He tapped a gloved finger against his chin. Louisa couldn’t make out his features with only the moon giving her any light, and the cap pulled low over his face offered no help. Nothing about his attire gave his identity away either. From the little she could see, it seemed like plain, country wear. But from the shape of the man... it was plain that she wouldn’t be able to protect anyone with this feeble candelabra!
Time to retreat, Louisa!
His head snapped her way.
Louisa started, and the candelabra slipped from her fingers. Time stretched impossibly thing as they stared at each other. The sharp thud of the candelabra hitting the ground jolted her from the spell and straight into action.
She turned on her heel and ran.
Away from the west wing. Away from her brother’s chamber. And hopefully, away fromhim.
*
Oliver Cavanagh, theseventh Duke of Mortimer, cursed.
Cursed his luck.
Cursed his choices.
And, at that very second, he cursed the table that struck his hip as he launched after Lady Louisa Talbot. A grunt of painsprang from his lips as he dashed after her. It was bad enough that he’d broken into a Talbot residence, but being caught by Lady Louisa Talbot, in her bedchamber no less, was the most damnable thing.
He couldn’t explain his actions. Well, he could, but he would sound stark raving mad since there were so many other ways he could have gone about retrieving the betting book from White’s.
So many other choices.
None of which mattered at the moment because he hadn’t made them. He hadn’t even considered them.
And confound it!
She was whip fast.
He rushed down the hall, damning each thud of his boot on the rug. He descended the stairwell three steps at a time and still, it wasn’t enough to catch up to her.
He pushed harder.
He didn’t worry about being caught by the duke or the duchess. They weren’t in residence. But Lady Louisa? She was a different matter entirely. He couldn’t predict what she might do, and what he loathed most of all were things he couldn’t predict. Variables with a question mark behind them. Always in reach, yet maddeningly out of grasp.
Her white nightdress flitted as she flew down the hall, slipping like a wisp of mist through a door he was certain led to the kitchen. Oliver clenched his jaw and tore after her. He could not let her slip through his fingers—if he did, an all-out war might erupt between the families.
More importantly, he couldn’t afford for word of this to reach the woman he suspected to be the head of the secret women’s organization—the duchess herself. Nor could he chance losing the strongest proof of their crimes—the coded secrets hidden within the wagers of the betting book. That single, complicatedtruth had kept the hair on his neck raised since the moment he entered this house.
Hostile domain.
Doubly so.
He chased her down another flight of stairs and burst into the kitchen after her, grunting when he knocked into something hard. Again. Faint silver rays filtered through the small kitchen window, offering the slightest guidance as she stumbled forward. Instinct, born of years facing danger, compelled him to draw to an abrupt halt, his hands shooting up in surrender, hoping she could tell he meant no harm. And he was right to do so, as the shadow of a sharp knife sliced his way.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” he said, keeping his tone deliberate and unhurried. “You are in no danger from me,” he repeated, deliberately lowering his voice more. “I give you my word.”
“Your word means nothing to me, sir.”
“Of course, you have no reason to trust me, but I promise, I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Forgive me if I find that hard to believe after you’ve chased me through my home.”
The lack of light offered him only the barest of impression of her—pale skin, wary eyes, perhaps a bit of a furrow between her brows. But he didn’t need to see her clearly to sense the tension in her stance. Slowly, he lifted a hand to his cap. She still hadn’t recognized him, but instinct told him the only way for him to gain any ounce of her trust was to reveal himself. “I’m going to remove this.”
She didn’t move an inch as he removed his cap, but the moment he did, she squinted at him, then her brow smoothed into astonishment. “You’re the duke. The Duke of Mortimer.”
