A Dangerous Love by Sabrina Jeffries (10)

Griff was up to something. Rosalind knew it. But she couldn’t figure out what. Aside from a marked tension between him and his employer, she’d noticed nothing that might signal his intentions.

Her footman’s reports had been unrevealing, and going near Griff herself had become increasingly difficult. Whenever she attempted it, even in the company of others, he whispered the most outrageous things to her when no one else could hear. Allusions to plums abounded—the man had no imagination at all. Nor did it help that Juliet, completely misunderstanding Griff’s words on the terrace that day, now made a point of having plums at every meal. Plums that he ate only to torment her.

This morning she’d insisted on riding out with him and Mr. Knighton when John was required elsewhere. Griff had repaid her amply for it, especially once he’d discovered she didn’t ride sidesaddle. Every comment about riding had seemed to mean something naughtier. And he’d shown her just how well he could control a horse, for as they’d ridden he’d brushed his leg against hers several times with such precision that the horses never touched or shied.

But the worst had been when he’d helped her dismount. He’d held her waist much longer than necessary and remarked in a low voice that the sight of her astride was guaranteed to “fill his pockets.” It had taken her a second to recognize the allusion. To her shame, more than her cheeks had grown heated when she did so. As if sensing the warmth pooling low in her belly, he’d laughed heartily. The insolent scoundrel!

Now she sat near the billiard table at the east end of the long first-floor gallery that stretched between the two wings. Griff played against Juliet while Mr. Knighton lounged in a chair and cheered Juliet on. Rosalind had almost left them to it, reluctant to attract any more of Griff’s sly maneuvers, until she’d realized that he would thus achieve his purpose to drive her away. Her pride wouldn’t let him have even the smallest success in that aim.

The table was ancient, bought by Papa before she was even born. He and Mama used to play billiards—she remembered that, a sweet hazy image from when she was a little girl. Papa had laughed and teased Mama while Helena begged to be allowed to play, too, and protested that she was nearly nine, surely old enough to play billiards.

After Mama’s death, Papa had stopped using it. Rosalind could only suppose it brought back painful memories. But the three girls had all played billiards. What else was one to do in the long winter months when even books grew tedious, and there was no company to speak of? Unfortunately, after Helena’s illness she’d claimed she could no longer play, but Juliet and Rosalind still played often. Juliet hadn’t really mastered the game, but Rosalind was quite good, though she’d had no chance this afternoon to show her skill.

Unfortunately, watching Griff play was a torment—his smooth handling of the cue, the flex of his muscles as he bent over the table to shoot, his low laugh of triumph when he won. It spurred her imagination too dreadfully. Instead of gripping a cue stick, he was gripping her waist, and instead of bending over the table to shoot, he was bending over her body to kiss and fondle it. And his low laugh of triumph became a groan of need as he lowered himself…

Dear God, she thought, blushing violently. Why couldn’t she prevent these scandalous fancies playing repeatedly in her head? But she knew why. All his contradictions of background and speech and behavior fascinated her. One moment he seemed a gentleman, the next a rogue. Being unable to figure him out vexed her exceedingly.

Well, at least he wasn’t sneaking about the house anymore. Perhaps she’d imagined it all in the first place. The night they’d met, might he really have been searching for cigars? And the next day, might his pride have been pricked when she’d insisted on staying with him, thus prompting him to try all those tactics to be rid of her?

It was possible, but it seemed unlikely. Still, why hadn’t he balked more at her restrictions? Although he did disappear into his bedchamber every afternoon to work, John stayed right outside his door. Another footman took the night watch. She would suspect the men of falling asleep at their post, except that she’d checked on them a few times, even late at night, and found them always vigilant.

Probably this was Griff’s plan to lull her into complacency so she’d relax her guard and he could return to his snooping. Well, she didn’t intend to relax her guard until the day he left Swan Park.

But as the afternoon dragged on, Rosalind felt herself dozing off. She’d had trouble sleeping last night, imagining sounds inside the walls when none of the servants would be about. She was just considering going to her bedchamber for a quick nap when a ball entered a pocket with a sudden thunk, and Juliet let out an uncharacteristic whoop.

