“They said his grace summoned the Runners to apprehend Taunton,” Joseph said. “He would not have done that without cause. You know he is a cautious man who never acts rashly.”
“Never?” Marlow asked with so much pointed emphasis Beatrice’s cheeks turned bright red. “You have made your argument, Joseph, and although I found your proposal the single most preposterous thing I have ever heard, I paid you the courtesy of listening. Now you will pay me the same courtesy. You may not under any circumstance ask her grace to look into the matter of Monsieur Alphonse’s unfortunate demise. I understand that what happened to him is very upsetting to you—”
“His head was sliced clean from his body!” Joseph interjected, clearly aghast at the understatement.
“—but we cannot allow it to disrupt our day. Now please return to your duties,” Marlow said, “and let me never hear another word about it. I, for one, plan to never speak of it again. Have I made myself clear, Joseph?”
Joseph muttered yes, but that was not sufficient for the butler, who insisted the other man speak in full sentences.
“Yes, you have made yourself clear,” Joseph said.
“I am gratified to hear it,” Marlow said.
His tone was smug, for he obviously enjoyed browbeating his subordinates into acquiescence, but Bea could not picture the intimidating butler with a smile on his face, even one swathed in self-satisfaction.
With his request roundly denied, Joseph saw no reason to remain and immediately quit the room to trim the lamps. Bea closed her eyes and prayed that Marlow would soon follow or at the very least stay in the pantry. The scraping of the chair against the floor indicated an intention to sit down, a development that at once relieved and horrified Bea. As long as he remained at the desk, she was safe from discovery but for how long? Sooner or later, her presence would be missed and she feared what would happen then. Kesgrave would question the servants, and ascertaining that she had not left the house, they would mount a search. Finding no satisfying answers upstairs, they would devote their full attention to the basement and there they would find her, flush to the wall behind the door in Marlow’s room.
You are being needlessly negative, Bea told herself as she strained to hear Marlow’s movements. There was always the remote possibility Kesgrave would assume she had found marriage to him not to her liking and fled the house in secret. Even now, he could be knocking at 19 Portman Square to inquire about his errant bride.
How easily she could picture the look on Aunt Vera’s face as Kesgrave explained that he seemed to have misplaced his duchess. It would be a comical mix of concern and confusion, for as much as she would desire her niece’s safety, she would never quite understand why he would wish for her return. Bea had to swallow a giggle as she imagined her relative assuring him it was for the best and perhaps he had escaped a—
The scrape again!
Bea froze as Marlow pushed back the chair.
Was he standing?
Was he leaving?
Please leave, she pleaded silently. Please, please leave.
To her relief, she heard footsteps, but the respite was short-lived because they moved in the wrong direction, toward the bedroom, not out into the hallway. The knob turned and fear caught in her throat as the door opened…opened…opened…and stopped a mere fraction of an inch from her nose. Letting out the breath slowly, she closed her eyes and pressed herself against the wall with every fiber of her being.
And waited.
She didn’t think he would linger long. It was the middle of the day, and he had too many responsibilities to absent himself for an extended period of time. No doubt he was merely taking a moment to ensure that his appearance was sufficiently intimidating, a supposition that was affirmed when she heard a drawer open. An unsettling silence followed as he made whatever adjustment he’d deemed necessary, and Bea squeezed her eyes tighter, determined not to witness the utter shock on his face should the horrifying moment of discovery occur.
But it did not.
Marlow completed his business in the bedroom and exited at once, leaving the door open so that Bea could observe him through the crack beside the frame. He returned to his desk but, fortunately, did not sit down. Instead, he straightened the stacks of paper resting on the surface even though they were already pristine and orderly. He pushed his chair in, carefully aligning the slatted back with the edge of the desk and quickly confirmed that the safe was securely fastened. Satisfied with the arrangement, he left.
Intensely relieved to be alone once again, Bea nevertheless held her position, fearful that he would return immediately to finish tidying up the space—smoothing the blanket on the bed, perhaps, or straightening the wall clock, which was slightly askew.
Tarry too long, however, and she would be back amid the brambles, a prospect so awful to contemplate she felt her bones turn to ice. Purposely, she counted to ten, then back down to zero, and screwing her courage to the sticking place, slid out from behind the door. With a calm that was at once deliberate and hard won, she walked through the pantry and felt the unbearable pitch of her anxiety subside the second she stepped into the corridor.
It was empty. Nobody saw her.
Whatever happened now, whatever disaster befell her, she could bear it with equanimity because it would be a million times less horrible than being found tucked behind the door in his bedroom. If Marlow himself appeared, rounding the corner, say, on his way to the kitchen, she would suffer no response at all. Her heart would not pound; her pulse would not quicken.
The awe she had felt upon first enduring the disdain of his thick black brows was gone, swept away by the bracing clarity of truth. Discovering his actual opinion of her liberated Bea from having to worry about it.
