Page 27 of Much Ado About Margaret
“Understandably. Now, Miss Arden, if you are done throwing caution to the wind, could you kindly explain the blue-and-gold plan?” He put the tin of snuff back in the box and latched it. That was plenty for the moment. If his father saw him like this, with this sort of woman, and enjoying it, it might be what finally put him in his grave. It was easy to shake off the thought with Miss Arden’s bright eyes sparkling up at him.
“My sisters and I discovered a man leaving a note under a vase at the party this evening,” she said. “We went to investigate it—”
“Ah. Naturally.”
“And ’tis a good thing we did,” Margaret charged on, ignoring his glibness. “For it appears someone was trying to arrange a meeting to plan something. Listen: ‘Blue and gold, our plan unfolds. Find me at midnight.’ ”
Bridger frowned, stroking his chin, relieved, at least, that his headache had dissipated. Then, he reached for his pocket watch, a gift from John Dockarty when Bridger finally decided to pursue publishing. “We need to search the house anyway, for my brother could still be skulking about. This is as good an excuse to start as any. ’Tis nearly midnight, but where to look? Blue and gold, blue and gold…It isn’t much to go on.”
Miss Arden took away her pretty eyes, going back to the bed where Fanny had been tied up and left. Her fingertips ghosted atop the blanket, and Bridger felt the back of his neck tighten with desire. It was an absent gesture, nothing meant by it, but the light touch of her nails over the blanket stirred an unbidden inkling of seduction in him. He closed his eyes tightly, focusing again on the problem at hand. They needed to find his idiot brother, and they needed to discover the identity of the mystery woman that had been with him. The guests might be tight-lipped and secretive if they knew anything, but Pimm would fold under enough pressure; more importantly, he could never resist gloating.
Leaving Fanny in Bridger’s part of the suite, on his bed, was no coincidence. Pimm was goading him, sending a message. That the oaf was a step ahead of them made him want to tear open the balcony door and scream into the night, but he mastered himself. At least they had this secret note to investigate; nervously, he consulted his pocket watch.
“What about the Sapphire Library?” Margaret concluded.
“Sensible,” Bridger replied, nodding, one fist on his hip. “And Pimm does prefer the brandy from the shelf there. But are you sure you want to be alone with a man who has no patience for Jane Bennet?”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “Do not try to force a compliment, Mr. Darrow; stay on task. I remember Ann recently had the southwest gardens redone in a Grecian style,” she said quickly. He had to stop looking at her delicate hand brushingover the bed, or he would lose focus. “And from her letters to me, I know the tiles under the dome are blue and yellow, so perhaps he means to meet at the new temple.”
“ ’Tis two minutes to midnight,” Bridger said, already crossing toward the door. “We will be far behind if we go to the gardens now.”
“But we could split up,” Margaret suggested and hurried up beside him. “I could try the library while you go to the temple.”
“Absolutely not,” he muttered. “Out of the question.”
“But to catch him—”
Bridger took her aside as soon as they stepped outside into the corridor. It was quiet in that part of the house now, guests either abed or long gone in their carriages, and the uproar of the scandal centered now on Ann’s chambers. Bridger didn’t mean to trap her against the wall, but it happened that way, and noticing her alarm, he took a small step back, then ran his hand impatiently through his hair. “My brother is a dangerous man, Miss Arden. Whether we are friends or not, I would never allow you to be with him alone. We go together or not at all.”
With difficulty, she swallowed, and it drew his attention to the lovely column of her neck, and the gentle slopes of her breasts pushing against the neckline of her amber gown. She was beautiful and distracting, and it had been a long while since any woman’s body, in sum or in parts, had lodged in his mind so swiftly for later revisiting.
Snap out of it, man.
She did not move away from him, but indicated she understood with a single nod. “The library, then,” she murmured. And they went, together.
12
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3
Maggie struggled to keep pace with Mr. Darrow as his powerful legs carried him at daunting speed through the house, down the stairs, and to the aptly named Sapphire Library. Every shade of rich blue was represented in the vaulted chamber, giving one the feeling that they were standing inside of a crystal. Though the room itself was spacious, it was also filled to overflowing with cupboards, shelves, tables laden with displayed trinkets, and comfortable, overstuffed furniture. It was perhaps not fashionably appointed, a rarity for Pressmore, but it offered privacy for reading and conversation, as well as a well-stocked brandy cabinet and clear view out onto the south lawn.
They had crossed through the foyer, where a few guests bid one another goodbye. There was a crack of a whip outside on the drive as a carriage pulled away. Mr. Darrow went ahead ofher, holding his forefinger to his lips and commanding her to stay where she was. He went swiftly around each shelf, hunting through the nooks of the library, almost silent as his shadow appeared and disappeared, and he crept in and out of the shallow pools of waning candlelight.
“Nobody,” he said with a disgruntled sigh. His hair had become quite disheveled, and it gave him a more approachable air. She preferred it, after having him back her into the wall upstairs with an intensity that set her on edge. No man had ever spoken to her that way, with such heat and proximity, his gaze almost painful to hold as he worried over her safety.
Mr. Darrow glanced at his pocket watch. “I fear we have chosen the wrong location…”
“Perhaps our conspirators are very prompt,” she replied with a frown. Maggie stepped around him, navigating the cramped aisle between two floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A curved window alcove stuck out from the far wall, lined with a cushioned bench. Crawling onto the bench, she swished the lush blue curtains aside and stuck her nose close to the glass, peering out into the night. A few lanterns still burned along the path to the pond, and to the right of that, a gray snake of cobblestones wound away toward the newly built Grecian temple and its matching garden. “Or else we—”
Maggie fell silent, hearing muted voices from beyond the bookcases behind them. Mr. Darrow had followed her to the alcove, and as she froze, his hand landed on her shoulder and squeezed. Her eyes flew to his, and she watched him search along the wall to their right. There was a large, deep cabinet there, carved with cherubs and vines. With all caution and care, Mr. Darrow took a giant step toward the cabinet, twisted open the handle, and peered inside. Then, without words or a gesture of warning, his strong hand wrapped around Maggie’s left wrist, and pulled her inside.
With the door shut, it was pitch-black inside. The cabinetwas half-full, one side taken up by wooden shelves laden with brandy bottles, leaving scant space indeed for two adults. Which is to say, it was a perilously tight fit.
“I can’t see a thing,” she muttered, struggling to even find a face to glare at. Fortunately, it also meant he could not perceive her blushing. Her left side rested snugly against his right, the heat of his leg warming through the thin fabric of her gown.