“I win! I win!” Juliet crowed, brandishing her cue in the air with childish joy. “I’ve beaten you at last, Mr. Brennan, admit it! And after only three games, too!”

“You have indeed.” Griff’s tone was indulgent, kind. It suddenly occurred to Rosalind that he’d played rather worse this game for no apparent reason. When he turned away from Juliet and a look passed between him and Mr. Knighton, she realized that he’d allowed Juliet to win.

The realization wound around her heart with insidious warmth, like the lion’s tail of the griffin he was named after. His action had cracked Juliet’s painful shyness as Mr. Knighton had been unable to do, and Rosalind found herself grudgingly grateful to him for it. Over the past three days, Juliet had been anxious all the time—either silent entirely or answering only when spoken to. She was more comfortable with Griff than with Mr. Knighton, but the reason for that was obvious: Juliet did not worry about having to marry him.

Rosalind sighed. Unfortunately, from what she could see, Juliet’s anxiety hadn’t swayed the girl from her course. Indeed, she was already glancing uneasily at Mr. Knighton to see if her unladylike behavior had offended him.

Suddenly Griff loomed up in front of Rosalind, blocking her vision as he held out a cue stick to her. “Now that your sister has trounced me, Lady Rosalind, I thought you might like the chance to do the same.”

The blatant challenge in his gaze dared her to accept the invitation. Very well—it was high time she reminded him of her ability to best him.

With a smile, she rose and took the stick from him. “I can hardly think of anything that would give me more pleasure than trouncing you, Mr. Brennan.”

“That’s my ‘Lady Disdain.’” His eyes gleamed as he quoted from Much Ado About Nothing. “‘She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.’”

“I do my best.” She brushed past him and went to the end of the table, removing her gloves as she went. “But my poniards must need sharpening, since you keep coming back for more, and I’ve yet to see you bleeding.”

He set the cue ball and the red in position on the table. “I’m glad you limit yourself to words and don’t know how to fence. Judging from how well you wield a sword, I might find myself unmanned.” He waved his hand to the table, indicating that she should go first.

She grinned. “A tempting prospect indeed. But I’ll settle for trouncing you at billiards. How many points shall we set the game at?”

“Fifty seems a nice even number.”

“Fifty it is.” With a smile, she took a series of shots that potted the red, potted her cue ball off the red twice, and then potted the red again. She would have sunk it a fifth time if the table hadn’t been so uneven, causing the ball to stop an inch short of the pocket.

Mr. Knighton gave a low whistle and rose from his seat to survey the table. “Christ, m’lady, where’d you learn to shoot billiards like that?”

She stepped back from the table. “One of our footmen taught me.” She turned to Griff, who lounged against the near wall with his arms crossed and his gaze shuttered. “That’s four points, I believe. Your turn, sir.”

He ambled to the table, placed his cue ball, and then shot a spot-stroke. “Your footmen have a wide variety of duties.” He took the red out and positioned it again, then shot an impressive cannon combined with a winning hazard. “They teach billiards and act as personal assistants to wandering guests. I wonder how they find the time to be footmen.”

She winced when he potted the red neatly. “As you’ll soon discover, all our servants are quite versatile. So if it weren’t the footmen performing those services, it would be someone else—the butler, the coachman—”

“The lady of the manor?” he quipped as he paused in setting up a shot.

She raised an eyebrow. “If need be.”

The red had dropped into the pocket nearest her, so she fished it out for him. When she leaned across the table to hand it to him, however, his eyes weren’t on her hand, but lower. Only then did she realize her shawl had come unknotted and she was displaying far too much bosom. With an unspoken oath, she started to draw back, but his hand closed quickly over hers to stay her, and for a second she couldn’t move.

She shot a pleading glance at her cousin, but he and Juliet had wandered down the gallery to look at the portraits of the Swanlea ancestors. They were deep in discussion with their backs to the table. Neither of them noticed Griff’s hold on her.

