The woman muttered something about uppity class women before turning in the opposite direction. Moreham looked up to find himself the target of a pair of sharp eyes of a Whitney ancestor. Whoever painted the lady’s portrait deserved every cent he earned. Moreham had never seen a more fearsome lady.
Footsteps and a click of the door latch on the door leading to the servant stairs told him the maid was no longer a threat.
He stepped out of his hiding place then hurried down the hall. A creaking of wood sent his heart into his throat. He held his breath for a moment.
“What are you about?” Gillian's soft whisper floated across the hall.
Moreham dropped his head forward and tried to breathe again. The woman had scared him out of twenty years of life. “Gillian, you are going to be the death of me. Are you sure you are not in cahoots with my cousin to bring about my demise so he can inherit the earldom? Maybe you are an agent for the Corsican?”
Gillian grabbed his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. Did you really think I would not be curious about your need to change clothes when you have two hours left before you ride out? A note you won’t discuss?”
Moreham shook his head in resignation. “Please return to our rooms. The note was from Cross. Horses are being saddled for the others.”
Gillian opened her mouth, but he lifted a single finger to halt her from speaking. “You promised to stay behind and keep an eye out for your aunt. A promise you are honor bound to uphold.”
Moreham nudged Gillian back toward their rooms and followed her. He didn’t believe for one moment Gillian would do as she had promised.
“Now, in you go. Time to continue with your disrobing.” Moreham followed her into the bedchamber. Gillian stopped in the middle of the room and waited. Such a simple chore, the unbuttoning of her gown, Moreham gritted his teeth and stiffened as he returned to the task of undoing her gown. The sensation of each button coming undone exposing the flimsy fabric of her chemise soared through his veins. All too soon for his liking, Gillian stepped away.
“I will be able to proceed on my own.”
The mantel clock chimed the first of twelve chimes. Gillian waved her hand toward the door while she held her gown to her chest. He would give his last shilling if he could remain with her.
“You’d better go. You must be away before Uncle and the others leave the manor.”
Moreham closed his eyes and spun around to leave. He reached for the door handle and hesitated. “You will remain here.”
“James, please be careful. I’ve gotten used to having you around. I don’t fancy wearing widow’s weeds before we see to our wedding night. I’ve worn that depressing color far too often in my life.”
“Never fear, dearest. I plan on living a long life so you can pester me.”
Gillian’s chuckle warmed his heart as he stepped into the corridor then closed the door. He treasured every moment he’d spent with Gillian. He would do whatever he had to this night to find the traitors and put them in Newgate. A satisfactory end to his mission was the only way forward for his marriage. He wanted Gillian and all those lovely babes to be his.
Gillian stared at the closed door and waited. Part of her wanted her husband to return. When the clock pealed the twelfth time, she accepted Moreham was gone. Gillian pulled her gown away from her chest then stepped out of the skirt. She tossed the gown in a chair and rushed to the dressing room where she had hidden a pair of buckskins and a white shirt of Uncle’s from years earlier when he wasn’t quite so robust.
She pulled the breeches and shirt on. Though her husband would never admit it, marriage had changed him. She cherished the notion he was consumed by his concerns for her safety. If he felt concern for her to that degree maybe he loved her.
Aunt Isadora espoused men fought the notion of caring for a woman. Aunt insisted a woman must force her beloved to admit his love. After being married for less than a sennight, Gillian agreed. Her husband needed her help whether he wanted it or not.
Wearing breeches would make moving about in the dark easier. She rummaged around in the drawer of her desk for her small pistol. Uncle Whitney had commissioned the pistol to be made for her before her first season. She normally strapped the weapon to her thigh in a special holster. Tonight, she’d carry the gun in her pocket, primed and ready to fire.
Gillian stood by the door and listened for footsteps. She was not disappointed as she recognized her uncle’s voice. She waited for a count of twenty before easing her door open and stepping into the corridor. A peek through the stair railing confirmed she was alone.
Only a fraction of a second before she felt the unmistakable coldness of a gun pressed against her spine did Gillian realize someone was standing behind her.
“My lady, you surprise me. Dressed in men’s clothing. Shouldn’t you be ensconced in your marital bed with that delicious husband of yours? Don’t tell me he has lost interest in you already?”
“I…um wanted to fetch a light repast for us. Moreham is feeling a little peckish.” Gillian moved to the side of the staircase.
Lady Roberts nudged her toward the stairs. “Nothing Moreham or you can do will stop Whitney and the others from being killed. Your husband is walking into a trap. Had you remained in your rooms you might have been allowed to live. Now, I am afraid we will
