Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls 3)

“Mama cries at night sometimes,” George said suddenly. “She thinks me asleep but I’ve crept to her doorway and I’ve seen her miserable. She pretends nothing is the matter and won’t tell me why. Do all mothers do that?”

“Some.” The idea that Elizabeth had been unhappy enough to cry irritated him. “I imagine she misses your father a good deal. In time she will be happy again.”

“I suppose.” George shrugged. “May I stay here to examine the model?”

Oliver nodded, although George could likely not see. “Do not remain too long. The air is still very thick with dust. It will be better once the room has been attended to. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be all right on my own now.”

Oliver hesitated to leave. By rights he should see that the boy returned to his mother’s care before he resumed his preparations for travel. Yet, for whatever reason, he felt compelled to stay and answer the boy’s next question. George had an agile mind that drew in knowledge quicker than Oliver could supply. There was still plenty of time for his plans.

He glanced around the chamber uneasily. There was a great deal to do in this room to bring it to a livable condition for wedding guests, but he did not like the idea of others living in this space. He surprised himself with the idea that he could be comfortable here. He could wake up each day in pleasant isolation, admire the view, and study until hunger called to him. He could claim the space before he departed and then he could return to it once he’d seen enough of the world.

But not before the rooms were made presentable.

“I’ll return shortly,” Oliver advised.

The boy appeared surprised, but he smiled as if the idea of his company was pleasant. Oliver hurried out, keen to venture to the lower levels and secure a footman and maid to do his bidding. If there were none to be had, he’s make a start himself. It would be nice to get away from the duchess’s incessant chatter.

On the stairs he passed a servant, arms full of books and papers. He slowed when two more passed him, carrying the large globe that should be in the library. “What’s going on here?”

The servants’ gazes lowered. “Just doing as we’re told, sir.”

Another servant appeared, arms full of rolled maps. Oliver’s maps. “On whose order are you doing this?”

“Mrs. Turner’s, sir. She said we’re to clear the library.”

Oliver hurried down the stairs and burst into the library in time to see the final stack of books lifted from the floor and removed via another doorway. He followed the footman, furious with this interference. He took the servants’ stairs and Oliver remained close on his heels, determined not to lose sight of his research material.

When he gained the upper floor the man headed for an open doorway. The footman disappeared inside and Oliver stopped on the threshold to survey the room. Two tall windows, fireplace already blazing with heat, and a long, wide chaise lounge positioned opposite a sturdy desk. Every comfort he could possibly want.

Elizabeth directed the man to the far side of the desk and had him place his pile of books on the floor. She stared at her handiwork, a pleased smile gracing her lips.

“Proud of yourself?” Oliver asked.

She turned, her face flushing a deep shade of red. “Yes, as a mat

ter of fact I am. I’ve followed Her Grace’s instructions to the letter and brought everything here exactly as it was below.”

“That remains to be seen.” He glanced at the footman lingering at Elizabeth’s elbow. “You can go,” he told him.

The servant glanced at Elizabeth for confirmation and when she nodded, he hurried out.

She set her hands to her hips. “There is no need to be surly.”

Oliver slammed the door shut. “Haven’t I a right to be?” He scowled. “I distinctly recall mentioning that you should not be housekeeper of Romsey. I do not meddle with your possessions and do not wish you to meddle with mine.”

Elizabeth rubbed her arms, a sure sign he’d made her nervous. Good. She deserved it after this act of treachery. “On the contrary, you’ve done specifically what I asked you not to do.”

He knew what she meant, but teaching the boy the history contained in the house and improving his grasp of Latin could hardly be termed meddling. The boy was gaining something of value, after all. “George?”

Her smile grew brittle. “Enjoy your new accommodations. Her Grace has granted you this room to use as your own. You will only be disturbed here for the fire and on Friday mornings when a servant will come in to clean.”

When she made to move past him, he caught her arm and held her steady. “We are not finished. What have you done?”

“Nothing. Everything is how you left it below, only crowded a little closer together on account of the smaller table.”

Oliver dragged her, surprisingly pliant, toward the table and surveyed her handiwork. Everything was indeed the same, but knowing his papers had been rifled through set his teeth on edge. He made a conscious effort to ease his grip so as not to damage her, but he couldn’t let go of the soft flesh in his hand.