Her heart pounded louder with each step that drew her nearer to Mr King’s rooms. Why should she be so nervous? Or did another emotion beset her? Excitement? Anticipation? She couldn’t admit it. Wouldn’t admit it. Serena only wished to see the man to discuss his benevolence toward her—a kindness which belied his original actions in keeping her at Aleron. Oh, it was too confusing. She shook her head, attempting to clear her muddled thoughts.
Serena paused at his door, smoothed her skirts and tucked loose strands of hair back into the chignon at her nape. She straightened her bodice and, drawing in a deep breath, knocked on the wooden panelling. With any luck, it would please him to see her, rather than anger him at her interruption—as Mrs Jones always insinuated he would. Several heartbeats ticked by, however, and no response came from within the room. Serena knocked again, a little louder and, after waiting another minute, pressed her ear against the door. Not a sound came from within. Not even the shuffling of papers.
Was Mr King even inside? Was he well? Perhaps he slept soundly and didn’t hear her. He’d looked rather tired of late. No wonder with the late nights he’d been keeping. A smile tugged at Serena’s lips. She had enjoyed some of those evenings with him. Curious, she tried the door handle. It was unlocked, but did that hold any significance?
Serena only hesitated for a moment, then gently pushed the door open. This might be a foolish idea that would find her in deep trouble, or ...
She never finished the thought, for what she saw sent her mind spinning. Even though deep shadows met her eyes—not a single candle lit the room—it was plain to Serena that chaos ruled, and the breath caught in her throat. How long had it been since she visited Mr King here? Two weeks, perhaps. But what a change.
Collecting herself, Serena glanced around for the man, but he was nowhere in sight. His bedroom door stood ajar, and no sound came from within there either. She crept closer to see if there might be any movement, or at least the shape of Mr King asleep in his bed. A single floor board creak could mean discovery, and the improper nature of her visit would be exposed. Heat rose in Serena’s neck at the thought of being caught in his rooms, but every feeling convinced her he was not here. The bed remained empty, the dark bedroom and the hearth cold.
Serena released an unsteady breath as she turned and gazed over the adjoining apartment again. The air was stale, filled with the faint odour of uncleanliness. Several empty drinking glasses and the occasional plate were discarded haphazardly around the room. The floor was strewn with crumpled up pieces of paper, and items of clothing which were tossed carelessly. Why, even his desk was a mess: quills and wafers, open books and the remains of burnt-out candles were scattered over the surface. It seemed odd, in a house where the family kept everything in spotless order, that one room could be left in a state of disarray. Did Mr King not allow maids into his apartments?
With a frown, she approached the messy desk for a closer look. Strange. There was little evidence of architectural design in progress, unless it hid beneath everything else. She lifted a corner of parchment to see what might be underneath, but an open book in the centre of the desk weighed down the reams of paper. Serena moved to shift it when she recognised Mr King’s writing filled the pages, and dates headed the text. A journal?
Serena pressed her hand across her mouth to stifle a gasp as she recognised her own name on the page. She shouldn’t read it. It would be ill-mannered, not to mention intrusive and presumptuous. She ran a hand over the smooth pages engraved with the pen’s scratchings. Although intrigued over what Mr King might have written about her, Serena tore her eyes away from the book. It was a personal journal, and had she not already invaded his privacy simply by being there? With one final glance around the room, she returned to the door, closing it behind her.
She let out a long breath. What had happened to Mr King? And why did his apartments lie in such a mess? As she thought about it more, something seemed at odds. Mrs Jones insisted to the dressmakers that he was currently at work, and yet to Serena, it seemed he hadn’t been in there for days. The room was cold—not even an ember glowed in the grate—and no fresh candles laid anywhere. So, where was he? And how long had he been away? And why did his room resemble a frantic mind, rather than a meticulous genius?
Might that be the reason he hadn’t sought her out for days? He wasn’t home. Perhaps he had gone to spend a week or two in town, or even further away. But again, Mrs Jones had told their visitors he was working. Maybe he did work, but somewhere else altogether. That made sense to a certain extent, and perhaps it even explained the lack of architectural work on Mr King’s desk. And yet, Serena’s conclusions still did not convince her.
She needed to think. Serena was lost in her reasonings, chewing on her lip all the way to her room. As she perched herself on the edge of her bed, her mind continued to churn over details. The family usually discouraged Mr King’s outings. Why? And why would this occasion be any different? They constantly behaved protectively over him, even to the point of secrecy. But, why? So many questions remained and Serena knew that if she could just find Mr King, perhaps he could answer them.
