“Audrey isn’t here.”
“I know—she had to attend the Deveraux event. But I didn’t say which of your aunts—you have several, do you not?”
“Three—but none of them are here.”
“Lady Charters won’t know that.” She slowed.
Studying her face, he got the impression that she was mentally casting about for something. She’d led him toward the end of the ballroom, away from the entrance.
He halted; laying his hand over hers on his sleeve, he held her beside him. “As grateful as I am for your timely intervention, what’s this in aid of?”
“There’s something I wish to discuss with you. Can you find us somewhere private?”
He trapped her gaze. “What do you want to discuss?”
Her chin firmed. “I’ll tell you—when we’re private. Someplace where no one will interrupt.”
A certain nervy tension had crept into her; she glanced around at the crowd milling about the ballroom. Deverell thought of Montague’s list of dates and amounts, and wondered if, perhaps, he had it wrong. Now she knew he wouldn’t rest until he knew her secret, had she decided that she might as well confess and enlist his aid in ridding herself of a blackmailer?
Instinctive reaction swept through him. Lifting his head, he swiftly scanned the room, swiftly dredged up from long-ago memory the amenities of Fenshaw House. “This way.”
He led her on. The French doors at the end of the ballroom stood open to the terrace, but instead of conducting her through the flimsy billowing draperies, he led her to the side, into the corner.
When she frowned at him, as if to indicate that if this was his idea of private it fell woefully short of her need, he merely said, “Wait.”
Other couples were passing back and forth from the terrace to the ballroom, often getting caught in the long curtains, having to stop and, with much laughter, disentangle themselves.
A party of four got trapped, their difficulties compounded as one couple was going out, the other in, and both had got tangled in the same pair of curtains.
The giggles and exclamations drew everyone’s attention.
Deverell turned and opened the door concealed in the paneling before which they’d been standing.
Phoebe blinked, then scurried through; he followed, closing the panel behind them.
The narrow service corridor had no lamps burning; it ran halfway back alongside the ballroom, then turned to the right. A muted glow came from around the corner, evidence of a distant lamp. He waved Phoebe on.
She reached the corner and peeked around it; joining her, he took her arm and guided her on along the wider connecting corridor. Behind them, the sound of the ball faded. He went past three doors, then stopped before the next on their right. Opening it, he glanced in, then stood back and bowed Phoebe in. “As you commanded.”
Moving past him, she entered the room; walking to its center, she halted, looking around at what was clearly a small parlor sited between two bedchambers. No lamps were lit in any of the rooms; they were not in use.
Crossing to a table on which a lamp sat, Deverell looked for a tinder box.
Phoebe cleared her throat. “That won’t be necessary.”
Lifting his gaze, through the shadows he studied her. What moonlight reached into the room was more illusion than illumination. Without light, he wouldn’t be able to see her eyes. Read her thoughts.
“Ah…” Apparently growing nervous under his scrutiny, she gestured to the windows. “If you light a lamp, someone strolling in the gardens might see us.”
Unlikely—they were too far from the terrace—but not impossible. Regardless, he couldn’t find tinder or match.
“So.” Rounding the table, he strolled to her. “Cut line—what did you want to tell me?”
Her head rose as he neared; it might have been a trick of the poor light, but he thought her eyes widened.
She waited until he halted before her, then slowly moistened her lips.
He realized her gaze had dropped to his, but then she raised her eyes—and stepped into him.