Free Beguiled by Arnette Lamb Page A

intruder.”
    â€œWhat if I had been an intruder?”
    How much should she tell him? Considering her injury and his insistence on making too much of it, she decided on a lie. “I’d call for help.”
    â€œThat’s good to know.” He chuckled softly. “I feared you’d try to capture him by yourself.”
    Hopefully the occasion would not arise, at least until her wound healed completely. “I’d never try that.” She wouldn’t simply try. She’d do it. Surprise was a woman’s first weapon, because men did not expect to meet resistance from the fairer sex.
    â€œWere you looking for me?” he asked.
    â€œYes, my lord. Bossy was struck from behind. Whom do you suspect?”
    â€œWhom does Bossy suspect?”
    Sarcasm didn’t come naturally to Edward Napier. Loyalty from his servants did. Two very good signs. “That was all he would say. Have you determined where the vandal entered?”
    â€œYes, in the old wing.”
    Getting information from him was harder than making Auntie Loo angry. But Agnes was up to the task. “May we go there?”
    â€œSurely you’d rather retire.” He flexed his fingers, but his attention was focused elsewhere. “ ’Tis late.”
    Another lie and a truth would skirt the issue and, perhaps, loosen his tongue. “I napped in the carriage today. I couldn’t sleep now, even if you commanded me to.”
    A quirk of humor lifted one corner of his mouth. “A wasted effort in any event.”
    That he could smile told her much about his mild temperament—either that or he was a very good actor. And where had he gotten those abrasions on his hand? If she didn’t know better, she’d think he’d been in a tavern brawl.
    Again she glanced at his portrait. “I obeyed you this morning at the stable in Whitburn.”
    He held up both hands, as if warding her off. “I’d as soon forget our shouting match.”
    And the kiss, she thought morosely. He’d made it dear that the kiss meant nothing to him—a view she would adopt, too. “As would I. Tell me about the damage.”
    His gaze sharpened and anger flickered in his gaze. “Better you should have something to eat. Mrs. Johnson braised a hare with turnips and carrots. Her bread’s exceptionally fine, and there’s always fresh, cold milk.”
    Agnes’s stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. “I had hoped for a tour of your home first.” She extended her hand. “Show me where the vandal entered.” Only a poor host would refuse her, but he was clearly considering it. “Please?”
    â€œYou cannot expect to see much. ’Tis black as pitch.”
    He too was proving an expert at skirting the issue. But Agnes was determined. “Lantern light will do.”
    â€œI will not allow you to involve yourself. You may have foiled an attempt on the life of Burgundy’s heir, but I shan’t put you in danger. The brigand could still be on the grounds.”
    â€œWith a guard stationed outside?” Tossing her head, she laughed. “Come. Show me—unless you’ve caught him.” And bashed in his face in the doing, she added silently.
    His demeanor changed, as if he were recalling an unpleasantry, which she suspected was the case. Why else would he have bruised knuckles?
    â€œNay. He’s not inside the estate proper.” After fetching and lighting a hand lantern, he took her through a formal parlor with groupings of brocaded chairs and tables with carved thistles for legs. The cold hearth of a marble fireplace was hidden behind a tapestry screen. A standing clock struck the half hour before midnight.
    Nothing was out of place.
    A peaked lintel, topped on either side with sculptures of a lounging Pan, framed the entrance to an older wing. As the light illuminated the room, Agnes felt thrust into a museum of the Elizabethan Age. Heavy furniture