The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series (14 page)

This time, she possessed a feeling of confidence that she was closer to solving this riddle than ever before. She didn’t know what gave her this feeling, but somehow, she felt closer to making a discovery.

Distracted by her new plan, she didn’t realize where she was going until she found herself staring at the map room doors.

They were closed, and with the sconces still lit in the hall, it was impossible to determine whether or not there was light coming from within the room. She wondered whether Everhart was in residence at his seemingly favorite haunt. Did she dare open the doors?

Duke loped up beside her from wherever he’d been down the hall and licked her hand. She gave his ears a scratch. “I’ve found myself here by mistake,” she whispered to her four-legged confidant. “If Everhart is within, then I should make haste in the opposite direction. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Duke gazed up at her, his tongue lolling as he panted.

Calliope took this response as complete agreement.

“But if Everhart is not within, then I couldn’t very well waste this opportunity. Could I?”

Again, Duke agreed in the same manner, adding a tail wag for emphasis. Which didn’t necessarily help her current conundrum. Until a fresh idea hit her . . .

“I imagine that you know his scent; therefore, you could tell me if he is here or not.”

Even though she said the words more to herself than to the dog, Duke offered a low
woof
in response.

“Splendid.” She pointed to the door. “Is Everhart in this room?”

Duke turned his head and looked behind him toward the east wing.

Calliope was stunned. Was this actually working? “Has he retired, then?”

“Woof.”
Duke licked her hand once more.

This was almost too easy. “You are either a very smart creature, or—”

Before she could finish, Duke walked past her, nudged the door open with his nose, and slipped through the narrow opening.

Now, with one of the doors closed and the other partially ajar, she had to crane her neck to peer inside. A fire crackled in the hearth, but the sofa was vacant. Daring further exploration, she skirted sideways through the door and held her breath. Just in case Everhart was right around the corner, she forced a smile in order to pretend that she was merely dropping by to wish her bosom friend a pleasant evening.
Oh, yes
. She was certain he would believe that.

Thankfully, a quick scan of the room told her that she was alone. Well, other than Duke, who now lay boneless by the fire. Relieved, she let out a breath. At last, she could search this room in private. Bypassing the table she’d already observed on a prior visit, she walked to the sideboard in case any wayward papers or patch boxes had made their way there. Not surprisingly, they hadn’t.

Surveying the rest of the space, she noted that someone must have recently cleaned. The low sofa table, which had once been littered with papers and leather-bound books, was now pristine, revealing the beautiful glossy patina beneath.

Looking up through the loft’s railing, she saw rows of shelves, housing not only books but drawers large enough to hold any number of objects, ivory-handled patch boxes included. It was the obvious place to begin her search.

The clock began to chime the eleventh hour. She was nearly to the top of the curving staircase when she heard something—or rather, someone—in the loft.

“There are those, Miss Croft,” Everhart said, his voice low and even, “who would find it quite forward of a young woman to constantly seek out a gentleman’s company.”

She’d thought she was alone. Reaching the final tread, her pulse thrummed wildly beneath the edge of her jaw. Strangely, even knowing that it was only Everhart did not seem to still the wayward drumming of her heart.
Only Everhart?
“You could have announced yourself when you first heard my slipper upon the stair, and I would have left you to your solitude.”

Calliope would have preferred that. Now, however, it would be cowardly to simply turn around and descend the stairs without a word. At least, that’s what she told herself.

Once in the loft, she moved toward the sound of his voice, rounding a trio of tall bookcases that kept him in seclusion. Theoretically, she could remain right here, searching the stacks and drawers without disturbing him. Yet she found herself compelled to do exactly that. She
wanted
to disturb him.

“As you are doing now, no doubt,” he remarked from a dark violet-and-gray striped chaise longue. The design of it was different from a standard chaise in that it sloped gradually at one end, curving in the manner of the bow of a sleigh.

Reclining back, with his head propped on a pillow, Everhart seemed to pay little attention to her presence. Which made her want to disturb him all the more. Over the years, she’d often wondered how he’d so easily dismissed her and their friendship. Part of her resented him for it.

