Free Vivian Roycroft by Mischief on Albemarle Page B

then broke off, dark eyes widening, staring over Fitzwilliam's shoulder.
    "Left my blasted—" But Fitzwilliam broke off, too, and swiveled around. His eyes narrowed, perhaps at the water dripping into them, and his mouth grimaced. A grim and foreboding expression, that one.
    His Grace handed the reins to the still-mounted groom. "Keep him moving and don't go beyond a whistle's reach." Then, as the horses sauntered off, "Is Miss Beryl at home?"
    Fitzwilliam scowled.
    Over the threshold and into graceful marble, floor, staircase, pilasters, all still grey, but offset and overwhelmed by rich blue panels, carved oak table, gilt mirror, and a soaring vaulted ceiling picked out with clouds and sky and beautifully rendered songbirds. Quiet, quiet as a church, with only the ticking of a case clock and the footman's heels on the marble's frozen swirl. As if the house held its breath, waiting for the next act in their drama.
    As well it might.
    The footman collected His Grace's outerwear as a second footman produced another set, handing hat and gloves to Fitzwilliam and shaking out a camel-colored cape. But, scowl deepening, Fitzwilliam thrust his forgotten clothing back. "I know she's at home; I was just here."
    "An hour ago," the staid butler said, standing beside the almost comically astonished footmen. "Miss Beryl is awaiting callers with Mr. Wentworth."
    Her father. Indeed. His Grace let a small smile drift across his lips, savored Fitzwilliam's grim jaw. The game was progressing nicely.
    The butler announced them, his voice steady despite the hint of apprehension in his lowered, tilted chin and drawn-together eyebrows. A pause, then more boot heels, at first muted, then suddenly clacking, as if stepping off carpeting onto the sweep of marble. The butler slid aside and back, gesturing. Fitzwilliam barreled past and into the room beyond; perhaps not the most diplomatic of actions, but he seemed in no mood to acknowledge precedence. Even if the lady or, more importantly at this stage, the lady's father, expected it.
    But then, it seemed young Fitzwilliam had reached the game's crisis and wasn't thinking in his normal rational, more-or-less straightforward manner. Even better. He'd see the bait properly, without his usual preconceptions, when she was presented to him. And in excellent time.
    A lighter room entirely, the sitting room, all pale blue and white, with pink and red roses everywhere, embroidered on cushions, hand-painted in petal-dripping cascades between the pilasters, a bouquet of fading ones in the excellent watercolor above the mantel. In sunny weather, a single large, northeasterly-facing window would pour light over the shoulder of anyone sitting on the little gilt settee. For less inclement days, a larger sofa and several matching chairs were bracketed with tall candelabras, brass roses and trailing ivy forming the frames. A stick of candles burned against the day's dullness, lighting the man standing in front of the fireplace and Miss Beryl. She held an embroidery hoop with a dangling edge of shimmering gold satin, and had been crossing the room to stand with her father, but as His Grace's sweep of the room concluded, she paused near but not beside him, as if hanging on her heel and awaiting her next cue. Her pale blue morning gown and dainty slippers could have been made to match the sitting room, and quite possibly had.
    James Wentworth — of course His Grace knew of him — despite his plebian origin, had done well for himself and his family with his warehouses of silk and spices, and his earned wealth was evident in the townhome, its location and décor, Miss Beryl's clothing and education. Even the roses cascading across the sitting room's panels showed excellent skill, probably created by a professional painter rather than one of the daughters of the house, although of course His Grace had no doubt of their own meritorious accomplishments. Wentworth had no reason, in His Grace's perception, for humility nor