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She’d never seen Camden angry before, but the severe slash of his dark eyebrows, the granite-like contours of his face, and unyielding line of his mouth left no doubt he’d been fuming. Flames had flashed in his blue eyes, and didn’t blue fire always burn the hottest?
She supposed she’d have to ask him what had his hackles up when next she saw him.
Once at the opposite door, she peeked around the doorframe, unwilling to interrupt a tête-à-tête or a clandestine assignation. Marjorie had warned her, quite severely, in fact, that dalliances of that nature were not uncommon at social gatherings or court. Bethea must use every caution not to be caught alone with a gentleman, no matter how innocuous on her part.
To do so spelled certain ruin.
A relieved sigh filtered past her parted lips at finding the chamber empty.
Candles glowed in brass and umber marble sconces on either side of the elaborate beveled mirrored mantelpiece. Bookshelves of the same lustrous dark wood flanked the fireplace. Behind an intricate screen, a fire crackled merrily, and yet, for all of the room’s grandeur, it lacked cheer and warmth.
A study or office, she presumed.
The aroma of ink, paper, burning wood, and cigars clung to the furnishings and draperies. Catching a lingering whiff of the sickly sweet smell that surrounded Montieth, she wrinkled her nose.
A double door led onto the terrace, which paralleled the side of the house. Just as she’d thought. A perfect way to unobtrusively bundle Branwen to the coach. Perhaps Camden could be imposed upon to carry her since Keane shouldn’t. She’d request a footman locate Camden while she informed Keane and Marjorie of Branwen’s condition.
The evening was cool and damp, and a swift glance out the window confirmed Bethea’s suspicion. No guests made use of the terrace or gardens. Besides, it had rained all day, and even now, the steady drip, drip, drip of rainwater from the eaves confirmed the outdoors inhospitable to even the most robust guests.
As she skirted two wing-backed leather chairs positioned beside a tall table bearing a cigar stub in an ashtray, the snick of the door handle launched her heart to her throat, and her heartbeat accelerated.
Someone meant to enter.