His smooth, warm hand was so large it enveloped hers, but not so large as to imply a brutishness of character. His fingers stroked hers, reminding her of how those same deft fingers had walked their way up her ribs while she and he had stood on the sun-drenched hill.

Sweet need unfurled again in her belly. No, she thought angrily, she wouldn’t let him do this to her! He only did it to provoke her.

Yet when she tried to withdraw her hand, he held it captive a moment longer. “As much as I might enjoy having the lady of the manor act as my assistant,” he whispered, “I don’t want to take her from her other, more pressing duties.”

“Then you and your employer should return to London where you belong,” she said archly.

“Why? Do we annoy you?” His corrupt gaze drifted to her half-exposed bosoms. “Or are you afraid that we’ll uncover…your secrets?”

Despite her fervent wish to prevent it, her face flamed. He grinned, then took the ball and released her hand. Wishing she could stuff the ball in his shameless mouth to silence him once and for all, she sprang back and quickly knotted her shawl in place. Billiards clearly provided too many opportunities for unseemly contortions of the female body. The least she could do was cover up those parts Griff insisted on ogling.

She glanced at him when she was finished, only to find him smirking at her. Let him smirk. It was better than his ogling. Or making wicked remarks—the ones she found so disturbingly titillating.

He followed his previous stroke with three spot-strokes in rapid succession, recapturing her interest in the game. She had to admit Griff’s skill impressed her. She’d guessed correctly before—he’d surely allowed Juliet to win. But when Rosalind got the chance to shoot again, she’d show him that not all of the Swanlea spinsters were fumble-fingers with a cue stick.

Her chance came a few shots later, just as she suppressed a sleepy yawn. He came around to her side of the table and assessed his next shot with great seriousness. From her vantage point, she could tell he was aiming for a white hazard, but their table wasn’t the best, and he missed it, thanks to a tricky carom off two cushions. By that time, he was seven points ahead.

He stood back while she set up her own shot most carefully, for he’d left her cue ball in a devilish position. After a few moments of her bending over to sight down the stick, eye the pocket, then sight down the stick again, he murmured behind her, “If you’re doing this purposely to tempt me, you’re succeeding.”

She glanced back at him quizzically only to find him eyeing her backside and the raised skirts that revealed a goodly length of her stockings. She glared at him. “If you don’t like being tempted, Mr. Brennan, you should keep your eyes on the game where they belong.” Without moving an inch, she returned her attention to the table, though it was difficult now not to imagine his interested gaze on her derriere.

He chuckled. “Who says I don’t like being tempted?”

Gritting her teeth, she shot. And missed, of course. That’s what she got for letting the bloody man drive her to distraction.

When she straightened angrily, she turned to find him so close his gray trousers brushed her skirts. “Excuse me, Mr. Brennan,” she bit out, but he didn’t move away.

He darted a quick look over to where Mr. Knighton and Juliet were still at the other end of the gallery. Juliet was explaining the history of each earl, and to his credit Mr. Knighton was patiently enduring the explanations. Unfortunately, he was also paying no attention to his man of affairs.

Who now leaned even closer, mischief dancing in his eyes. “We should place a little wager on this game.”

“What sort of wager?” She tried to step back, but the table prevented it. He was too close for rational thought, too close for anything but remembering what had happened the last time he’d stood near her. Her pulse began to race.

“If I win,” he murmured, “you call off your dog.”

She suppressed a groan. She should have known he would eventually come back to that subject. Tilting up her chin, she asked, “And if I win?”

“You won’t win.” When she looked at him askance, he smiled and added, “Very well. If you do, I’ll…” he thought a moment, “I’ll arrange for you to audition for Richard Sheridan.”

Her eyes went wide. “The Richard Sheridan? The owner of Drury Lane Theatre? The man who wrote School for Scandal?”

The blasted man grinned, knowing he’d baited his hook well. “The very one.”

He looked far too sure of himself. She eyed him skeptically. “You know him well enough to arrange an audition?”

“Let’s just say that Sheridan and I share an affection for fine French brandy, which we indulge occasionally.”

