languid posture. When
met with no reply, simply the uneasy feeling that someone, or something, stood in
the shadows at the foot of the bed, he flung back the coverlet and thrust free chilled
toes.
The floor did nothing to warm his feet. Shadows reached for his ankles from beneath
the bed. Not to be intimidated, he flung wide the draperies. Snow-reflected moonlight
flooded the room.
No one there.
He stepped closer to be sure, and stubbed his toe on the foot of the bed. No—not
the bed—his body blocked the light.
He did not remember anything occupying the space at the foot of his bed. He hopped
around the edge of it, hand out, running along the lid’s edge, guarding his shin from
the corner. The moon brought to light its carved and painted darkness, oak leaves
in stylistic whorls at the base, carved figures along the sides. He had seen this
chest before—in Miss Walcott’s room—at the foot of Miss Walcott’s bed. His footmen
had carried it up the stairs.
His hand fell away, as if furniture might bite. For a wild moment Lord Copeland wondered
if he had strayed into the wrong room. But the only lump in the bed was that of his
covers, and the windows did not bear the stained-glass
fleur-de-lys
, so he reached for the edge of the chest again, thinking to lift it.
It would not respond to his tugging, and no slot visible for a key.
He intended to back away from it then, but his leg muscles froze. Only his heartbeat
raced.
He flung up his hands with a cry of alarm and sat up in bed, momentarily blinded by
the sliver of moonlight that peeped in through drawn draperies.
Drawn draperies?
But he had flung them wide.
His door stood ajar.
A dream?
his mind shouted.
No. Too real. Someone has been here.
Heart hammering, he rose, feet like blocks of ice, knees strangely weak as he threw
back the draperies. Moonlight spilled across the floor, across the rumpled counterpane.
There was no chest at the foot of the bed.
Chapter Twelve
A drink
. He needed a drink. Warming ice-cold toes in hand-knitted slippers, an India silk
dressing jacket tossed carelessly about his shoulders, he billowed downstairs to the
decanters in his study, heart thudding far faster than his heels on the stairs. Was
it medicine or a drink he needed most? His London physician had warned him to stay
away from spirits.
Ha!
Better to warn the spirits to stay away from him. He definitely needed a drink.
His hand shook as he poured brandy. The glass chittered against the decanter’s crystal
lip.
Gabe raised his golden head from his spot on the rug. The fire had died down. Shadows
swallowed the room. Copeland darted sideways glances at the figures that held the
mantel, daring them to move as he stirred the ashes and added more wood, and looked
up to find the dog staring at the doorway.
I am not alone.
Bolton stood fully dressed, in the shadows.
“Scared the living daylights out of me, man,” Copeland cried out, heart thudding harder,
the brandy a tempest in his glass.
“I am sorry to alarm you, my lord. I heard the noise you were making and came to see
if you required any assistance.”
“Care for a drink?” Copeland offered, wincing as he threw back a gulp.
Bolton’s brows rose. Copeland had never offered him spirits before. “Trouble sleeping,
my lord?”
“Bad dream.”
“Have the ghosts of Broomhill been haunting you too, my lord?”
“Not ghosts, Bolton. A bloody chest.”
“You are ill, my lord?” Bolton sounded worried.
Copeland laughed. “Not my chest. The traveling kind.”
“Ah! Perhaps something to do with your concern for your stranded guests, my lord?”
Copeland frowned, then shook his head and smiled wryly. How logical. “Quite likely.”
“Would a hot drink help, my lord?”
Copeland sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “You are the best of men, Bolton,
but do not trouble yourself. I shall just finish this brandy, and off to bed again.
I am
met with no reply, simply the uneasy feeling that someone, or something, stood in
the shadows at the foot of the bed, he flung back the coverlet and thrust free chilled
toes.
The floor did nothing to warm his feet. Shadows reached for his ankles from beneath
the bed. Not to be intimidated, he flung wide the draperies. Snow-reflected moonlight
flooded the room.
No one there.
He stepped closer to be sure, and stubbed his toe on the foot of the bed. No—not
the bed—his body blocked the light.
He did not remember anything occupying the space at the foot of his bed. He hopped
around the edge of it, hand out, running along the lid’s edge, guarding his shin from
the corner. The moon brought to light its carved and painted darkness, oak leaves
in stylistic whorls at the base, carved figures along the sides. He had seen this
chest before—in Miss Walcott’s room—at the foot of Miss Walcott’s bed. His footmen
had carried it up the stairs.
His hand fell away, as if furniture might bite. For a wild moment Lord Copeland wondered
if he had strayed into the wrong room. But the only lump in the bed was that of his
covers, and the windows did not bear the stained-glass
fleur-de-lys
, so he reached for the edge of the chest again, thinking to lift it.
It would not respond to his tugging, and no slot visible for a key.
He intended to back away from it then, but his leg muscles froze. Only his heartbeat
raced.
He flung up his hands with a cry of alarm and sat up in bed, momentarily blinded by
the sliver of moonlight that peeped in through drawn draperies.
Drawn draperies?
But he had flung them wide.
His door stood ajar.
A dream?
his mind shouted.
No. Too real. Someone has been here.
Heart hammering, he rose, feet like blocks of ice, knees strangely weak as he threw
back the draperies. Moonlight spilled across the floor, across the rumpled counterpane.
There was no chest at the foot of the bed.
Chapter Twelve
A drink
. He needed a drink. Warming ice-cold toes in hand-knitted slippers, an India silk
dressing jacket tossed carelessly about his shoulders, he billowed downstairs to the
decanters in his study, heart thudding far faster than his heels on the stairs. Was
it medicine or a drink he needed most? His London physician had warned him to stay
away from spirits.
Ha!
Better to warn the spirits to stay away from him. He definitely needed a drink.
His hand shook as he poured brandy. The glass chittered against the decanter’s crystal
lip.
Gabe raised his golden head from his spot on the rug. The fire had died down. Shadows
swallowed the room. Copeland darted sideways glances at the figures that held the
mantel, daring them to move as he stirred the ashes and added more wood, and looked
up to find the dog staring at the doorway.
I am not alone.
Bolton stood fully dressed, in the shadows.
“Scared the living daylights out of me, man,” Copeland cried out, heart thudding harder,
the brandy a tempest in his glass.
“I am sorry to alarm you, my lord. I heard the noise you were making and came to see
if you required any assistance.”
“Care for a drink?” Copeland offered, wincing as he threw back a gulp.
Bolton’s brows rose. Copeland had never offered him spirits before. “Trouble sleeping,
my lord?”
“Bad dream.”
“Have the ghosts of Broomhill been haunting you too, my lord?”
“Not ghosts, Bolton. A bloody chest.”
“You are ill, my lord?” Bolton sounded worried.
Copeland laughed. “Not my chest. The traveling kind.”
“Ah! Perhaps something to do with your concern for your stranded guests, my lord?”
Copeland frowned, then shook his head and smiled wryly. How logical. “Quite likely.”
“Would a hot drink help, my lord?”
Copeland sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “You are the best of men, Bolton,
but do not trouble yourself. I shall just finish this brandy, and off to bed again.
I am
Similar Books
