The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(56)
“Quite, my lady. Quite,” She glared at Isabelle one last time and moved toward the door.
“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Featherfitch,” Isabelle offered after her. “You can take the”—the door shut—“dishes from last night away.”
She frowned at the closed door for a moment, absorbing everything the woman had said. Isabelle had decided that St. James would be her friend, and he was now her captor, but she knew nothing about him. His home had been a surprise and now his past… Nothing matched up to the man she’d thought she’d known. If she was to stay here—and with a locked door there didn’t appear to be much option in her accommodations—she needed to know more about Fallon.
Her eyes raked around the room. All at once it didn’t seem at all like the man but at the same time expressed everything about him. “Secrets. So many secrets,” she whispered. At this point, she wouldn’t have been taken aback if wild horses were kept in the dressing room where he had slept last night. She glanced across the room at the closed door on the far wall. The dressing room… That was where Fallon kept his personal effects.
She took a step in the direction of his private dressing room. Was this wrong? She’d always had trouble resisting the mysteries of closed doors and shut drawers. Exploring things that were hidden away was a weakness that had landed her in hot water with her family more than once. But she wasn’t with her family now. Her cousin Evangeline would call her curiosity an invasion of privacy. Victoria would have already stormed inside to discover all she could. Roselyn would at least peek inside the door. But none of them were here. And her group of ladies tended to push across the borders of proper conduct anyway. “They would approve in the end,” she mumbled to herself with a shrug as she crossed the room.
Isabelle grabbed a lamp from a nearby table and went to the closed door. Placing a hand on the doorknob, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder, pausing for a heartbeat before she slipped into Fallon’s dressing room.
She set the lamp on a side table, casting a hazy light over the rectangular space. Wardrobes flanked the corners, and in the center sat a narrow bed, a table with a lit lamp, and an armchair. Judging by the tattered blanket that had fallen in a heap on the floor, it had been a fitful night of sleep for Fallon. “You took his bed from him. Of course it was fitful,” she muttered stepping over the blanket.
Tugging on one of the wardrobe doors, she cringed at the loud creaking of the hinge. With a glance over her shoulder, she quickly pulled the door the rest of the way open and looked inside.
Coats were stuffed in every available crevice, and his cravats were wadded in a pile on a shelf. It was a wonder he was able to dress every day without looking a sight. A valet must be beyond his means. He did lack a title and therefore a guaranteed income, after all. She sighed. Poor Fallon.
Perhaps his desire for a proper valet was why he was always so busy with meetings. He was saving for the additional expense. But as soon as the thought occurred to her, she started laughing and had to take a minute to recover. Fallon would never care so much for his wardrobe that he would desire a valet in the first place. This was simply neglect on his part. She lifted a few of the coats, inspecting them, but they seemed to all be the same. An entire wardrobe filled with copies of the same gray waistcoat—of fine quality but then poorly cared for. She shook her head. Some things about Fallon were not a surprise at all.
Closing the door, she moved to the other cabinets and confirmed her suspicion—their contents were all the same. He owned the same trousers many times over, all disheveled in their storage, the same coat, the same waistcoats, as if he woke every day and donned a uniform that required no thought. It was all so terribly Fallon—the friendly pirate version that she’d thought she’d known before she came here.
If that version of the man were true, what of the floral decor and being a kept man for a much older lady? She cringed at even thinking of him in that light. Sinking into the chair opposite the narrow bed, she sighed. The palms of her hands trailed over the threadbare arms of the chair, the simple dark-green fabric all but worn away. The cushion was broken in beneath her from years of daily use, only the proportions were more fitting for someone taller than her. Someone like Fallon.
Straight ahead of where she sat was the plain wall behind the bed where he’d slept last night. Chips in the paint and occasional scuffs marred the plaster, almost as if the bed had been there—and used regularly—for quite some time. But this was Fallon’s dressing room. She looked around in confusion and caught sight of a stack of books beneath the table on a variety of informative—and to her quite dull—topics. A well-used chair and books, a bed that had seen many nights of sleep, and a blanket on the floor that had holes worn in it. Why would there be more evidence of Fallon’s use in this place than his main bedchamber?
She leaned forward and narrowed her gaze on the space beneath the bed, a cot that was more fitting for servant’s quarters than a gentleman’s dressing room. Boxes were stacked side by side, and a lap desk stood on edge wedged between them.
I’ve slept there many nights. His words drifted back through her head in Fallon’s deep timbre. It looked as if he’d spent more than a few nights in this room. He’d lived here at some point. But why not live in the main room with the lady Mrs. Featherfitch said he loved so?
Slumping back in what she now realized was Fallon’s chair, she picked up the book on top of the stack beside her and placed it in her lap. It was the only book that had any sort of adventure within the pages. Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World. In Four Parts. By Lemuel Gulliver, First a Surgeon, and then a Captain of Several Ships. She’d read this story one summer.