The wine was poured and the first course of squash soup was being served when Hart addressed Sir Winford. “Miss Timmons tells me you’ve an interest in horses, Winford.”
Sir Winford tugged at his lapels. “Yes, yes, indeed. I cannot pass up a race. Won the steeplechase in Devon last month.” This last part he said with a proud sideways look at Meg.
Hart’s jaw hardened. “Really? I won the steeplechase in Surrey a fortnight ago. We should race sometime.”
“Oh indeed. Sounds like a jolly good time.”
“Name the place and the time,” Hart replied with a calculated smile.
Alarm bells sounded in Meg’s head. Was this really happening? Was Hart truly challenging Sir Winford to a race? He sounded positively competitive. Wasn’t he always? Especially when it came to horses? Surely, it had nothing to do with her.
Sir Winford looked taken aback. “Hampstead Heath, Thursday afternoon?”
“Perfect.” Hart took another long draught of wine.
“I should love to come and watch the race. It sounds like terrific fun,” Lady Eugenia purred. Meg had never cared for cats. Except for Lucy.
Meg clutched at the velvet seat of her chair. She didn’t think it sounded like terrific fun at all. It sounded much more like a disaster in the making.
Sir Winford turned to her with a hopeful look in his blue eyes. “Miss Timmons, won’t you come and watch, too? For my sake? I’m certain to win if I have you in my corner.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain about that, Winford.” Hart tossed back half of his wineglass and narrowed his eyes on the knight.
“Hart, do you truly think another race is a good idea?” came Sarah’s voice from a few seats down the table.
Hart’s smile was tinged with roguishness. “My sister hates for me to race.” This he directed toward Lady Eugenia, whom Meg wanted to kick.
“Only because you’ve nearly killed yourself half a dozen times,” Sarah replied sweetly.
Hart rolled his eyes. “Yes, and I’m much better at racing as a result.”
“Nonsense.” Lucy clapped her hands. “I think a good race is just what is needed to break up the doldrums of the Season. Let’s all go watch and make a party of it on Thursday afternoon.”
Excited murmurs filled the room as Meg lifted her gaze to Hart’s and tried to … tried to what? Smile? Give him a reassuring nod? What if he broke his neck this time and died racing a man she’d brought into his social circle? She’d never forgive herself. However, if the fool wanted to break his neck while trying to impress Lady Eugenia, that was his affair. Meg had no intention of watching it play out.
“I cannot make it Thursday afternoon,” she said. “I must oversee packing. I’m moving to the Continent in a fortnight.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hart’s spoon clattered to his bowl. A dollop of soup splashed across his pristine white shirt. “Blast,” he called out before grabbing his napkin to wipe it away.
“Nonsense,” Lucy said again, this time directed toward Meg, completely ignoring Hart’s troubles with his soupy shirt. “I’ll send some servants to help you pack. You’ll be ready in a twinkle. Meanwhile, you’ll come with us to Hampstead Heath. Besides, there’s always the possibility that you might become engaged before you have a chance to leave.” Lucy grinned from ear to ear.
A footman had rushed forward to help Hart clean his shirt. “No, leave it.” Hart said, waving away the man.
“Some silver polish will get out the stain,” Lucy said. “My mother’s housekeeper taught me that. You’ll be quite amazed. Henry,” she added to one of the footmen, “will you please fetch the polish from the silver closet?”
“I’ll do it!” Meg called out. She had her napkin off her lap and stood before anyone had a chance to notice. “I need a bit of fresh air and I know where the silver closet is.” Running out of the room seemed by far the best choice at the moment. It would spare her from having to explain her statement about moving to Sir Winford, who looked poised on the brink of asking a great many questions. More important, it would spare her from having to explain Lucy’s loaded statement about a marriage proposal to … anyone.
