C.C. stepped quickly around the ground floor, gazing about as if searching for something.
Even though he knew he couldn’t be seen, Beau drew back when her gaze flitted up to the second floor. Blast! Had she seen him enter the library?
“Where is he?” she muttered.
He ducked lower. Didn’t this beat all? He’d dodged Yankee blockaders for years, yet one demented Yankee heiress managed to stay on his trail as if he wore a beacon.
Heavy footsteps stomped down the outside hallway.
C.C. stilled, turning her head toward the sound. She dashed to a shelf, ran her finger over the spines of several books and pulled one out. Flipping it open, she buried her nose in the pages as if deeply absorbed.
The door swung open. Viscount Falgate stood in the doorway in a crisp black suit, white shirt and red cravat.
An overpowering scent of stale sandalwood seeded the air all the way up to Beau’s little corner. Holding his nose and aching head, he sat motionless hoping they would quickly find their books and leave. All he wanted was some peace. Quiet would be good too.
Falgate tramped into the room with an unsteady gait. “Miss Collins,” he rumbled.
She turned toward him. They stood for a long moment, gazing at one another, neither speaking.
Beau wasn’t sure what to make of it. Assignations often began as such. So, she’d been searching for Lord Falgate and not him? By her outlandish remarks toward the man at dinner and again in the breakfast parlor, it didn’t seem possible. Could it be another sign of her instability, or had she been trying to throw everyone off their sordid little affair?
“We appear to enjoy the same entertainments,” Falgate cooed and stepped closer. Too close.
Instead of taking a step back, C.C. drew herself up and stood her ground. “My lord, I get the distinct impression you are following me.”
Her expression appeared haughty, but the tone of her voice almost sounded teasing.
“Miss Collins,” Falgate admonished and grinned while he waved his pointer finger from side to side. “You’ve been a bad, bad girl.”
She smiled and said with almost a girl’s intonation. “I do not know what you mean.”
Beau inched forward in his seat. Their dialogue almost sounded like a playful prelude to something more degenerate. Was this the opening gambit to more wanton games? Even though he’d vowed to avoid C.C., seeing Falgate make advances on her tweaked his ire.
The viscount’s voice emerged a low grumble. “I think you do. You know we English must display at least an appearance of neutrality when it comes to that fracas across the pond. If I was able to discover what you’ve been up to, others could as well. Of course, if you were to grant me a certain favor, I’d do you one in return and make sure tongues would rest.”
Was he propositioning her?
“I highly doubt that’s possible, my lord.” She sniffed. “My name has provided such a steady diet of toothsome tidbits it would be difficult for tongues to give up the taste now.”
“It would be a shame for new scandal to besmirch your dear cousin and family. Are they aware of your penchant for meeting men in darkened pleasure gardens?”
Good God, now Beau recognized that nauseating cologne. Falgate was one of the villains who’d followed them into the trees. Had C.C. met other men at Cremorne? Falgate was threatening to spread malicious gossip that would not only hurt C.C, but Lady Grancliffe and Beau’s brother as well. And under Thomas’s own roof!
She stood perfectly still. Only a slight flaring of her nostrils and a thinning of her lips indicated she’d even heard the viscount’s accusation.
Beau fisted his hands. He wanted to pound some manners into that blackguard. But if he showed himself with C.C, Falgate would surely put the two of them together and have proof of her peregrinations. Was that why C.C. wouldn’t acknowledge Beau at dinner?
“What say you, Miss Collins? One small favor?” Falgate purred.
Although close to forty, his lordship still had what might be considered dark good looks and a tall, sturdy build. So far, he’d made veiled threats, but C.C. appeared unbothered by them. Perhaps she found his games exciting?
While part of Beau wanted to charge down and send the viscount packing, another more analytical part advised further assessment.
Her three dark hairs in his bed proved she’d visited Beau last night. Now she was engaged in a provocative conversation with another man. Beau didn’t know why he should care, but for some reason her answer to Falgate’s question mattered. He leaned in. Yes, what say you, Miss Collins?
Footsteps shuffled down the outside hallway.
Falgate turned his head toward the sound.
C.C. suddenly flew into a rage, slapped him and screamed. “You despicable cretin!”
By the look on Falgate’s face, he hadn’t expected this sudden violence any more than Beau. Was this what Thomas had meant by unpredictable? Beau had heard of such erratic behavior in the insane. One minute they were fine, the next they’d plunged a fork into your throat.
The library door swung open. Three more male guests tentatively entered, mouths agape, all staring between C.C. and Falgate.
“Do you truly presume threats and favors will woo me to your dark designs?” Her words hissed through an incredulous smile. “Sarah may have found you charming, but look where that got her!” C.C.’s lovely features wrinkled into an expression of outrage and disgust as if she were close to slapping him again. Instead, she spun around and marched out the door.
Beau shook his head. The beautiful hellcat who left the library bore little resemblance to the charming shopgirl he’d met in the pleasure gardens. There she’d been caring, rational and full of purpose. So different from the erratic woman she’d become at Grancliffe Hall. His brother’s warnings were beginning to make sense. Perhaps she was unstable.
The next morning, Lady Grancliffe announced the day’s games would require a partner of the opposite gender. Beau immediately saw the necessity to find a good hiding place and burrow in. Fortunately, he knew plenty of hidey-holes in his childhood home.
Over the centuries, different ancestors had added on, restored, redecorated and redesigned portions of the one hundred and two rooms. Ignored for generations, the gloomy north wing rarely drew visitors. Guests generally kept to the more hospitable parts of the mansion.
Ambling down the north wing’s corridors, he saw his memories had remained fairly accurate. The old place was still drafty, still cold, and still unwelcoming. Phantoms of days gone by reappeared at the sight of a painting, the position of a sconce, or the squeak of a door hinge.
He turned into the long gallery. Very little about the room had changed since his boyhood. The faint musty smell of ancient oak paneling still pervaded the cave-like air. Sunlight struggled through mullioned windows casting shadows around the marble floor. Long vines of gilt curled across the walls and adorned the high cast-plaster ceiling.
Beau’s boots clipped on the marble and echoed around the long room as he slowly examined each painting. Every one of his stern-faced ancestors scowled down at him with dark hair and eyes. Eleven generations wore the same imperious disdain. He stopped to study his own portrait halfway down the room.
“A fine painting of you,” a disembodied voice announced nearby.
Beau jumped and bit back a curse as he spun around.
C.C. sat nearly engulfed in one of the enormous wing-backed chairs facing his portrait.
Alarmed