Amelia turned to leave, when a lone marble statue caught her eye – Greek by the looks of him and he’d lost the lower portion of an arm, but he was the epitome of muscled male magnificence, larger than life. She lowered her eyes and lantern from his curled hair to corded neck, to his chest, to his waist, to…
She blinked.
Heraclitus was incorrect: nature wasnotwont to hide itself.
Amelia closed the door on the unusual room and hastened on down the corridor.
At the final door, she rotated the dainty knob and–
Locked.
Deciding discretion would be the better part of valour this night, she retraced her footsteps to the landing and then the room at the front of the house.
This porcelain knob acceded to her turn and Amelia poked her head in.
Then allowed the rest of her body to follow as this was…
Mr Cadwalader’s bedchamber.
Breath left her lungs in a gush.
For truth be told, she’d expected crimson drapery and silken sheets, paintings of nubile ladies and a spread of velvet pillows.
What she found in the low light of lit wall sconces was an elegant bedchamber, cream damask drapes guarding a four-poster bed with a chaise longue at its end. Above the mantelpiece was a frieze of Achilles being dipped into the River Styx for invincibility – except for that cursed heel.
Skirting a fine desk, she approached the window, its shutters open, and peered out onto the square.
Lanterns flamed upon the exteriors of the surrounding houses, their glow combining to form a ribbon of citrine as a lone carriage trundled and a few gentlemen staggered.
She turned back to the room.
On the far wall hung a muted tapestry and on another a portrait: of a woman in the pendulous hat and tight bodice of a century earlier while at her side was a cherished pug dog. She had the look of a Cadwalader – the lady, not the dog – all blue eyes and curled blond hair.
Amelia crossed the chamber to a gilt-framed landscape, tilting her head at the fine rendering of a ruined gothic tower looming over a stormy coast. Raising her lantern, she read the nameLlanedwyncarved into the nameplate and let her fingers feather over the jagged oil seas.
An ornate gilded mirror, nigh the height of herself, hung over a dressing table laden not with male accoutrements but books.
The literature of Homer, novels of Walpole and poetry of the famed Byrne.
A frown pulled at her brow. She’d imagined Mr Cadwalader to be a gentleman who required constant chatter and social entertainment, not the type to sit quietly in his chamber and read.
In fact, the entire chamber was exquisite, comfortable and…unexpected.
Amelia returned to the desk and sifted the stacked papers.
A few bills for boots and cravats and…
Howmuch for his cravats?
Swallowing, she deftly pulled on a drawer handle with a decorative keyhole above. Locked. Not too onerous to pick, but this was just a first reconnoitre, so she merely noted which of her cracksman’s implements to bring next time.
She skirted the bed but then eyed the sumptuous pillows nestled against the headboard.
Hmm.
Rooting around between headboard and mattress, she found naught concealed but breathed in a heady waft of cinnamon and spice, of leather and man.
Mr Hugh Cadwalader must recline here of an eve, shirt open at the neck. Did his eyes gleam with the idleness of the innocent? Or did they glitter with that dangerous menace which caused such a curious flare of flame in–