“Nonsense,” Lucy said for the third time. “Henry here can easily—”
“No, no. You see, I’m already on my way. I’ll be right back.” Meg was already hurrying toward the door. No doubt all of Lucy’s fine friends would think she’d lost her mind, but she couldn’t sit there in the stately room across from Hart and Lady Eugenia and talk about either her leaving or the race. For some reason it felt … excruciating.
Meg planned to find the silver polish and send back a maid with both the polish and her regrets. She was done with Lucy’s plotting tonight. Why, oh why, had the duchess invited Lady Eugenia? To sit across from the gorgeous blonde, knowing she was exactly who Hart was looking for in a wife, dowry and all. Definitely too much. Meg had got in over her head. She would send a note to Sir Winford tomorrow saying she had left tonight with a megrim and asking him to call upon her at his first opportunity. She would not be attending the race at Hampstead Heath.
Meg picked up her salmony skirts and swam down the cool corridor toward the silver closet. The small room was at the back of the house across from the servants’ stairwell to the kitchens. She’d noted it on a tour of the house Lucy had once given her. It was to be Meg’s sanctuary tonight.
Moments later, she arrived in front of the closet. She tried the door handle. Confound it. Of course it was locked. She hadn’t thought about that possibility before she’d rashly rushed from the dining room. She needed the key.
Conveniently, Mr. Hughes, the butler, materialized moments later. “Miss Timmons,” he said, bowing. “Her Grace indicated you might be in need of this.” He presented the key to the closet upon a silver salver. A small smile popped to Meg’s lips. Everything in a duke’s household was grand, apparently, and the servants thought of everything.
“Thank you very much.” Meg pulled the heavy key from the salver and turned toward the door. “Do you know exactly where the silver polish is located?” she asked the butler. But the man was gone, as if he’d vanished through the walls.
Meg slid the heavy key into the lock and twisted. It was stuck. Lucy had mentioned that the door was problematic, hadn’t she? Meg jiggled it once, twice, and then kicked it with her slipper. It opened. Thank heavens. She’d hate to have to slink back to the dining room and admit she hadn’t even been able to open the door.
She stepped inside the dark room, hoping the silver polish was readily apparent using only the light from the corridor. It was not. There was no help for it. She’d have to light a candle. Luckily one sat in a holder on the bureau near the door, a flintlock beside it. She lit the candle and held it aloft, searching the rows of shelves for the polish.
Still not readily apparent. Bother.
Not being particularly tall didn’t help, either. There was a small set of movable wooden steps to her left. She set the candle on the bureau, bent over, and pushed the steps toward a large closed cabinet against the back wall. If she could get up high enough to open the doors to the cabinet, perhaps she would find the elusive polish.
She climbed up and reached for the latch on the cabinet’s doors. She was forced to stretch far above her head. Her gown and stays compressed her chest and she momentarily felt as if she might faint. Why exactly had she thought this was a good idea? If she had any sense, she would simply inform one of the maids that her mistress required silver polish in the dining room and call for her coach to be brought around. But she had promised to locate the blasted polish and locate it she would.
She reached farther, straining, straining more. A loud ripping noise ensued and cool air rushed across her chest. Her gown had ripped clear down the bodice just as the door slammed shut and the candle blew out from the force of it.
“Blast it. No!” She clutched at the front of her gown.
First things first. She’d have to get down and relight the candle to assess the
damage to her gown. The bodice was certainly ripped open and gaping away from her chest, but how bad was it? More important, how indecent? It felt quite indecent. There was no way she could return to the dining room now.
She carefully made her way down the steps. Using her hands to feel her way toward the bureau, she located the candle, but curiously, there was no flintlock. She patted all around next to the candle where the flintlock had been. Nothing. Had it fallen to the floor? Bother. Bother.
Very well. She would open the door to let in a bit of light and hope no one wandering by noticed the state of her bodice. In the pitch-black darkness, she felt her way over the bureau toward the door. She smoothed her hand down the wood until she located the door’s handle. She turned it. Locked. She turned harder. Still locked. She pulled with all her might. It didn’t budge.
