Page 39 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
The boy darted a glance at Charlotte. “Your nuptials, sir.”
Across the entry hall and down the main passage, the green baize servant’s door crashed open. “Did ye send ’em on their way?” A maid hung out of the door and craned her neck in their direction. “Did ye tell ’em today’s the day his nibs got hitched?”
The lad didn’t answer. The girl stumbled into the passageway, squinting at them. “Who is it, then? They cannot—” She gasped suddenly and reared back. “Yer lordship! But—what? What are you doin’ here?”
“I live here,” he answered sardonically.
Hanging onto the wall, the maid stepped forward. “But today was the day you was meant to be marrit! Never say you peached on the poor girl?”
He rolled his eyes. “I won’t say it, as I did notpeachon her.”
“But what have ye done wi’ ’er, then?”
He shot Charlotte an apologetic look. “I married her. And then I brought her home.”
The girl froze. She was close enough now for the candle to illuminate the look of horror on her face. “Ye never did such a thing, surely?”
“Married her? Or brought her home?”
“But . . . we thought ye must be settin’ off on a bridal trip! Ye never brought her ’ere without a word to us? Without a warnin’? Our new mistress?”
Whiddon merely gestured toward Charlotte.
The maid moaned and sank down, sliding her back against the wall until she sat on the floor.
Charlotte cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said clearly. “Butwhatis that smell?”
The boy at the door at last closed it. He glanced about and then crossed over to a corner of the hall. Peering down, he said contemplatively, “I think the cat’s died, at last.”
The maid groaned.
“A dead cat? In the entry hall?” Charlotte’s voice raised an octave. “Adead cat?”
He shrugged. “Flummoxed, are you? I think I just evened the score.” When she raised an indignant brow, he turned to the waiting servant. “Remove it, please.”
The boy grinned. “I’ll get a shovel.”
“Give it a burial,” Charlotte told him firmly. “Do not just toss it in a midden heap. Give it a bit of the respect it clearly missed in life.” She pushed away from Whiddon and carefully leaned over Old Alf’s inert form to snatch up the candle. In the light it shed, he could see her make a face as she set it down again and wiped her fingers. Shooting him a warning look, she moved to shine the light into the adjacent parlor.
Whiddon let her go, hoping she wouldn’t find anything but dust and shrouded furniture. She stepped in, looked about, then turned to march down the main corridor. He saw the maid cover her face when Charlotte stopped at the first door.
Gingerly, she turned the nob. Thrusting the candle in, she peered inside, but choked and backed out, closing the door quickly.
“Is that the library?”
“It is, ma’am,” the maid whispered.
“What, precisely, isthatsmell?”
“Some o’ the books, here and there, might be . . .”
“Yes?”
“Bloomin’ wit’ a bit of mold.” Her head hung in shame.
“I see.”
Charlotte said not a word. She just came back and stood before him. The candlelight caught the silver in her eyes as, with a wave of a hand and an arched brow, she asked the question.
