At that, his head lifted. Suspicion clouded his eyes—then curiosity won. He nodded.
Hmm, anything to avoid actual schoolwork, Charlotte mused, smiling at his sudden enthusiasm.
Their tour became an adventure. Charlotte tried to instil a few lessons whilst they wandered from room to room; she was not going to let him escape learning entirely. Pleased that this approach was working, she continued asking him to count the number of stairs or name the monarchs.
Tom led her through the family wing and guest chambers, then down a grand staircase that curved like a ribbon of polished mahogany. He pointed helpfully.
‘That’s where they eat.’
‘That’s where they keep lots of books.’
‘The library!’ Charlotte exclaimed. ‘May we?’
Tom nodded and pushed open the enormous double doors.
Sunlight poured through the tall windows, striking rows upon rows of shelves that climbed to the ceiling. The scent of leather-bound books and polish filled the air—old knowledge and forgotten secrets. Charlotte marvelled.
She wandered between the shelves, her fingertips brushing the spines, momentarily lost in the quiet splendour of it all.
When she turned back—Tom was gone.
‘Tom?’ she called, weaving between aisles. ‘Come out at once!’
Silence.
She reached the door and gave the handle a sharp tug.
It was locked.
A flicker of irritation rose within her.
‘You little—’
Rattling the handle achieved nothing. The traitorous imp had trapped her inside.
There was nothing for it.
She began hammering on the door, calling for help. The echoes mocked her. Half an hour passed—or perhaps three; humiliation had no sense of time.
Finally, the lock clicked.
The door swung open to reveal Lord Stanley leaning against the frame, towering over her, arms folded, eyes alight with unmistakable amusement. Charlotte caught her breath at his closeness and stepped back. At this, he looked at her curiously.
‘What,’ he asked lazily, ‘are you doing here, Miss Lucas?’
Charlotte flushed, mortified. Her hair had half escaped its pins, her cheeks were flushed, and she had the sinking feeling she looked precisely like a madwoman.
‘I... I was in the middle of teaching Tom,’ she managed.
He raised a brow. ‘What sort of lesson involves hammering on library doors?’
‘Ah—yes—well,’ she stammered, ‘we were learning about... architecture.’
His lips twitched.
‘Fascinating methodology. I look forward to seeing his progress.’
He stepped aside to let her pass. She dipped a hasty curtsey, eager to flee.
