A Lady Never Tells(34)
She lit a candle from the lamp on the dresser and slipped out of the room. It was a little surprising to find that the sconces still burned at a low level, casting a dim light through the corridor. She went quickly across the hall and down the stairs, her footsteps in her soft slippers almost noiseless.
She turned down the hallway they had taken when they went to supper, thinking that it was likely the library lay along it. Mary peered in the first doorway and saw another elegant gathering room, even larger than the one they had been in this afternoon. As she walked on, she became aware of the murmur of voices. She stopped, listening. Were there still servants about? Then came the sound of rich masculine laughter, and Mary realized that it issued from the dining room. The door was ajar, and light spilled from it onto the hall floor.
For a moment she wondered if the guests could possibly still be here. But no—it was far too late. There was no other sound or movement of servants, and the lights were out at the back of the house. It was, she thought, only the brothers, probably talking over brandy or port. Mary turned to go back upstairs, ready to abandon her search. But curiosity got the best of her, and after a brief hesitation, she moved quietly down the hall, closer to the slightly open door.
To Royce’s relief, the aunts and uncles had not lingered long after the Bascombe sisters retired. After the others left, Stewkesbury had dismissed the servants, and he, Royce, and Fitz had settled down at the table with their port and cigars. For a while, they sat in the companionable silence of long custom, sipping their drinks.#p#分页标题#e#
Fitz cut his eyes toward his eldest brother. “Well, Oliver, it appears that you are going to take on the role of father now.”
Fitz glanced toward Royce, and they exchanged a grin.
Oliver scowled. “Easy for you two to smile about it. You haven’t had a set of marriageable cousins plopped in your lap.”
“Especially these girls,” Fitz responded, chuckling. “Did you see Aunt Euphronia’s face when Miss Bascombe was talking about carrying a rifle to defend them from Indians?”
“I thought Kent’s eyes might pop right out of his head,” Royce added.
“Yes, well, it’s all very amusing to tease the aunts,” the earl said somewhat sourly. “But I am going to have to do something with these girls.” He turned toward Royce, fixing him with a hard gaze. “How the devil did you come up with them, anyway?”
“I didn’t ‘come up with them,’” Royce protested. “It was sheer happenstance. They were chasing some fellow down the street, and I stopped him. Seems he’d stolen their satchel. I could see they weren’t the sort one would normally find wandering about down by the docks.”
“The docks! Good Gad, it just gets worse.”
“They had just arrived from America and clearly had no idea where to go or what to do. So I took them to an inn and settled them there. But I still didn’t know who they were. This morning when Mary told me she had been here knocking on your door, I was sure she was cutting a sham. That they had arranged to run into me. But I couldn’t see how that was possible. They couldn’t have known I would be at that den of thieves, chasing down Gordon.”
“Gordon!” The earl’s brows flew up. “Aunt Euphronia’s Gordon? What the devil was he doing there? He’s supposed to be at Oxford.”
“Bloody hell!” Royce grimaced. “I forgot. I told him I wouldn’t let on to you if he went to his father and confessed.”
“Sent down from university, eh?” The earl sighed and waved his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Let his parents see to him. I have enough problems with my new cousins.”
Royce paused, studying his stepbrother. “Are they really your cousins? Are you sure they’re legitimate?”
The earl sighed and took another drink. “I’m afraid they are. After our meeting with the girls, I went to the nursery and searched for my aunt’s old books.”
“So you did check up on their mother’s handwriting!” Royce exclaimed, remembering Mary’s taunt to the earl this afternoon.
“Of course I did.” Stewkesbury raised his brows. “You didn’t think I would simply take her word that my aunt wrote that letter? Aunt Flora’s name was written in several books, and there were a number of her old composition books as well. The dratted letter matched them all.” He stared down broodingly into his brandy snifter. “I also looked at the portrait of Grandfather’s children that hangs in the second-floor gallery. Aunt Cynthia was right—Rose Bascombe looks a great deal like Aunt Flora.”