“Caroline?” he prompted.
The curling vines in the carpet threatened to rise up and choke her, though her own misery was already doing the job well enough.
She forced a smile. “I promised Lottie I’d help her choose a gown for her wedding trip. There really has been so much to do forher nuptials that I have not had a moment to think about my own,” she said as lightly as possible, twisting the ruby ring, her mother’s legacy, on her finger.
“It’s been two days,” Somerson admonished. “How much time could it possibly take to make such a simple choice?”
Caroline shut her eyes. It was hardly simple. She’d been a sentimental child, and had grown up to be a young woman with starry-eyed ideas of what romance and marriage ought to be. She’d always thought she’d know the moment she set eyes on the man she wanted to marry. She’d feel a surge of love that would warm her from her toes to her crown, and angels would sing. She felt only horror when she looked at Mandeville and Speed. Her skin crawled and crows croaked a warning.
Flee.
The idea whispered in her ear.
She swallowed, and met Somerson’s eyes, steeling her courage to refuse, but the ice in his expression chilled her. She had been raised to be obedient, even when the yoke chafed. “Tomorrow—I’ll give you my decision tomorrow.”
His eyes narrowed as if he suspected a trick. She widened her smile till it hurt. “At breakfast, is that clear?” he said at last.
“Perfectly,” she murmured. “May I go?”
But he’d already turned away, as if he had more important things to think about and she’d taken up too much of his time. She curtsied to his back and left the study.
Upstairs, Charlotte was shrieking at the modiste, berating the poor woman because the lace wasn’t sitting properly at Lottie’s bosom. Caroline felt sorry for the dressmaker—it was past midnight, and this was the third time Charlotte had changed her mind about her daughter’s wedding gown. Caroline had no doubt Charlotte would let her half sister-in-law get married wearing a burlap sack if it got the matter done faster, and got Caroline packed off, out of sight and out of mind forevermore.
A distant door slammed, and a maid rushed down the steps, nearly colliding with Caroline.
The poor girl was flushed, and she nearly tripped trying to curtsy and run at the same time. “Oh, excuse me, my lady—more treacle tarts are needed upstairs at once.” She bolted down the kitchen hallway like a frightened rabbit.
Caroline set her hand on the banister. She lifted her foot, held it over the first step, and stopped.
There was another loud objection upstairs, and Lottie burst into noisy tears.
Caroline stepped back. She should go up to help soothe her niece, or go to bed and think about her choice, but there was no point in that. She could never bring herself to pick Speed or Mandeville.
Flee.
She turned, wondering if someone had spoken, but there was no one there, just the modiste’s cloak and bonnet, hanging on a peg beside the front door.
Flee.
Caroline grabbed the cloak and swung it over her shoulders, and clapped the bonnet onto her head. The brass door latch was cold under her palm. Her heart pounded. Another shriek of rage echoed down the stairs, and she opened the door and stepped out, shutting it behind her, cutting off the dreadful sound. For a moment she stood on the front step, looking up and down the dark street, wondering which way to go. It was yet another choice—and one she couldn’t wait until morning to make. Taking a breath, she pulled the hood close to her face and turned right.
She hurried away from the lights of Somerson House, moving into the shadows. If anyone bothered to look for her tonight, they’d find her gone. If not, then even Somerson would understand her choice when he sat down for breakfast tomorrow.
CHAPTERTWO
Alec MacNabb pulled the collar of his coat up to hide his face as he opened the door to Countess Bray’s bedchamber. He slid inside the dark room and shut the door, pausing a moment with his hand on the latch, both to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and to see if the lady was going to sit up in her bed and scream. He held his breath, listened to the tick of a clock, as loud as hammer blows.
The mounded shape under the eiderdown covers didn’t move, except to utter a soft snore. He exhaled, and smiled. The countess was clearly exhausted, having danced half the night away at Lady Elsley’s ball. He scanned the room, looking for a place to start.
The delicacy of the white furnishings made him aware of the fact that he was too tall, too dark, too male for such a space. If she opened her eyes, she’d probably think the Scots were invading, pillaging, raping, and killing women in their beds. He looked at the bed wryly. Countess Bray would be the last lady on earth he’d wish to ravish. Pillaging, though, was another matter.
He crossed to her dressing table. The jewels she’d worn to the ball had been carelessly left to glitter among her perfume bottles and combs, but he ignored them and opened the drawer, pushing past the lace handkerchiefs, searching for the hidden panel he suspected would be at the very back. What lady with secrets like Countess Bray’s wouldn’t have such a hiding place? She was smug enough that she would hardly suspect anyone would come to steal those secrets, and that the thief would know exactly where to find them. Every lady had the same hiding places for their billets-doux, their diaries, the trinkets their lovers gave them, and every lady thought no one would ever find them. The wood shifted under his fingers and gave with a slight but satisfying click. The lady on the bed sighed, turned over, and he froze where he was, waiting until her breathing grew deep and even again.
Carefully, he removed the panel, and set it atop the dressing table. A necklace glinted maliciously and would have slipped and fallen to the floor if he hadn’t caught it. The gems warmed in his hand like a lover, sparkled up at him. He recognized the stone—the famous Bray ruby. The flawless jewel flashed like a drop of noble blood, the pearls glowed, and the diamonds winked at him coquettishly. For a moment, he was tempted. The necklace would fetch a fortune—enough to buy books and new gowns for his sisters, and keep their larders full for weeks. He could probably rebuild the crumbling family castle, and refurnish it too. He frowned and set the necklace aside as if it burned. By his own choice, Glenlorne was not his concern, and he had a job to do. He reached back into the dressing table’s hiding place, and closed his hand on what he’d come for, a bundle of letters, bound with ribbon. He drew them out with a smile. He was good at this, and it really was becoming almost too easy...
His elbow knocked against a perfume bottle, and he watched in horror as it teetered on the edge of the dressing table for a split second before it fell to the floor and shattered. The scent of roses filled the air as the countess stirred and sat up in bed. Alec froze in the shadows with the letters in his grip, silently cursing his clumsiness and the room’s paucity of hiding places for a six-foot Scot.
At first, she didn’t look to see what had disturbed her. She reached for a vial on the bedside table, and opened it with sleepy fingers, and added a few drops to a glass of water and drank deeply, sinking back on her pillow.
