He’d stopped next to her, and his nearness was both comfort and temptation now. Her cheeks were still warm, probably pink, but she didn’t care what conclusions Mrs. Fox might draw. She’d thought long and hard about her decision to go to his room and didn’t regret a moment of it.
“We’ll send him on his way if you wish to return to your rooms.” Mrs. Fox told them over her shoulder as she unlatched the front door. “Hopefully, a few more hours of sleep can be salvaged.”
“But who is he, Mrs. Fox?” Lucy’s curiosity wouldn’t let her sleep.
“Blackwood, lass.” The man himself burst through the front door, stumbled, and then righted himself by reaching for one of the statues nearby. He patted its marble arm awkwardly and murmured, “Thankyou, darlin’,” before continuing into the foyer and approaching Lucy.
James stepped forward and planted himself in front of her. Lucy sidestepped and laid a hand on his arm to let him know his chivalry wasn’t needed here. The man seemed overly jovial, if anything.
“Angus Blackwood.” He pressed a fist to his mouth to unsuccessfully stifle a burp and squinted as he examined her. “Ye are Cassandra’s niece, aren’t ye? Ye’ve the same fire in those sea-green eyes of yours.”
Lucy drew in a breath when the man pointed at her. He took a step forward as if he might touch her, but James deflected him, sweeping his arm down against Mr. Blackwood’s.
“Don’t,” he said simply, but with the deep, cold voice he’d used with Nichols on the train.
In response, Blackwood lifted his hands in surrender, then smiled. “Understood.”
“McKay can drive you back in your carriage—” Mrs. Fox started.
“Is there no hospitality left at Invermere, Fox? I’ll no’ make that trek again this night of blighted weather.”
Rain battered the windowpanes, whipped by the wind, as if emphasizing his point.
“Perhaps we could prepare a room for Mr. Blackwood.” Lucy didn’t know why, but she was curious about the man. He was as colorful as any character she’d ever met, and getting to know him seemed a way of knowing her aunt better. If itwasn’t one in the morning, she’d ply him with coffee and questions.
“He has a room,” Mrs. Fox said quietly and a little defeated. “Make your way up when you’re ready, Mr. Blackwood.”
He doffed his red-ribboned hat and sketched a little bow that caused him to stumble.
Lucy reached out to grab his shoulder, and James took his opposite arm.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he whispered over the man’s head.
“He’s in no state to do anything but rest.”
James offered no answer, merely held her gaze.
“Let’s get you upstairs, Mr. Blackwood.”
The older man smiled at each of them in turn and let them lead him to the foot of the stairs. There, he shook off James’s hold and reached for Lucy’s hand where she held his upper arm.
“Cassandra mentioned you,” he said, watching her as they ascended the stairs.
“Did she?” Lucy wanted to know how her aunt spoke of her but feared she’d hear words likejoyless spinsteragain. Or worse, James would hear her described that way.
“Said you were a brilliant girl, but trapped.”
“Trapped?”
“Family responsibilities, duties, social nonsense. A banked fire, she said. Waiting to burn bright.”
Lucy’s throat went dry, and tears stung her eyes. It was prettier than calling her a spinster but a truth she hadn’t allowed herself to see for too long.
Angus Blackwood said no more but pointed at a door straight ahead the moment they reached the top of the stairs. Once he’d toddled inside, he turned to shut it.
Lucy reached for the handle to stop him from closing it all the way. “Will you be all right?”
“A bit of a sleep, some apologies in the morning, and one of Cook’s breakfasts, and I shall be right as rain.” He smiled sleepily, his eyes half closed, then they slid open. If not sober, he looked to have a moment of clarity. “When is she back?”
