Page 33 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“Yes, I’m here on a matter of business.”
The charwoman squinted in disbelief.
“We don’t open for custom until one o’clock, miss. The footmen need their sleep. Same for the harlots, if that’s your fancy.”
Mary stepped closer and set her gloved hand on the door.
“I’m not here forthat. I seek an interview with Madame Bedwell.”
The charwoman rolled her eyes. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
The door swung wide and Mary crossed the threshold into what appeared to be the scene of a crime. A fern had been upended, its porcelain vase shattered. Footprints salted the dirt fanning the white marble floor, and stockings laced the grand staircase like bunting. No blood, thankfully.
“You had quite an evening.”
The maid shut the door, giggling. “This is nothing. You should see what happens when the Russians pay a visit.”
Mary was about to remove her gloves when a long, tortured moan ripped through the entry hall. Alarmed, she pinched the glove’s fingertip, her attention bouncing from the stairs to empty hallways. The ruckus came again, followed by hearty grunts. Definitely from the ballroom, yet the charwoman scratched her cheek, unconcerned.
“Want me to take your cloak, miss?”
Light and shadows flickered under the ballroom’s closed doors.
“I’ll keep it on, thank you. My business should be quick.”
“Suit yourself.” The charwoman picked up a red ash pail. “Wait here.”
The maid crossed the dirt-spattered marble floor. Male voices, rich with laughter, echoed just before she closed the ballroom doors behind her.
Under her cloak, Mary worried a seam on her stomacher.
What madness is this?
Overhead, those frolicking women painted in the Baroque style smiled down at her. A few, she imagined, were smirking as if they weren’t surprised to see her again. She stared at them. The frescoes did catch the eye. Light and gaiety filtered the artist’s imagined meadow, filling each slice of the vaulted ceiling. A lovely distortion, but she knew the truth. Excess came with a price, and there weren’t enough ceilings in all of London to paintthat.
When the ballroom doors burst open, she got a taste of the madness.
A devil in stockinged feet and wrinkled breeches charged her. His pink velvet banyan fluttered like a tail, and a smoky scent came with him.
“What fool comes to call at half past ten?” he boomed.
She gaped. “Lord Ranleigh?”
He glared at her through tangled black hair. “And you are?”
“Miss Mary Fletcher of White Cross Street.” She curtseyed. An excellent one. “This morning’s fool, apparently.”
Fraught seconds passed, enough for her to notice water pasted his shirt to his chest and his nipples poked the fabric. Head cocked, she stared at both dark points and the spectacular pectoral display on which his nipples sat.
“You are wet, my lord.”
“An excellent observation.”
A lesser woman would’ve crumbled. She had to admit this was not a banner day for her and men. Excellent manners were the only way to recover.
Hands folded, she stood tall and proper. “There seems to be a mistake, my lord. You are not the person I’m seeking. So whatever... mischief you were engaged in, please do carry on.”
“Dismissed, am I?”