She expelled her breath and clenched her fist in her thoroughly ripped bodice. God help her, she was locked in the abominable silver closet.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hart shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t care about his blasted wet shirt. Or the light-yellow stain that was already setting in. Instead, a quartet of other thoughts possessed his mind. The first was the reason for his clumsiness to begin with. Meg’s statement that she was leaving town. In a fortnight. What the devil could she possibly mean? Why would she be moving to the Continent?
His second thought centered on the reason why Meg had been gone for the better part of a quarter hour. How long did it take to find silver polish?
Then there was her reaction to the race. She’d looked stricken when he’d challenged Sir Winford. Did she wish he hadn’t? Surely, Meg had to know he was an excellent racer. His accident last autumn had been a fluke. Or was her concern for that fop Winford? She was obviously trying to secure an offer of marriage from the man. Lucy had made that clear enough. Perhaps Hart shouldn’t have challenged Winford, but racing was his passion and the knight had so cavalierly indicated his prowess in the matter. Not to mention how the man was settled on his last nerve. Which was Hart’s fourth distracting thought. Was Sir Winford on the verge of a proposal to Meg? Would she accept? She’d be a fool not to.
Why did the thought of Meg marrying Winford make Hart want to put his fist through the nearest wall? It wasn’t as if she was suitable for him. His father’s words burned through Hart’s brain. “Meg Timmons is the last girl on earth I’d allow you to marry.” What the hell did his father care? The man had been manipulative Hart’s entire life. Playing people like chess pieces, ordering them about. He treated his son like the most prized piece of them all, and he demanded obedience. That’s all Hart had ever been good for. Breeding stock. A dumb, beautiful, useless animal meant to be paired with another dumb, beautiful, useless animal for the sake of producing more useless progeny.
Hart glanced over at Lady Eugenia. She was lovely and accomplished and witty. She said all the right things and did all the right things. She had a hefty dowry. She was bloody perfect. He should offer for her immediately.
Yet she wasn’t the one he wanted to see him win the race with Sir Winford. It was Meg. But why? Why did it matter to him? He owed her, he reminded himself. At least he had owed her. The reasoning for exactly what he owed her and why was blurry at best, but he had definitely behaved inappropriately with her more than once and she hadn’t deserved it. His debt was paid, wasn’t it? He should allow her her courtship with Winford. Challenging the knight to a race was probably not his most clever idea. He’d surely beat the man soundly and possibly ruin Meg’s chances for happiness. But he couldn’t convince himself to withdraw.
“The steamed halibut looks delicious,” Lady Eugenia said pleasantly as the footmen delivered the next course.
Hart glanced up from his plate to see the butler stride into the room, lean over, and whisper something to Lucy Hunt. Lucy whispered back, and the man bowed and left the room. Had they been speaking about Meg? It would be rude to ask.
Hart concentrated on his halibut and making polite conversation with Lady Eugenia while Sarah smiled and nodded at him approvingly, but Meg’s absence made it increasingly difficult for him to answer Lady Eugenia’s questions with even a modicum of interest.
Finally, Lucy cleared her throat. “Lord Highgate, hasn’t Miss Timmons returned yet? She must come back soon or your shirt is surely ruined. Then she’ll have missed this lovely course for nothing.”
“I’m happy to go in search of her, Your Grace,” Sir Winford boomed, pulling his napkin from his lap and pushing back his chair.
Hart growled.
“Thank you, Sir Winford,” Lucy began. “But I daresay Lord Highgate should go in search of her since she was on a mission to save his shirt to begin with.” She turned her gaze to Hart and took a sip of wine. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Highgate?”
Hart frowned and narrowed his eyes on Lucy. Why hadn’t she asked the butler to find Miss Timmons? But Hart wasn’t about to argue. His heart raced. The truth was it was nothing but fortuitous that Lucy had chosen him to go in search of her. He wouldn’t be forced to sit any longer waiting and wondering.
