A Dash of Scandal(34)
He was no saint. He’d done his share of slipping into gardens, parlors, and bedrooms, but he’d never knowingly taken a married woman to his bed. He had his own code of honor and he didn’t knowingly step over it. There were too many available ladies eager for his attentions. He had no desire to pursue another man’s wife.
He stopped, took a deep breath, and smiled. He was glad he no longer desired her. There was only one set of lips he desired beneath his, and they were on the lovely face of Miss Blair. He had every intention of finding her again before this evening ended.
Minutes passed as he wandered from room to room. He brushed elbows with a duke, smiled at Miss Pennington, nodded to a duke and duchess, and greeted friends as he searched the crowd for Miss Blair. He knew she had to be at the party because Lord Heathecoute and his lady were still in attendance. Miss Bardwell caught up with him again, but he was clever enough to avoid asking her to dance. He ducked into a packed room to avoid being seen by Fines.
Chandler continued walking and eventually found himself in what appeared to be a deserted section of the house. He stood at the beginning of a long, narrow corridor that had several doors opening from each side. Oil lamps on the wall lit the passageway, and at the end of the hall stood a tall clock with a large white face.
“Time changes a lot of things,” he said softly as his thoughts drifted to the past.
Just after the Season ended last year he began his torrid affair with Lady Lambsbeth. He’d met her at the last big ball of the Season. She had told him she was a widow who was back in Town after several years in Paris. She invited him to call on her and he did so the very next day.
He’d had his chef prepare apricot tarts, thinking to enjoy them with a cup of tea and a smile from the beautiful Lady Lambsbeth. He had no idea that he would spend the entire afternoon in her bed with not a sip of tea or a bite of food. And her bed is where he’d spent every afternoon for the better part of three weeks.
Until rumor of their liaison ended up in the “Society’s Daily Column.” He’d like to personally strangle Lord Truefitt, and would if he ever discovered the true identity of the gossip writer.
Chandler had been in the columns for years and he didn’t let the rumors keep him from visiting Lady Lambsbeth, but it was hardly a week later that her husband unexpectedly and miraculously returned from the dead while Chandler was in her bed.
He had to jump from her second story bedroom with his clothes in his hand. An evening or two later, he was in White’s when her husband stormed in with his sword drawn. Chandler would be missing an arm, if not his head, had not some of Lord Lambsbeth’s friends held him down and relieved him of his weapon.
Chandler was forced to do the only thing a decent gentleman would do. He denied ever being in Lady Lambsbeth’s bedroom, and his friends, who had gathered round him, offered their support of his lie. He’d never seen her again until just a few moments ago. He was glad to know he had no desire to see her again.
Chandler put his glass to his lips and found the glass was empty. He hadn’t even realized he’d drunk the champagne while he relived the past. He looked down toward the clock again and noticed the shadow of a person moving in the room at the end of the hallway.
A wary feeling washed over him. Someone was in that room. But who? The master of the house or the Mad Ton Thief? Chandler had to know. He silently placed his empty glass on the table beside him and slowly, as quietly as possible, moved down the hallway. He peeped around the door and was surprised to see Miss Millicent Blair.
She stood in front of the fireplace looking up at a painting over the mantel, then wrote on her dance card. Was she making notes again? Thank-you notes? He grimaced. Surely not. He wasn’t falling for that explanation again.
Hell, no.
Chandler stepped backward away from the door. She was alone in a private study. Clearly a place that wasn’t usually available to the ordinary guest. Should he let her know he was present?
Suddenly a thought struck him like lightning streaking across a dark gray sky. Chandler’s body went rigid. He didn’t want to believe what his thoughts were suggesting. But he couldn’t keep the idea from taking shape in his mind. Could Miss Blair be making notes about valuable objects in the house in preparation for stealing something?
He refused to consider that, but he couldn’t deny the possibility that she might be jotting down notes and relaying them to an accomplice. Things that might be easily taken out of a house without, anyone seeing them.
He didn’t want to consider it. But what else would she be doing in an area of the house where she shouldn’t be, for the second time, writing on her dance card? She had been making notes the first night he saw her. His mind continued digging up facts. Last night she refused to let Lady Heathecoute see her dance card.