The Courtesan's Courtship. Gail Ranstrom
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Название: The Courtesan's Courtship
Автор: Gail Ranstrom
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
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The mantel clock struck the hour of ten and Dianthe rolled her eyes. Hortense and Harriett would be frisking through the salons of the ton at this very minute, with nary a thought of bed for many hours to come, and dozens of young swains in pursuit, while her only company was the monotonous tick of the clock. Tedium coupled with unease made her nerves jangle.
She glanced down at the leather-bound volume on her chair. She’d finished The Taming Of The Shrew, and hadn’t brought anything else upstairs with her. Perhaps she should go down to the library and find something more interesting to read. Something on the upper shelves, perhaps. Yes, something not fit for delicate female eyes. She’d like to know that there was something more shocking than her own life at the moment, and she longed for anything that would distract her.
Without distractions, her mind always returned to Vauxhall Gardens and her cousin dying in her arms. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. Every day that she delayed taking action was a betrayal of her promise to Nell.
Dianthe hadn’t heard anyone stirring for quite some time, and figured Mrs. Mason and Pemberton had undoubtedly retired for the night. They would have extinguished the lights in the library, so she picked up a lit candle to take with her. Anticipating the library ladder she would have to negotiate to reach the higher shelves, she kicked off her slippers. She’d be more sure-footed on the treads without them.
Despite the pervasive silence, there were a good many lights left burning—one in the foyer, one in the back hallway and another in the sitting room. She’d never known anyone to use the sitting room. Still, the running of the house was none of her business. Perhaps Lord Morgan’s orders had been to be prepared for his arrival at any and all times.
The ornamental umbrella stand in the foyer was tipped over, and she paused to right it and replace the umbrellas. How had that happened? She glanced around but could find nothing else out of place.
With a shrug, she continued to the library. One lamp by the desk was still lit and the fireplace still glowed, the embers a bright orange-red. She closed the door to ensure her privacy should Pemberton come to make one last circuit of the house. She had no desire to explain her taste in reading materials while standing in a nightgown.
She placed her candle on the desk and returned the volume of Shakespeare to the shelf. With heightened anticipation, she climbed the library ladder to read the titles on the top shelf. Oh, for an illicit copy of something naughty—just the very thing to chase worry from her weary brain. Perhaps something by the Italians. Dante or Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis, or some other “indecent” work.
But she found nothing to titillate or even raise an eyebrow. She descended the ladder and pushed it along the shelves to a new position. The sound of a footfall outside the library door stopped her. Was it Pemberton coming to lock up for the night?
She was on the verge of calling out when another possibility occurred to her. Had Lord Morgan come to devil her? She really was in no mood for such a possibility. She found their encounters increasingly taxing on her nerves.
A faint moan was followed by a muffled footfall. A prickle of misgiving raced up Dianthe’s spine. This wouldn’t be Morgan. The sounds of that night in Vauxhall Gardens came back to her, and she made an instinctive move toward the desk and the knee well beneath it. For the first time, she noticed that the middle drawer was open and the floor beneath it was littered with papers. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the doorknob turning. Dropping to her knees, she scooted beneath the desk, hugged herself and held her breath.
The door opened and a shaft of light from the foyer spread across the wall behind her. Whatever had been dragged was dropped, and the library door was closed with a quiet click.
Dianthe scarcely breathed. Her heartbeat hammered wildly against her rib cage and fear rose in the form of a solid lump in her throat. Oh! The candle! She’d left it burning!
A gurgling chortle slid through the silence. “I know you’re in here,” a man’s voice whispered.
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