While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(26)

Mrs. Gibbons pursed her lips disapprovingly as she observed her. Poppy pulled her cloak around her shoulders. It had belonged to her mother. Once the height of fashion, it was trimmed with ermine and lined in velvet. She could almost imagine Mama wearing it before she turned her back on her family and married Papa.

“Go if you must, but be careful.” Mrs. Gibbons tsked with displeasure.

Poppy’s lips twitched in amusement. She, of course, did not point out that she did not require Mrs. Gibbons’s permission. Mrs. Gibbons had adopted a maternal role not just with Bryony. It was rather nice. Except when it wasn’t. As in right now when the woman fixed her gimlet stare on Poppy.

“I’ll be careful,” she promised.

“All manner of riffraff turn up at night,” she called as Poppy made her way through the small foyer. “Mrs. Huxley down the street said some beggars accosted her last week. Tried to filch the bread right out of her basket. Don’t know what the world is coming to when good God-fearing women can’t walk the streets—”

“I’ll be cautious,” Poppy called behind her, burrowing into her cloak as she stepped out into the night.

Her borrowed boots rang out over the air, clicking over the cobbled walk as she walked a steady line, doing her best to ignore the sliding of her heels inside Bryony’s shoes. The streets weren’t completely deserted. A steady flow of carriages passed and she surmised that the theater located a half dozen blocks away had let out for the night.

It wasn’t a short walk, but she didn’t relish using her precious earnings on the price of a hack. Even at this late hour. Even with boots that didn’t quite fit. Even in the cold.

For some reason, Struan Mackenzie’s glowering face rose up in her mind. She knew the arrogant man wouldn’t approve and at that thought she reminded herself that his approval didn’t matter. He was a boorish brute, and she had been taking care of herself long before she met him. So what that he escorted her home yesterday. That didn’t make him a gentleman. Nor did it mean that she should care for his good opinion.

She sniffed against the cold wind and reminded herself that she didn’t mind walking. When she lived at Toadston-on-Mersey, she spent many hours walking the countryside. At least before her father fell ill. It had been one of her favorite pastimes.

Upon reaching the duke’s residence, she knocked tentatively at the door, hoping she didn’t wake the entire household. It was opened quickly by the footman standing sentry in the foyer.

She opened her mouth, ready with an explanation as to why she was here so late, but his stern expression lightened the moment he saw her. He apparently remembered her from her previous visits. “Miss Fairchurch. All the family is abed. Mrs. Wakefield, too. Is there anything amiss? Anything I can assist you with?”

“No, nothing to fret over.” She shifted uneasily on her feet. “It’s only that I couldn’t sleep. Would it be possible for me to sit with the duke for a bit? I won’t disturb anyone.” It still felt odd to suggest such a thing even though no one had questioned her presence on her prior calls. Indeed, it even seemed expected that she call on him.

The man nodded kindly. “I understand. You must be beside yourself with heartsick.” He clucked sympathetically. Because he believed her to be Autenberry’s fiancée. Because he believed she had a right to be here. “Of course, come in. I’m certain His Grace would like that.” He motioned her inside. She stepped into the foyer and removed her cloak, passing them into his waiting hands.

“This way.” Turning, he started escorting her.

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I know the way. No need to trouble yourself.”

“Are you certain? It is no trouble—”

“Stay at your post,” she assured.

He inclined his head in a slow nod. “Very well. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

With a parting smile of thanks, she hastened up to the second floor.

The door was ajar as before. She moved into the room with less hesitation than this morning, more comfortable in her surroundings and in the knowledge that the family was asleep and would not happen upon her here. She would not have to continue the charade for their sake. At least not tonight.

She stopped at the side of the bed, peering down at him.

His color looked a little better. He wore a different nightshirt and the sight made her feel slightly better—and silly. Of course he was being well cared for. He didn’t need her looking after him.

“Hello, again,” she murmured as she sank down in the chair. “Sorry to call on you so late. I couldn’t sleep.”

Her fingers played in the folds of her skirts for a moment before she lifted an arm and covered his motionless hand with her own. She hissed at the chill of his skin.

“You look better,” she murmured, chafing his hand under her own, trying to warm the skin.

Her gaze traveled his face, traveling the well-memorized lines. If she was a decent artist, she would attempt to immortalize him on canvas. She wouldn’t do him justice if she attempted the task with her less than notable talents.

His hand was starting to feel warmer. She turned her attention to his other one. “It will be Christmas soon,” she said, her voice ringing cheerfully. In her head, she heard Mrs. Wakefield’s voice encouraging her to talk to him. “Perhaps you’ll be awake before then and can celebrate the holiday with your family.”