Because it hadn’t been easy for her.

The reason for that was now becoming muddled as she stared at him. The lean length of his body took up the entire space. He crossed his splinted leg over the other. Once again, he’d abandoned his coat and cravat. Those fine golden hairs that she’d examined rather closely that first night were on display between the V of his open collar. From there, her reluctantly captivated gaze set a natural course down the buttons of his silver satin waistcoat to his dark blue breeches.

Her inner narrator looked away and advised Calliope to do the same. Yet she couldn’t.

Everhart possessed a relaxed beauty that consistently drew her attention. Looking away would be like reading only half of a novel and never learning how it ended. Therefore, with his gaze fixed on the ceiling, giving every impression of ignoring her, she indulged her rampant curiosity.

She wondered if the tailor intended to make Everhart’s breeches so . . .
perfectly
fitted. As a young woman, she’d discreetly studied paintings and statues in museums. After all, it was important to know
something
about the male form. Solely for informative purposes, of course.

Nonetheless, the outlined shape Calliope witnessed now was substantially larger than what the artists and sculptors had portrayed. The sight reminded her of the novels she read and how that part of a man’s anatomy had once been described as
a
blade for
virtue’s ruin
.

She swallowed, uncertain if this new leap of her pulse indicated fear or fascination.

Everhart lifted a glass to his lips and drained the last of the pale golden liquid. “There are those who would find your silent study as forward too. Provocative, even.”

Blazing heat rushed to her cheeks. Even her ears felt hot. Embarrassed, her gaze snapped to his face, only to see that he was still looking at the ceiling. Had he caught her, or was he merely taunting her?

Hmm
. . . If she knew anything about Everhart, she was inclined to believe the latter.

Drawing in a breath, she summoned a wealth of hauteur. “If anyone could be accused of provocation, it is you. For now, it is my every wish to be a thorn in your side. A pebble in your boot.” Then, she added the absolute worst nuisance imaginable. “A worm in your book.”

He feigned a gasp. “Not a
worm in my book
, Miss Croft.”

His empty glass winked in the light of the single candelabra on the atlas table between them. As far as boundaries were concerned, the immense, lacquered waist-high table was quite a substantial one. In fact, it currently encompassed the South American continent.

“Perhaps you would not laugh so easily if you knew that I have discovered damage from the very creature you are laughing about within the journal you were reading the other evening.” Absently, she trailed her fingertip along the intersecting longitudinal and latitudinal lines in the South Atlantic Ocean, wondering what it would be like to visit such a place. “I was just to the part where the ship had laid anchor when I noticed—”

“What? What did you see?” He sat up so abruptly that she stopped speaking and withdrew her hand from the ocean. Candlelight stole over his furrowed brow and flashed in the depths of his blue-green irises. It was a rare moment, indeed, to see Everhart agitated.

To be the cause of it
might
give one the sense of having the upper hand.

With a grin tugging at her lips, Calliope returned her attention to the jagged coast of South America. “It could be of no interest to you. It’s just a book, after all.”

“It is
more
than a book,” he argued. “That journal is a vital account of an exploration. Men will read such an accounting for years to come as a way of expanding their own world.”

She rather liked seeing him so ruffled. Especially since Everhart was renowned for being
un
ruffled.

This was another side of him that she was certain few had ever witnessed. And while she wasn’t the type to make waves—certainly not like her sisters—she wanted to know what would happen if she did.

It surprised Calliope to realize that she wanted more from Everhart than he gave to anyone else.

“I am not a man, yet I have been reading it. Ghastly business about the rats in the cook’s pot, wouldn’t you agree?” She smiled sweetly. “If I ever went on an expedition, I should not like rat stew.”

“You on an expedition?” he scoffed. “I think not.”

The muscles of her neck tightened, but she refused to reveal how he’d pricked her irritation. “When I reach my majority next year, I shall have my dowry funds released to me. I believe it is substantial enough to earn passage on a ship.”