“How would a man of affairs come to know a famous character like Sheridan?”

That seemed to catch him off guard. Then he shrugged. “My employer is a patron of the theater, and has a small investment in Drury Lane.” He nodded toward Mr. Knighton. “If you don’t believe me, ask him.”

She glanced down the gallery at her cousin, who was still absorbed in her sister’s prattling. Mr. Knighton invest in Drury Lane? Impossible! At dinner last night the ox had been entirely unaware of who John Dryden or Christopher Marlowe or even Homer was, despite his Eton education. Indeed, she’d begun to doubt he possessed such an education at all. It was highly unlikely that he loved the theater.

As if realizing the source of her disbelief, Griff added, “Actually, I instigated the investment, since it provided him—and me—with a very nice private box at Drury Lane.”

That made more sense. Whatever his other faults, Griff did seem to possess a genuine interest in the theater.

“Well?” he prodded. “Do you accept the wager?”

She still hesitated. “Only if you answer one question.”

“All right.”

“Why are you so eager to be rid of my footman? He’s merely there to help you.”

“I don’t need help. In any case, I’m accustomed to going where I please, when I please, without an audience. Have you ever tried reading documents with a servant two feet away trying to be unobtrusive? It’s damned annoying.”

When he put it that way, she saw how he might find it so. Besides, she intended to win the game. And the possibility of auditioning for Sheridan—Richard Sheridan—was irresistible. “Very well. I accept your wager.”

“Rosalind!” her sister cried from down the gallery. She and Mr. Knighton were headed back to the table. “Whatever are you and Mr. Brennan whispering about? I thought you were playing billiards.”

Griff broke away from Rosalind with a rakish smile. “We are, my lady, we are.” He caught up his cue stick. “Your sister and I are about to become very serious about it.”

She’d thought they were already serious about billiards, but he soon proved her wrong. When he took the table this time, there was no flirting, no teasing innuendoes, no wavering from his purpose. He went to it with the single-mindedness of a sportsman. Indeed, he gained twenty points more before a slip of the stick ruined his shot.

She took her place with great trepidation, no longer as certain of winning. She should have made him start over for the wager. Now he was twenty-seven points ahead—a great gap indeed. If she lost, she’d have to spend more time in his presence, which would be terribly unwise—not to mention she’d lose the Sheridan audition.

By careful attention to her aim, she managed a string of red and white hazards. She wasn’t as good at cannons and so didn’t even risk them, even though they’d let her increase her score more quickly. Nonetheless, she’d already passed his score by four points when she potted his cue ball.

She and Juliet groaned at the same time.

“My turn.” Griff gloated as he removed his cue ball from the pocket and spotted it.

Then he began to play with all the expertise of a true proficient. She should have known that a former smuggler would excel at billiards. No doubt that was how he and his criminal companions had entertained themselves.

As the score passed forty, she tensed. He aimed, and she leaned forward on the opposite end of the table to watch. In the split second between his drawing back and his sending the cue stick forward, his eyes veered from the table to her. He missed the shot and cursed.

Scowling, he rounded the table, then stopped beside her to murmur, “Getting desperate, are you?”

“What do you mean?” she whispered back.

“Much as I usually enjoy any glimpse of your…charms, I hardly think it’s fair for you to thrust them into my line of sight when I’m shooting.”

She glanced down and blushed to see that her shawl had come unknotted again. “I hadn’t noticed,” she said truthfully, reaching to retie it again.

“Of course not.”

The blasted scoundrel didn’t believe her! She hesitated a moment, then defiantly removed her shawl and tossed it over a chair. If the surly wretch insisted on attributing such tactics to her, she might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

From there on, she did her best to distract him whenever he shot. It wasn’t that difficult. Apparently, given the choice between concentrating on his cue stick or ogling a woman’s breasts, a man chose ogling every time. Its predictability was almost comical.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take him long to find a suitable revenge. Whenever she shot, he passed just close enough to whisper comments so imaginatively scandalous that he never failed to draw a reaction from her—usually a missed shot.

