Her gaze flicked to Noah, then to the papers scattered across the table. “Quite the midnight strategy session.”
“Just making sure tomorrow runs smoothly,” Noah said, his tone smooth, deferential.
Lady Beaumont smiled, the kind of smile that never reached her eyes. “I do appreciate your dedication. But perhaps it’s time both of you rested. The household rises early.”
“Of course,” I said quickly, stacking a few random sheets over the envelope.
She paused, her gaze lingering for a moment on the papers. “Well, good night then, to both of you.”
I forced a polite nod. “Good night, Lady Beaumont.”
With that, she drifted back into the corridor, closing the door behind her with a sharp click.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. The sound of her footsteps faded down the hall, followed by the faint creak of another door opening somewhere upstairs.
Noah let out a breath of laughter. “That was close.”
“Too close,” I blinked at him, pressing a hand to my chest. “If she’d come in any further…”
“She’d have thought we were conspiring.”
I gave him a look and smiled. “We sort of are.”
His grin lingered this time, and for one dangerous second the room felt very small again.
I looked down at the hidden envelope, then back at him. “Maybe history really does have a sense of humour.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The first thing I noticed when I walked into the breakfast room was that someone had set out a tray of pastries so beautiful they seemed like they’d been flown in from Paris. Which they probably had.
The staff moved around in the background, doing that discreet ballet they’d perfected for moments exactly like this, where everyone was pretending things were normal, even though they absolutely weren’t.
And there, positioned at the table with the best vantage point like he’d claimed it on instinct, was Lucas.
He was leaning forward just enough to look attentive, elbows nowhere near the linen, posture immaculate. His voice had that smooth, I’m-charming-you-without-even-trying quality he was born with, and he was using all of it on Lady Victoria Beaumont.
“…and of course the charity board insisted I take the speaking slot,” he was saying. “Apparently people listen better when they’re entertained.”
Lady Beaumont lifted her chin exactly one centimetre, unimpressed.
“Or distracted,” she said, dry as sandpaper. She returned to cutting her papaya.
Lucas blinked but rallied. “Well, either way, the donations were record-breaking.”
“Mm.” She did not look moved. “I’m sure people will donate generously to make you stop talking.”
Lucas gave a bright, hopeful laugh, as if she had just complimented him instead of… whatever that was.
Across the room, Sophie sat at a little table by the windows, keeping what she probably thought was a polite distance. Shehad her bowl of muesli in front of her, swirling the spoon around like she was contemplating the mysteries of the universe instead of, well, oats.
Every few seconds, though, her eyes flicked towards Lucas and Lady Beaumont. Not subtle. At all. Her spoon kept pausing mid-air whenever their voices lifted, like even her breakfast was following the plot.
Her sketchbook was open beside her, nothing dramatic, just a doodle of a leaf and something that could have been a wine glass or a heart or both.
She jumped a little when Lady Beaumont cut Lucas off with a crisp,
“Mr Scott, must you breathe quite so loudly?”