“You are an unmarried woman,” he said, his tone flat. “You cannot travel alone.”

Without looking at him, she clucked her tongue in disgust. “I am not a ninny, Everhart. Of course I wouldn’t travel with anyone other than perfect gentlemen.”

“A voyage can take months. Years.” Surprisingly, he began to raise his voice. “No gentleman is
that
perfect.”

Calliope feigned an absent shrug, as if she wasn’t stewing over his arrogance. Running her finger across the atlas, she plotted a course on the map. The truth was, she hadn’t considered an expedition until just now, when it seemed to cause a violent reaction in him. “I have a full year to consider my adventure. I imagine South America would be quite wild after that terrible battle. Perhaps I would pen my own journal, and future generations of men
and
women would read about my travels.”

“You must promise me not to do something so foolish.”

The harsh command drew her gaze, along with her incredulity. “Promise you? Why ever would I need to promise you anything? We are not even friends.”

He sat forward as if he were about to spring, heedless of his injury. “We cannot be friends,” he said, gritting his teeth as he glared at her. “However, I am still the only person of your acquaintance who has traveled extensively—”

“Brightwell has traveled,” she reminded, earning another sharp glare. “In fact, he was speaking of his travels the other evening in the parlor and that he did not enjoy Indian cuisine.”

Everhart released his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the cushion beneath him and swiped his hands across his thighs. His mouth curled in a condescending smirk. “With you there to hang upon his every word, no doubt.”

Abandoning the atlas, she set her hands on her hips. “Brightwell married my cousin, or have you forgotten?”

“The question is, have you?”

In that moment, she wondered why she was standing here in the first place. Had insanity drawn her? “You are right, Everhart. We cannot be friends. I don’t know why I continue to try.” She turned to leave.

“Try? Thus far, your attempts have been to steal a book I was reading and then to goad me into an argument.”

Calliope whipped around to face him. The gall of this man astounded her! “I have not
goaded
you into anything. Since my arrival, you have simply been quick to temper. Then again, I recall bringing out the worst in you years ago as well.”

Had it only been a moment ago that she’d wanted to make waves and get a reaction from him? Now, with his boat capsizing, he seemed determined to take her down with him.

His smirk fell. “What do you mean? I have always been civil to you.”

“Civility under duress, perhaps,” she said on a huff, concealing the hurt she felt. “You do not have cause to dislike me. If Brightwell can forgive me, I do not see why you cannot.”

“I do not dislike you, Miss Croft. I—” He stared at her for a moment, his lips parted, but he said nothing more. He merely released a slow exhale and looked beyond the stacks to the banister that overlooked the room below, as if he were considering jumping over the edge.

Perhaps she should give up. Her efforts were obviously in vain. Exhausted, she turned to leave, only to be startled by the sudden sound of piano music.

A fluid meandering waltz filled the chamber. Montwood was right; it rang quite clearly inside the north tower. The score was achingly familiar but for a moment, she could not fathom why—not until her gaze returned to Everhart’s.

In that moment, she recalled it perfectly. This was the waltz the orchestra had played in Bath, where they’d last danced. When it had ended, the intensity of his dislike had shone in his gaze.

That same intensity was shining there now. It was volatile. Filled with such heat below the surface, she imagined he would begin to rant at her any moment.

“They played this at the Randall ball,” he said without looking away from her.

Her mouth went dry. Of all the things she expected him to recall, this was the last. “Yes.”

“We danced.”

“I remember.”

When he looked surprised by her admission, she continued. “I’m not likely to ever forget. At the end, I thought you were either going to scold me or shake me, right there in the middle of the ballroom.”

“I wasn’t,” he said without elaborating.

“You look as if you could do the same right now.”

“Do I?” His laugh sounded hollow, self-deprecating. “Perhaps I was just thinking about the dance and recalling how it felt to”—his gaze swept over her, his fists clenching around the edge of the cushion—“stand without the assistance of a cane.”