The castle had grown quiet; all the guests were abed, whoever’s bed they were gracing that night. Within the keep, only he and Minerva remained; all the staff had long retired.
There was no sense dallying any longer.
He was about to push away from the wall, had tensed to take the first fateful step toward her door, when it opened.
He froze, watched through the darkness as Minerva came out. She was still fully dressed; clutching a shawl about her shoulders, she glanced right, then left. She didn’t notice him, standing perfectly still in the enveloping shadows.
Quietly closing her door, she set off down the corridor.
Silent as a wraith, he followed.
Twelve
A full moon rode the sky; Minerva didn’t need a candle to slip down the main stairs and follow the west wing corridor to the music room. Once on the ground floor, she walked quickly, openly; all the guests were on the floor above.
She’d loaned Cicely, a distant Varisey cousin, her mother’s pearl brooch to anchor the spangled shawl Cicely had worn as the Princess of France in that evening’s performance of Love’s Labour’s Lost-and had forgotten to take it back. The brooch was valuable, but much more than that, it was one of the few mementos she had of her mother; she wasn’t of a mind to risk leaving it jumbled with the other pieces of finery in the costume box, not even just until tomorrow.
Not that she imagined anyone would steal it, but…she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she had the brooch back.
Reaching the music room, she opened the door and went in. Moonlight streamed through the wide window, flooding the stage, providing more than enough light. As she walked up the aisle between the rows of chairs, her mind drifted to Royce-and the sharp clutch of fear, almost paralyzing in strength, that had gripped her when she’d seen him in the river, with his burden sweeping wide around the spit where his would-be rescuers had waited…
For one crystal-clear instant in time, she’d thought she-they-would lose him. Even now…She slowed, closed her eyes, drew in a slow, steadying breath. All had turned out well-he was safe upstairs, and the girl was at her home, no doubt cosseted and warm in her bed.
Exhaling and opening her eyes, she continued on more briskly, stepping up onto the low stage. The trunk of costumes stood in the lee of the paneled left wing. Beside it sat a box full of shawls, scarves, kerchiefs, mixed with fake daggers, berets, a paste tiara and crown, all the smaller items that went with the costumes.
Crouching by the box, she started sorting through the materials, looking for the spangled shawl.
With hands and eyes engaged, her thoughts, prodded by Margaret’s outburst, and by comments she’d subsequently heard, not just from the ladies but from some of the men as well, roamed, circling the question of whether she’d done the right thing in warning Royce of the girl’s danger.
Not all who’d commented had assumed she’d expected him to rescue the girl, but she had. She’d expected him to act precisely as he had-not in the specifics, but in the sense that he would do all he could to save the child.
She hadn’t expected him to risk his life, not to the point where his death had become a real possibility. She didn’t think he’d foreseen that, either, but in such situations there never was time for cold-blooded calculations, weighing every chance.
When faced with life-and-death situations, one had to act-and trust that one’s skills would see one through. As Royce’s had. He’d given orders to his cousins and they’d instinctively obeyed; now they might question the wisdom of his act, but at the time they’d done as he’d asked.
Which was all that mattered. To her mind, the end result had been entirely satisfactory, yet of all those above stairs, only she, Royce, and a handful of others saw the matter in that light. The rest thought he, and she, had been wrong.
Of course, they wouldn’t think so if the girl had been wellborn.
Noblesse oblige; those dissenting others clearly interpreted the phrase in a different way from her and Royce.
The spangled shawl wasn’t in the box. Frowning, she piled the other things back in, then lifted the lid of the trunk. “Aha.”
She drew the soft folds out. As she’d suspected, Cicely had left the brooch pinned to the shawl; freeing it, she closed the clip, and slipped the brooch into her pocket. Dropping the shawl back into the trunk, she lowered the lid, and stood.
Just as footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond the open door.
Slow, steady, deliberate footsteps…Royce’s.
They halted in the doorway.
Royce normally moved impossibly silently. Was he allowing his footsteps to be heard because he knew she was there? Or because he thought there was no one around to hear?
She edged deeper into the lee of the panel; the thick velvet curtain, currently drawn back, gave her extra cover, ensuring her outline wasn’t etched in moonlight on the floor before the stage. Sliding her fingers between the curtain and the panel, she peeked out.
Royce stood in the doorway. He glanced around the room, then walked slowly in, leaving the door wide.
A great deal tenser than she had been, she watched as he paced down the center aisle. Halting halfway to the stage, he sat in a chair at the end of one row; the wooden legs scraped as he shifted, the small sound loud in the night. Thighs spread, he leaned his forearms along them, linked his hands between. Head angled down, he appeared to be studying his loosely interlocked fingers.
Royce thought-again-of what he intended to do, but need was a clamor filling his mind, drowning out, sweeping aside, all reservations.
Despite his nonchalance, he knew perfectly well he’d come within a whisker of dying that day. He’d waltzed close to Death before; he knew what the touch of her icy fingers felt like. What was different about this time was that-for the first time-he’d had regrets. Specific regrets that had leapt, sharp and clear, to the forefront of his mind in the moment when Phillip’s hand had seemed just too far away.
His principal regret had been over her. That if he died, he’d miss knowing her. Not just biblically, but in a deeper, broader sense, something he could put his hand on his heart and swear he’d never wanted with any other woman.
Yet another reason it was just as well he was set on having her as his wife. He’d have years to learn of, to explore, all her different facets, her character, her body, her mind.
That afternoon, while warming up in his bath, he’d considered the odd impulse her hurrying him back to the castle had evoked. He’d wanted to put his arm around her and openly accept her help, to lean on her-not physically-but for some other reason, some other solace. Not just for him, but for her, too. Accepting her help, acknowledging it-showing he welcomed it, that he was pleased, felt honored, that she cared.
He hadn’t done it-because men like him never showed such weakness. Throughout his childhood, his schooling, through social pressure, such views had shaped him; he knew it, but that didn’t mean he could escape the effects, no matter how powerful a duke he might be.
Indeed, because he’d been destined to be just such a powerful duke, the conditioning had reached even deeper.
Which, in many ways, explained tonight.
Beneath the flow of his thoughts, he’d been evaluating, assessing, deciding. Drawing in a long breath, he lifted his head and looked to the left of the stage. “Come out. I know you’re there.”
Minerva frowned, and stepped out from her hiding place. Tried to feel irritated; instead…she discovered it was possible to feel exceedingly vulnerable and irresistibly fascinated simultaneously.