Sir Winford opened his mouth to speak but Lucy’s lioness glare stopped him. The knight reluctantly replaced the napkin on his lap and settled back into his seat.
“My pleasure.” Hart stood, bowed, excused himself to Lady Eugenia and the others, and tossed his napkin to the seat of his chair. A footman rushed forward to fold it. “Though I’m not entirely certain I am aware of the location of your silver closet … if you’ll point me in the correct direction.”
Lucy nodded regally. “It’s down the corridor, to the right, all the way to the back near the servants’ staircase.”
“Right.” Hart bowed to her. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Lucy said as he left the room.
Once outside the dining room, Hart strode down the corridor. Following the duchess’s instructions, he located the silver closet. The key was in the lock and the door was closed. He tried the handle. It didn’t budge. He turned the lock and tried the handle once more. It was stuck. “Meg?” he called.
Her muffled voice sounded through the thick wood. “Hart? Is that you?”
“Yes.” He pushed harder against the door, this time using his shoulder.
“Hart, don’t come in here, I’ve ripped my—”
The door flew open and Hart nearly fell into the room from the weight of his shoulder against the door.
The closet was in darkness, but he made out the shadowy figure of Meg, a glimmering bit of pink a few paces away.
“Why is it dark in here? Are you quite all right?”
“Don’t come any closer,” she squeaked.
“What? Why?” He stepped into the room.
“No! Don’t let the door—” Meg lunged toward it, a shadow in the darkness.
She was too late. The door slammed closed.
He’d stepped quickly to the side. “Why?”
“Because it will—” She jiggled the handle and sighed “—lock.”
Hart turned toward the door and grabbed the handle again. By God, she was right. The door had not only closed, it had locked. What in the devil’s name?
“I’ve been trying for the last ten minutes to get out of here.”
“I see that,” he said simply. “May I ask why you’re waiting in the dark?”
“Oh, because I prefer it, obviously.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
He rubbed his fingers through his hair. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was standing on the stairs looking for the polish when the door slammed shut and blew out the candle. The flintlock appears to have gone missing.”
“There is a candle and a flintlock in here?” Instinctively, he turned to look before realizing that was a fruitless effort. He couldn’t even see his own hand in front of his face.
“Yes. Somewhere,” Meg replied.
“Then all we must do is locate it.”
“Brilliant. I wish I’d thought of t
hat.”
Hart grinned in the darkness. “I never knew how witty you are.” Miss Timmons confirmed again she wasn’t the quiet little mouse he’d once assumed she was. He liked that. A lot.
“I suppose being locked in a silver closet in the dark with a ripped bodice doesn’t exactly bring out the best in me.”
“Pardon?” Had he heard her correctly?
“I said being locked in a silver closet isn’t particularly my finest hour,” she replied.
“No. The part about your bodice being, erm, ripped?”
“Oh yes. In addition to the door blowing shut, locking me in here, and divesting me of light, I managed to rip my gown while reaching for the silver polish.”
“That is unfortunate.” Hart’s mind raced. What sort of state of undress were they speaking of? He could smell Meg’s strawberry sweetness. Light. Ephemeral. Like her. His palms began to sweat. It had turned ungodly hot in the small space of a sudden.
“Quite unlucky,” Meg echoed. “Therefore, if you are fortunate enough to find the flintlock and light the candle, I’d be ever so thankful if you would turn your back when you do so.”
Hart chuckled.
“Is my misfortune amusing to you?” came her pert voice.
“Not at all. I’m merely considering the ridiculousness of all of this.”
Two moments ticked by before Meg spoke, a decided laugh in her voice. “It is quite ridiculous, isn’t it?”
Hart was already feeling his way across the top of a bureau, trying to locate the elusive flintlock. “Do you think the breeze caused by the door knocked the flintlock to the floor?”
“I got down on my hands and knees and felt around but wasn’t able to find it. My next attempt was going to be to call for help. Your voice is louder. They’re certain to hear you. Go ahead.”
The Right Kind of Rogue Page 10