What a fine fix this was. Nobody was going to brave the stairs to check on him—not even his valet, who was canoodling with the cook’s assistant in the corner.
Olivia squinted up the staircase. None of the papers in the study had touched on confidential dealings. What chance was there that the last two folders would prove different? Unless he’d stashed his most private documents under a cushion somewhere, his apartment was the only place remaining to look.
God help her. She was going to have to pry the madman from his rooms.
On a deep breath, she gathered her skirts in her fists and started for the stairs.
“Oh, don’t go!” Muriel spoke in a high, panicked voice. “Last time a bottle, this time a blade, ma’am!”
How did Muriel know about that? Olivia wheeled back. “Vickers, you are a terrible gossip.”
Vickers gave a sheepish shrug.
“Be a man,” Polly snapped at him. “Go up there with her!”
This unexpected support quite gratified Olivia. But it only led Vickers to duck behind the cook’s assistant. “I am—otherwise occupied,” he said.
“Coward,” Olivia hissed at him. The other servants’ answering snickers, she did not welcome. She directed a scowl down over the gathering.
The resulting silence was most satisfying.
Nevertheless, as she squared her shoulders, she felt compelled to add: “If I have not returned in a quarter hour . . .”
Summon the police, another woman might have said. But not she. The police would not suit her in the least.
* * *
As Olivia opened the door to the duke’s sitting room, the noise stopped. She hovered on the threshold, debating with herself. With the hubbub over, was there really any call to check on him?
But what if he was lying injured?
Even if he was, was that really her responsibility to determine?
Perhaps not. But if she meant to dislodge him from his quarters long enough to search them, she would have to begin the campaign sometime—the sooner, the wiser. Right-o. She marched up to the inner door.
Her knock sounded rather timid for her liking. Timidity is fatal to leadership. Men desire an excuse to believe in something greater than themselves; an incompetent braggart will win them far faster than a great man who does not advertise. Marwick had written that in his meditations on Wellington.
She bit her lip and rapped more firmly. After a long pause, Marwick said, “Come.”
He’d answered! Stupefied, she hesitated. Then she smoothed down her skirts and entered, ready to duck.
The room lay in its usual gloomy darkness, the curtains shuttered. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. To her bafflement, everything looked in order: all the furniture intact, no shattered bottles lying about—save the remnants of the one he had thrown at her, which still glimmered in a nearby corner.
The stacks of paper had been gathered up and moved. One sat on the chest at the foot of the bed. Another lay on the writing desk by the window. Where were the rest? Pray God he hadn’t burned them.
Heart quickening, she turned her attention toward the duke. He reclined on his bed, lost amid the shadows cast by his canopy. Only his eyes glittered out from the murk. “Ah,” he drawled. “My newest housekeeper.”
How could a man who wrote so beautifully have gone so rotten? She could not think of him as the same person who had written those essays. And she had to get him out of this room. What on earth had he been doing in here? He was not slurring his words, and the air held no reek of alcohol—or smoke, either, thank goodness. All she smelled was . . . sweat. Not unpleasant. But sweat all the same.
“Your Grace,” she said, remembering to curtsy. “I heard a disturbance. I wished to make certain you were well.”
“I suppose that’s a matter for debate. Miss Johnson.”
She resented the heat that came to her face. Had he no shame? Why would he wish to remind her of his abominable behavior at their last meeting? She was tempted to
Olivia squinted up the staircase. None of the papers in the study had touched on confidential dealings. What chance was there that the last two folders would prove different? Unless he’d stashed his most private documents under a cushion somewhere, his apartment was the only place remaining to look.
God help her. She was going to have to pry the madman from his rooms.
On a deep breath, she gathered her skirts in her fists and started for the stairs.
“Oh, don’t go!” Muriel spoke in a high, panicked voice. “Last time a bottle, this time a blade, ma’am!”
How did Muriel know about that? Olivia wheeled back. “Vickers, you are a terrible gossip.”
Vickers gave a sheepish shrug.
“Be a man,” Polly snapped at him. “Go up there with her!”
This unexpected support quite gratified Olivia. But it only led Vickers to duck behind the cook’s assistant. “I am—otherwise occupied,” he said.
“Coward,” Olivia hissed at him. The other servants’ answering snickers, she did not welcome. She directed a scowl down over the gathering.
The resulting silence was most satisfying.
Nevertheless, as she squared her shoulders, she felt compelled to add: “If I have not returned in a quarter hour . . .”
Summon the police, another woman might have said. But not she. The police would not suit her in the least.
* * *
As Olivia opened the door to the duke’s sitting room, the noise stopped. She hovered on the threshold, debating with herself. With the hubbub over, was there really any call to check on him?
But what if he was lying injured?
Even if he was, was that really her responsibility to determine?
Perhaps not. But if she meant to dislodge him from his quarters long enough to search them, she would have to begin the campaign sometime—the sooner, the wiser. Right-o. She marched up to the inner door.
Her knock sounded rather timid for her liking. Timidity is fatal to leadership. Men desire an excuse to believe in something greater than themselves; an incompetent braggart will win them far faster than a great man who does not advertise. Marwick had written that in his meditations on Wellington.
She bit her lip and rapped more firmly. After a long pause, Marwick said, “Come.”
He’d answered! Stupefied, she hesitated. Then she smoothed down her skirts and entered, ready to duck.
The room lay in its usual gloomy darkness, the curtains shuttered. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. To her bafflement, everything looked in order: all the furniture intact, no shattered bottles lying about—save the remnants of the one he had thrown at her, which still glimmered in a nearby corner.
The stacks of paper had been gathered up and moved. One sat on the chest at the foot of the bed. Another lay on the writing desk by the window. Where were the rest? Pray God he hadn’t burned them.
Heart quickening, she turned her attention toward the duke. He reclined on his bed, lost amid the shadows cast by his canopy. Only his eyes glittered out from the murk. “Ah,” he drawled. “My newest housekeeper.”
How could a man who wrote so beautifully have gone so rotten? She could not think of him as the same person who had written those essays. And she had to get him out of this room. What on earth had he been doing in here? He was not slurring his words, and the air held no reek of alcohol—or smoke, either, thank goodness. All she smelled was . . . sweat. Not unpleasant. But sweat all the same.
“Your Grace,” she said, remembering to curtsy. “I heard a disturbance. I wished to make certain you were well.”
“I suppose that’s a matter for debate. Miss Johnson.”
She resented the heat that came to her face. Had he no shame? Why would he wish to remind her of his abominable behavior at their last meeting? She was tempted to
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