What a Reckless Rogue Needs (The Sinful Scoundrels, #2)(30)

Angeline returned to the drawing room and tried to imagine how the room would appear with paper hangings and new furnishings. The red walls seemed too dark for this small drawing room. Angeline envisioned a gold interior with bright yellow cushions for the furnishings. Gold festooned draperies across the south wall would give the room a dramatic appearance.

Angeline sat on a chair and took out the notebook and pencil. She quickly sketched her ideas in the notebook. Later, she would show it to Colin. Of course, he did not own the property, but at least she could give him an idea of how the drawing room could be transformed. The current carpets must go, but the new ones would have to be purchased in London. All, however, was contingent upon Colin inheriting Sommerall, and that matter was far from resolved.

She ascended the next flight of stairs and opened the middle door. A rocking chair sat in front of the window. This must have been a nursery. In the corner, something was covered by a sheet. When she lifted it, she drew in a sharp, visceral breath.

It was a cradle.

His mother had died while giving birth to a stillborn infant.

Her heart hammered. No wonder the marquess had departed Sommerall in a hurry. The tragic reminders would have been too hard to bear.

Angeline backed away and quit the room immediately. She eased the door shut, but her heart was thumping hard as she pressed her back and hands against the door.

She didn’t want Colin to see the cradle.

Agnes walked down the corridor. “My lady, do you want me to clean these rooms?”

“Not today, Agnes. Dust the drawing room, please. The sideboard and furnishings need attention.”

After she left, Angeline released her breath. Colin would discover the nursery soon enough, but she didn’t want him to see the grim reminder on this first visit. She couldn’t imagine the heartache he’d experienced as a child. It struck her that it must have been terrifying for him.

She mustn’t let him see her guarding the door. With a deep sigh, she went to the last bedchamber and hoped she would find the miniature.



Ten minutes later, she closed the last bedchamber door and walked down the long corridor. She’d not expected to find the miniature in one of the bedchambers, but she’d not counted on her own disappointment. If he had the miniature in his possession, he would find a measure of peace, because he would be able to see his mother’s features.


Was it possible to heal a wound that had left scars after so many years? She needed to believe it was possible—or perhaps more important, he needed to believe it.

“Angeline, wait.”

She halted and turned toward him. He’d shed his coat and carried it over his shoulder. His cravat was wrinkled and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, and somehow he managed to appear more devilishly handsome than any man ought.

“Did you make any progress?” she asked.

“I went through the contents of one trunk. Nothing is organized. It appears the servants stuffed whatever they found into the trunks as quickly as possible.”

The servants must have found the task distressing. “What did you find?”

“Books with crumbling and missing pages, old letters, quills, handkerchiefs, vases, and skeins of yarn all tumbled together.”

Evidently, the servants had been left to their own devices.

“It will be a tremendous chore to sort through,” he said.

If the frame for his mother’s miniature was made of gold or silver, there was a possibility of theft. She would not broach the distasteful subject to him. If it did not turn up, he would be better off believing it was simply lost.

“We should take time each day to go through the contents,” she said. “Whatever you do not wish to keep, we will give away to the servants and tenants.”

He put his hands on his hips. “This is a monumental undertaking. How am I to make any headway with the time constraints?”

“Divide and conquer?” she said.

“It’s an overwhelming task,” he said.

“We will accomplish as much as we are able. I’m confident you will manage it all very well, even after I’ve departed.”

“If this is an attempt to cheer me up, it isn’t working.”

His cynical fa?ade was no mask. He expected the worst, because he’d experienced a terrible loss at a young age.

“When did you become so optimistic?” he said.

“Since arriving here.”

He arched his brows.

She’d meant it, but he looked taken aback. “It was a joke,” she said. Truthfully, she’d become a cynic her first year out in society. She’d learned the art of studied ennui, but she’d grown truly bored with the fashion for self-proclaimed misanthropists. All during those years, she’d depended on her sarcastic wit and her father’s title as a shield. But in the end, none of it had helped. Now she no longer felt like that woman who found everything and everyone boring. It had been nothing but an invisible mask. But her pretense had failed to protect her from wounds. She did not want to remember any of it now, because it reminded her too much of her mistakes, and dwelling on the past would change nothing.

He regarded her with an unnerving expression that made her uncomfortable. She opened the notebook. “What is next on the agenda?” she said with her pencil poised.

“I need to have coal and a tinderbox delivered tomorrow so that I can check the chimneys.”