reckoning.
“Everybody out but Lady Tribble,” he said, whipping his wilted cravat from the bench and draping it across Miss Trelayne’s chest.
“Uncle?” Imogene tried again, but Ian cut her off.
“Miss Trelayne and I have found ourselves...” he cocked his head and considered the best word to describe how they had found themselves, “...overcome. We’ll require five minutes of solitude and twenty fewer people in this room. Everybody but Lady Tribble—out!” This he bellowed, and servants began to back away. The cat leapt from Ivy’s arms and galloped toward the door. Ivy spun and gave chase.
Imogene studied them a moment more, a look of—unless Ian was mistaken—spiteful satisfaction on her face. Then she turned and followed her sister and the cat.
Only Timothea remained.
Ian waited until the room had cleared and then he looked up at his sister.
She was running her fingers through her hair, idly combing it. “You’ll have to marry her now, Ian,” she said tiredly. “Even I know that.”
“No, we don’t have t—” he began, but then he stopped. What could he possibly say?
Miss Trelayne had just explained the precise guidelines governing this precise situation.
She’d explained that it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t know each other. And that no one would care about their personal preferences.
Ian stood up. Miss Trelayne made a noise of distress, and he was reminded, stupidly, numbly, that she lay prone on the bench.
“Can you stay with her while I see to my clothes?” he asked his sister.
“Ian, you must speak to her,” said his sister.
Ian craned around to look at Miss Trelayne. Of course he should speak to her. She looked like the victim of a shipwreck washed onto rocks. One unfurled braid hung to the floor. Her skirts were a tangle, and she’d drawn up her knees to conceal her legs. Her bodice was askew. She’d not removed the slim hand from her eyes.
“Miss Trelayne?” he began, uncertain of what else he would say. He hated not having time to prepare what he might say. “Miss Trelay—”
“Not speak to hernow, Ian, for God’s sake,” cut in Timothea, “give her a moment.”
“Right,” he said, uncertain. Slowly, he turned back. He stood. He stooped to pick up his discarded garments. “I will leave you. Can you accompany her to the library in ten minutes?”
“I was already in bed, actually,” observed his sister.
“Timothea,” he growled.
“I’ll not stand for your beratement,” Timothea declared, “and neither should Miss Trelayne.”
“No one is berating anyone else,” Ian said tiredly. “Forgive me. I... I—”
Ian had no words for what he had or hadn’t done. His mind was a riot of shock and regret. He didn’t regret what they’d done so much as that they’d been caught. And wasn’t that a grievance as old as time?
