Page 106 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

Ashford’s outrage converted instantaneously to contrition, and he dropped Lydia’s hand as if it were scalding. Lydia fought the urge to grab for it again.

‘We can explain,’ Ashford whispered, holding out his hands in supplication.

‘Hush,’ Lydia hissed.

At last, she could hear the sound of footsteps moving through the room, could see the flicker of a taper candle on the floor heading towards the fireplace. They fell silent, turning to peer through the shelves as children playing hide and seek. A moment later the person came into view: a man making his way cautiously toward the fireplace, casting looks left and right as if he was as afraid of detection as they. The taper held beneath his chin cast such strange shadows across his face that Lydia did not recognize him until the light of the smouldering fire provided further illumination. Reeves.

Beside her, she could feel the tension in Ashford’s frame relax, and she understood why – Reeves was sensible and discreet. Even if he did discover them, whatever his private views, he might be trusted to remain silent. But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than the sound of the library door could be heard again; they all tensed, nerves renewed. All save for Reeves, who looked up, expectant but unafraid. The sound of hurried steps, less careful, less stealthy than Reeves’ had been, and then the new figure was revealed: tall, wide, unmistakeably bearish in frame.

Lydia’s heart leapt into her throat. Sir Waldo would surely not take kindly to his butler making use of the library at nighttime, nor to catching the three of them out of bed at such an hour.

But then the firelight revealed the whiskerless face, and Lydia could relax again. For it was not Sir Waldo, but the infinitely preferable Lord Dacre.

‘Oh ho,’ Pip whispered.

Dacre paused, a few steps away from Reeves. He did not look surprised to see him. Lydia frowned, trying to see more of their expressions from between the stacks.

The gentlemen gazed at one another for a moment, then Reeves extended an invitatory hand. Dacre took two quick strides towards him and drew him into a close embrace.

Lydia felt her eyes widen. Beside her, Pip shifted on his feet. Oh.

‘What a week,’ Reeves said, when at last they parted.

‘I should be very glad for it to be over,’ Dacre agreed, ‘if it did not also mean leaving you.’

‘How long before you might visit again?’ Reeves spoke into Dacre’s neck, voice muffled but still audible.

‘I do not know,’ Dacre said. ‘I might concoct some excuse about helping Waldo and Phoebe pack up the house, but …’

‘It has been a year of sneaking around,’ Reeves said. ‘Barely satisfied by whatever visits, moments and scraps we can find.’

A year? Directly under Waldo and Phoebe’s noses?

‘I know.’ Dacre sounded tired and pained. This, more even than the embrace, made Lydia feel abruptly uncomfortable with their eavesdropping – they should not be witnessing such emotion, only revealed under the assumption of privacy. She cast her eyes to the ground, determinedly, but she could not do the same with her ears.

‘We must consider our approach.’ When freed from the trappings of deference, it was far easier to hear the military in Reeves’ voice. ‘Before, I could not leave Lady Phoebe, but now … Are you in need of a new butler?’

She heard the whisper of Dacre shaking his head. ‘Waldo would be suspicious.’

‘Is it not worth taking the chance?’ Reeves entreated.

‘Not when it is your life endangered,’ Dacre said, in tones fiercer than any Lydia had heard him use. ‘My title and standing protect me, but you have no such shield. We have discussed this.’

‘We have,’ Reeves agreed, ‘but … I do not think I can be satisfied with scraps any longer, Dacre – caution bedamned.’

‘A few nights ago, you were the one instructing me to be more careful. What has caused this change?’

There was the sound of hands scrubbing across a face – whether Dacre’s or Reeves’, Lydia could not tell.

‘I am not suggesting we be foolhardy,’ Reeves said, ‘but – it is just – well, in truth, I have not been able to cease thinking of what von Prett said to me.’

Dacre let out a surprised snort. ‘Our dear captain? I thought you believed him a shammer.’

From behind the bookshelf, Lydia frowned. What did he mean?

‘Oh, he is – that fraudulent popinjay has not spent a single minute on the battleground, I would swear my life upon it,’ Reeves said contemptuously. ‘If he speaks of Waterloo once more, I shall not be able to prevent myself from shooting him.’

‘I know, I know,’ Dacre said, with the fond indulgence of one who had heard this grievance many times.