Free Checkmate, My Lord by Tracey Devlyn Page B

slipped out the nursery door.

Six
    August 11
    Sebastian made his way down the grand staircase with a crushing headache and burning eyes. If he had not had a full day planned, he would have shot Parker for disturbing his sleep. Instead of murdering his valet, he had scraped his body off the sweat-cooled sheets and made his way downstairs.
    Within seconds of gaining the entrance hall, Grayson appeared. “My lord, there is something you should know—”
    “In a moment, Grayson,” he said. “Please bring a strong pot of coffee to my study and then we can discuss what’s troubling you.”
    “But sir—”
    “Coffee, then talk.” Sebastian headed toward his study, hoping the noxious fumes caused by Blake’s singular passion had dissipated. The last thing his aching head needed was an immersion in turpentine and linseed oil. Turning the handle, he braced himself against an olfactory assault; however, only the merest of fumes reached his nose. He drew a deeper breath and received the same pleasant result.
    A sound from the opposite end of the room drew his attention. He nearly groaned at the pleasure-pain of finding the widow in his sanctuary. The sight did much to improve his sour mood, but he now regretted not allowing Grayson to perform his duties. If he had, Sebastian would have detoured to the kitchen for a restorative cup of coffee and another splash of cold water over his face. Perhaps then he would have been prepared for this keen-witted woman.
    Nothing for it, he closed the door and braced himself. “Mrs. Ashcroft.”
    She jerked into an upright position, her cheeks a deep, becoming red, whether from bending over the metal bucket on the floor or from being startled, Sebastian wasn’t certain.
    “Good morning, my lord.”
    Feeling disoriented, he nodded toward the bucket. “What have you there?”
    “An old family recipe for neutralizing unwanted aromas.” Her flush deepened. “I decided to make myself useful while awaiting your arrival.”
    Sebastian glanced around, finding three more buckets. “Your family appears to be very wise, Mrs. Ashcroft. I can barely detect Mr. Blake’s oils.”
    “Yes, it is amazing what charcoal, soda ash, and dampened cloths will do.”
    “Have you been waiting long?”
    Confusion clouded her pretty brown eyes. “I arrived a few minutes before the appointed time.”
    Caution gripped his stomach. Habit forced his gaze to make a thorough sweep of the room, looking for anything peculiar, out of place, or that didn’t belong. If anything, the room appeared a good deal tidier than it had yesterday. But Sebastian could not shake the feeling that he was missing something vital.
    He returned his attention to the widow— Catherine . “Forgive me, Mrs. Ashcroft, but I seem to have forgotten our appointment.”
    She stilled. “Shall I come back at a more convenient time?”
    The room became blistering hot, and he tried to loosen his too-tight cravat. A vague recollection hovered at the periphery of his mind. “That won’t be necessary. Perhaps you could remind me of the nature of our meeting.”
    She strode toward a small octagonal table and picked up her reticule. Digging inside, she produced a note and offered it to him. “This might jar your memory, sir. I received your summons quite early this morning.”
    Even from this distance, he could see her name scrawled across the outside of the dispatch, the writing both familiar and somehow wrong. What had he done in his inebriated state last night? The churning mass in his stomach curdled and swept into the back of his throat with unexpected vigor. He raised his fist to his mouth, fighting back the foul taste. What had possessed him to send a dispatch to her at such an absurd hour?
    Once he had his body under control, he said, “Last night, I was… not myself and fear I might have written that note at an awkward moment.” He flicked his fingers toward the missive. “Would you be so kind?”
    She peered at him with wide, owlish