They were dear friends, yes, but no one came to London inAugust, for God’s sake.
He glanced back at the desk, at the unfinished letter on top, the crumpled balls of paper underneath it.
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. It was none of his concern.
Only it was too late, because he was already striding toward the desk. He stared down at the scattered balls of paper, giving one of them a half-hearted nudge with his toe, the feeble protests of his conscience warring with the inexplicable curiosity he’d had about Miss Thorne since she’d turned up in Basingstoke’s theater box at the end of last season.
It was odd, really, that he should find ordinary Miss Prudence Thorne from Wiltshire so fascinating. Perhaps it was the way she glared at him. She did have rather an impressive glare, all narrowed hazel eyes and thick, dark lashes fluttering with fury.
Still, his irrational preoccupation with her notwithstanding, it was none of his business what she’d been writing. Really, he had no excuse for invading her privacy. A proper gentleman would take his brandy, return to his chaise, and wait quietly until a servant appeared.
Right, then. He backed away from the desk, but he hadn’t taken two steps toward the chaise before he paused again.
What if Miss Thorne had been writing to her father about the debt? Then it could be said to be his business, couldn’t it? Five hundred pounds was a considerable sum, after all. Perhaps Miss Thorne and her father had some sort of scheme afoot, some devious plot to wriggle free of Thorne’s obligations. For all he knew, Miss Thorne could be planning to rob him. Surely, he owed it to himself to find out for certain? Why, his very safety could be at risk!
He returned to the desk, snatched up the bundle of discarded papers from the floor, then made himself comfortable in Basingstoke’s chair and smoothed them out one by one before taking up the first one.
Dearest Father, I’ve arrived safely in—
That was as far as she’d gotten before the sentence ended in an unsightly blob of ink. He laid it aside and picked up the second one, then the third, but they were much the same as the first. A few scribbles followed by an angry ink blot.
The letter on the desk looked more promising, however, so he took it up and began to read. Pleasant journey from Wiltshire, blah, blah, lovely scenery, good roads, something about superior carriage springs and the countryside dressed in golds and greens—a bit of purple prose, that—Freddy’s blue eyes, blah, blah, blah . . . the duke’s coachman, blah, blah . . .
Good Lord, it was the dullest letter imaginable. He read to the bottom of the page, then tossed it aside with disgust. Not foul plots or schemes, and not a word about the debt or any details about her reasons for being in London.
Bloody disappointing, really. He drained his brandy, leaving the empty glass on Basingstoke’s desk with Miss Thorne’s tedious letters and made his way back to his corner. He snatched up his coat and lay down upon the chaise, his back shrieking in protest.
What did Basingstoke mean, having such a wretched piece of furniture in his study? The thing was as hard as a slab of marble. The man was a duke, for God’s sake. Surely, he could afford a proper chaise?
Still, it was better than the chair, and at least there was a pillow—a stiff, hard little thing, yes, with a tiresome number of tassels, but he thrust it under his head, tugged his coat over himself and squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for sleep to take him.
* * *
It was still dark when Prue woke, a vague sense of panic rousing her from a sound sleep.
Something was amiss. She’d left something undone. Her brain chased around in sleepy circles, trying to pinpoint the nameless dread making her stomach churn. Was it something to do with Franny? Had she forgotten to tell her something?
No, that wasn’t it.
Her father, then? No, he was safely back at Thornewood. She hadn’t yet finished her letter to him, but that was—
Oh, no! She jerked upright, her fingers gripping the coverlet.
The Duke of Basingstoke’s study! She’d left his quill lying on his desk, the inkwell uncovered, and a half dozen spoiled papers on the floor! For pity’s sake, what had she been thinking, leaving the duke’s private study in such disarray, after he’d been kind enough to offer it to her?
She leapt from the bed, snatched up her cloak and shoved her arms into it as she made her way out the bedchamber door and into the darkened hallway, muttering a quick prayer of thanks that she’d had the sense to pay attention when the maidservant had shown her to her room. Otherwise, she might have been wandering the hallways for hours, searching for the staircase.
But she found it easily, and was downstairs in a trice, wincing at the chill of the marble floors under her bare feet as she made her way past the entryway and into the hallway that led to the duke’s study.
The door creaked as she pushed it open, and an involuntary shiver seized her as she entered. Goodness, it was cold in here, but it would only take a moment to set the quill and the inkwell to rights and gather up the spoiled papers.
She hurried to the desk, but she stopped short when she reached it.
The crumpled papers were no longer on the floor, but spread out flat atop the duke’s desk as if a hand had smoothed them, one on top of the next in a neat pile, with her half-finished letter on top. Beside them stood an empty tumbler with a few dregs of amber liquid pooled at the bottom.
She took up the glass and sniffed. Brandy? She sniffed again. Yes, that was certainly brandy, but who would be drinking brandy in the Duke of Basingstoke’s study in the middle of the—
“You’re up rather early this morning, Miss Thorne. Did you forget something?”
