Page 50 of His Unwanted Duchess

“Your Grace,” he muttered, frantically adjusting his sleeves. “I… we… you were not expected. There was no note to inform us of your… your arrival.”

Stephen stood a little straighter. “I wasn’t aware that a note was required for a gentleman to come home.”

Mouse wilted a little. “Of course, of course. A thousand apologies, Your Grace. It’s just that… that none of the servants are in this morning. Well, some of them are. Myself, of course, and Mrs. Jenkins.”

He seemed to turn redder at that name, and Stephen suddenly understood a little better.

Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper, was a widow of about thirty-five, petite and straight-backed, who rarely smiled and kept her auburn hair pinned back and hidden under a cap. She was pretty, Stephen supposed—not that he would pay attention to such matters. He had long since suspected that Mouse felt something for the housekeeper beyond the brotherly affection a butler should have for a fellow worker.

It was, of course, none of Stephen’s business, but it explained why Mouse was down in the kitchen—or perhaps Mrs. Jenkins’ private parlor—instead of manning the front door.

“I see,” Stephen said. “All of them at once? With the house in such a state?”

Mouse grimaced. “Her Grace told us we could take the day off. There was a great deal of work for the servants last night. I myself only retired to bed at six o’clock in the morning. Her Grace told us to sleep in, to take a long morning off, and we would tackle the… ahem, mess tomorrow morning.”

“I see,” Stephen repeated.

He did, in fact, see. He could see the mess, the chaos, the stains left to sit on hardwood floors and smooth stone flags, the…

Was that a tear in the curtains?

Slowly, very slowly, as if their gazes were drawn by something, both men turned to look at the defaced portrait of Stephen. There was a long, taut silence.

“I am not sure which guest did that, Your Grace,” Mouse said faintly. “I’m sure that Her Grace did not see it happening, or else she would have intervened at once.”

“I think Her Grace might have been the one wielding the pen,” Stephen remarked sweetly. “Where is she, by the way?”

Mouse bit back a sigh. “She was still tired after breakfast and had something of a headache.”

“A hangover, you mean.”

Mouse flinched. “She retired to her room, Your Grace.”

“Very well. I shall find her. In the meantime, you can make a start on…” Stephen paused, glancing over at his butler in his shirtsleeves. “Never mind. Finish your tea and enjoy your day off. If Her Grace has given you time off, I shall not contradict her.”

Mouse executed a stiff bow, looking relieved. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

With that, he hurried off without being dismissed.

Stephen stood where he was, reeling.

The world really has turned upside down.

Shooting his defaced portrait a baleful glare, Stephen headed towards the stairs and began to stomp up. He would change out of his grimy traveling clothes and then set about finding which room Beatrice had settled on for her bedroom. It occurred to him that he should have asked Mouse that question, or at least asked him to bring in his boxes and bags from where they still lay on the ground outside.

First things first, however.

Stephen elbowed open the door to his room and stopped dead. Two things were immediately evident.

One, his bedroomhad not escaped the carnage that had swept through the house.

Two, it seemed that he would not have to search the bedrooms for Beatrice, after all.

She was asleep in his bed.

Folding his arms tight across his chest, Stephen went to stand beside the bed, staring down at her.

Beatrice lay sprawled on top of the mattress, half-tangled in the sheets. She was not a graceful sleeper by any means. She lay on her side, one arm pillowed under her head, a white forearm peeking from beneath tangled reddish-gold locks.

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