It wasn’t self-interest; he simple hated being caught by surprise. Kissing Miss Trelayne had been the opposite of a surprise. He’d been fixated on it for days; he’d imagined it fifty times. The dreadful surprise had been—well, it had been that they’d been forced to stop. Of course he would bungle whatever came next.
He glanced at his sister. Timothea had not agreed to ferry her to the library, and for once he prayed she would simply do as he asked. If he was a failure at surprises, she was the enemy of reasonable requests.
“Timothea?” he prompted. “The library. Will you assist Miss Trelayne?”
“Yes, Ian,” she sighed, “of course, I can hardly leave her here, in the gallery, with Grandpapa’s soulless statues, can I?”
“Thank you,” he said and stalked to the door on hollow legs, his leaden footsteps the only sound in the room.
Chapter Fifteen
Drewsmina Trelayne’s Rule of Style and Comportment #32: No situation, regardless of how wretched, is improved by panic.
Drewsmina was overcome with panic.
It was the sort of stomach-pitching, mind-blanking surge that precipitated the hurling of crockery. Or maddened sprinting into the night.
But Drew could neither shatter plates nor sprint away. She could only trudge, eyes forward, face aflame, as Lady Tribble endeavored to find the library.
“It was on the second floor, I am certain of it,” mumbled Lady Tribble. “He wouldn’t havemovedit, surely. There are a great many books. It would takedaystomovealibrary.”
Finally, a statement ridiculous enough to pierce her stunned state. Drew was tempted to steal a look, but she kept her gaze straight ahead. She was terrified of catching the eye of a passing servant, or the girls, or even of Lady Tribble herself. The baroness might be lost in her own home, but she was still a gentlewoman, and the mother of her clients, and she could sack Drew in a heartbeat.
Instead, she led Drew through a warren of corridors thatwould end, presumably, at the Duke of Lachlan, who would sack her.
What in God’s name, she thought,had I been thinking?
Truly?
Kissing her employer, however natural it felt, however a two-person crime (when they came down to it), would be considered worse than stealing the silver or fisticuffs with a servant.
Kissing her employer invited banishment—and not just from this job—from all future jobs, from all decent society.
Her sister, Ana, (who, let’s be honest, had done her fair share of illicit kissing), would have every right to terminate Drew’s privileges as the Spinster Sister Who Lived Upstairs, and she was just spiteful enough to do it. This meant Drew could add “homeless” to the reordered version of her future. That said nothing of the heartbreak it would cause Cynde.
Drew squeezed her eyes shut, staving off the sting of tears. Her throat felt painfully thick, as if she choked on smoke. How fitting, as the life she’d been carefully building for herself rapidly burned to the ground.
“Ah, here ’tis,” said Lady Tribble, opening a door to reveal... a tiny room with one bricked-over window.
“Oh, perhaps not,” the baroness sighed, crestfallen. “Perhaps—”
“Timothea,” said Lachlan, calling from an adjacent door. His voice sounded curt and irritated. “Here.”
Drew’s gaze had been fixed on a point in the middle distance, but she turned at the sound of his voice like a weed following the sun.
Silly, silly, stupid girl.
She caught a glimpse of him before he disappeared through the door. He’d restored his clothing. His movements were brisk and efficient. He looked like he had before he’d shattered the window in Kew Palace. It would be no effort to dismiss her.
“Oh right,” said Lady Tribble tiredly. “I knew we’d nearly found it.” She drifted inside.
Drew paused, hovering on the precipice.
If she felt outrage in this moment, if it felt unfair that they’d both been discovered but onlyshewould stand for shameful judgment, Drew tamped it down. What could she possibly expect? Glorified governesses were not entitled to outrage. They were entitled only to survive this moment without more indignity, then to leave this house, possibly to leave London. To transform again, assuming there were any incarnations left of Drewsmina Trelayne.
She took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to wring out unshed tears. Her heart, which had felt like a cold, dead stone these last ten minutes, now sprang to life, thumping like the wings of a large bird.
“Where is she?” clipped Lachlan, his voice carrying from inside.
