Swiftly, her mind took in the scene—plates, safe, desk—and she realized with dawning horror that she had taken refuge in the butler’s pantry. The stillroom was to the left, not the right.
Curse it!
Her face turned purple at the thought of discovery, and her heart pounded with such raucous cacophony it was almost the only thing she could hear. Faintly, though, through the door, she heard Marlow’s determined rumble. The words themselves were faint, but the disapproving tone came through clearly.
Horribly, the disapprobation stopped in front of the door.
Dear God, he was about to come in.
Hide!
Frantically, her eyes darted around the room, searching…searching for a space in which to conceal herself.
Not the cupboard. Too small.
Maybe under the desk? No, the area was too exposed.
What about drapes? Could she hide behind the drapes? They barely covered the window, which was narrow to begin with.
The door!
Yes, yes, the door, she thought, running toward it with so much force she practically threw herself across the room. Obviously, the only place to hide was in the adjacent room. Gratefully, she turned the knob just as the door to the pantry creaked.
“…a suggestion so catastrophically inane I would assume you had downed an entire bottle of his grace’s best claret if I did not know such a sacrilege to be impossible,” Marlow said reproachfully.
As gently as she could, Bea closed the door and examined her surroundings: bed, clothespress, shelves.
By all that was holy, she was in his bedroom.
What a humiliating turn!
Truly, she could not imagine anything in the world more devastating than being found in Marlow’s bedchamber on her very first morning as the Duchess of Kesgrave. What explanation could she possibly give for the outlandish behavior? What justification could she conceivably provide for the appalling invasion of privacy? If the butler’s own sleeping quarters were not inviolate, then nothing sacred remained.
In one fell swoop she would lose the staff’s trust and all hope of earning their respect. At once, she would become a source of amusement, an object of mockery. To her face, of course, they would display the same untrammeled deference as if she had not been discovered in Marlow’s room, but behind her back they would ridicule and laugh.
Bea could not blame them. She wanted to laugh herself.
Yes, but that was because she was overwrought.
She had to calm down, think rationally, respond sensibly. Panicking had done nothing to help the situation, and reacting without consideration again would only worsen it.
Like hiding under the bed, for instance. Seeking concealment beneath it might seem like the best option in a room with few alternatives, but it would be disastrous if Marlow found her cowering under his mattress. How easily she could imagine the terrifying moment of discovery as the large man sank to his knees and lowered his contemptuous gaze until it was level with hers.
’Twas a scene so horrific not even Mr. Walpole could have conceived it.
Better, she decided, to remain upright and stand behind the sweep of the door. Even if he had reason to enter the room, it was unlikely he would close the door behind him in the middle of the day, particularly while he was chastising a subordinate for performing his duties while inebriated or something equally transgressive. If necessary, she could stand on tiptoes and press her back against the wall just like—
Abruptly, she dropped to her heels as a fragment of their conversation penetrated her frenzy.
Had someone just said the Particular?
Impossible, she thought. He had used the word as an adjective, not a proper noun—to wit: “the particular ninny with whom the duke has saddled us for all eternity.”
The butler and his associate would have no reason to talk about the theater on the Strand where Kesgrave and she had concluded an investigation only the day before.
And yet Marlow added, “I cannot believe any investigation of that nature was conducted at some ha’penny theater on the Strand. It is rank gossip of the most scurrilous kind, and I will thank you not to repeat it to anyone, especially the maids, who are susceptible to wild speculation with their impressionable minds. That being said, if such an event did occur, which of course it did not, I’m sure it was his grace’s ingenuity that carried the day, not the duchess’s. Granted, she is brazen enough to believe she could investigate a murder, but she is a woman and subject to the limitations of her sex, which include routinely overestimating her abilities.”
“Explain the Stirling ball, then,” the other man insisted.
“I beg your pardon,” Marlow said with faint contempt, as if insulted to be called upon to explain anything.
His associate continued undaunted. “She confronted the Earl of Wem at Lord Stirling’s ball and persuaded him to confess to killing her parents. You know it. I know it. Everyone on staff knows it. It is all we’ve talked about for days.”
“You may have talked about it, Joseph,” Marlow said with formidable censure, “but I have not. And now that I know the deplorable tone of the conversation in the servants’ hall, I will make every effort to remedy it.”
“That is not an answer,” Joseph said. “If her grace is incapable of investigating a murder because she is a woman, then how do you explain the way she persuaded the Earl of Wem to confess to killing her parents in a ballroom full of guests?”
“A stroke of luck,” Marlow replied.
Joseph’s unrestrained laughter was almost immediately transformed into a troublesome cough that he had a difficult time suppressing. He apologized for the outburst and asked what function luck had played at the Larkwells’ ball.
“If you are referring to the vulgar display on the terrace with Lord Taunton that resulted in his lordship’s hair catching fire,” Marlow answered dampeningly, “I can only say it was the inevitable debacle caused by a brash and assertive woman