It soon became obvious they had abandoned the game of serious billiards for “naughty billiards.”

Juliet seemed oblivious to what was going on. When she did hear the comments, she apparently didn’t understand them, and the ogling was something she was too innocent to be bothered by. Though Mr. Knighton was not so oblivious, he oddly chose to say nothing. She did, however, catch him watching them both with an inexplicably gleeful expression once or twice.

The game dragged, since neither progressed very far at a time—a point here, a point there, then a missed shot. Still, they were forty-nine to forty-nine when Helena approached along the gallery.

“What’s going on?” she asked as she limped to a chair and took a seat.

“Mr. Brennan and Rosalind are playing billiards,” Juliet said cheerfully, “and they both need only one point to win. But they’re playing very badly, even worse than me. They’ve both missed their last three shots. We’ll be here all day if this continues.”

Helena eyed the table curiously, then glanced at Rosalind. As she took in Rosalind’s décolletage, her disapproval was obvious. “It’s no wonder Rosalind’s having trouble. She must be freezing without her shawl, and that would surely deflect her aim.”

Rosalind cursed inwardly. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”

“No,” Griff interrupted, “Lady Helena is right.” He strode to where she’d left her shawl, picked it up, and brought it to her. “Here, my lady.” With an utterly disgusting smile, he settled it around her shoulders. “This should help.”

“Thank you,” she retorted through gritted teeth. Just wait until she got Helena alone.

At least it was her turn to shoot and not his, and he wouldn’t dare make any of his nasty comments with Helena nearby. Rosalind took careful aim at the easy red hazard before her. All she had to do was shoot. That’s all.

Yet her hands were clammy, the cue stick slipping around in them like an eel. She couldn’t fail now. She mustn’t! For if she missed this shot, he was sure to make his. And there would go her chance at Sheridan.

She aimed, shot, and then watched with glee as her cue ball hit the red perfectly, sending it toward the pocket with a pure grace. But then it slowed as it neared the pocket. No, not again—it couldn’t happen twice! She couldn’t be so unlucky! Not now!

But she was. The ball danced on the edge of the pocket, then retreated half an inch to a position even a novice couldn’t miss.

To his credit, Griff didn’t even smile as he took the easy shot. But once the red disappeared into the pocket with a plop that echoed in her mind, he broke out in a grin. He glanced at her younger sister. “There, Lady Juliet. It appears we won’t be here all day after all.”

Rosalind watched numbly as he rounded the table, then came up beside her and offered his hand. She wanted to break her cue stick over it, but she had better manners than that. Glumly she held out her hand, expecting a brief press of fingers.

She should have known better. With the predatory gaze of an eagle carrying off a hare, he bent over her bare hand and kissed it. His lips were warm and soft against her skin, and they lingered for what seemed like forever, yet when he straightened she knew it had only been seconds.

“We are well matched, you must admit.” He released her hand.

“I suppose,” she said ungraciously.

His expression hinted at some other meaning for well matched, but she chose to ignore it and dwell instead on the disappointment of having lost her audition. It was safer than dwelling on the press of his lips against her hand.

He waited until her cousin had begun to ask Lady Juliet about playing another game, then stepped up close and lowered his voice. “I’m going to my room to work for a while. When I come out, I expect your footman to be gone.”

She’d forgotten that in losing her part of the wager, he’d won his. Now she’d have to find another way to shadow him or else move the strongbox where he’d never find it. If indeed he was looking for it.

She swallowed, then nodded. With a final smile of triumph, he strode down the gallery to the west-wing stairs leading to the second floor where his room lay.

Bitterly disappointed by her loss, she turned to find Juliet telling Mr. Knighton that she didn’t want to play billiards anymore.

He faced Helena. “What about you, my lady? Do you play?”

“No,” was her cold answer.

When he looked offended by the short response, Rosalind explained. “Helena says her leg prevents her, that it’s hard to balance on one leg and shoot.” It was nonsense, of course, but she’d never determined if Helena believed it or was simply using the excuse to keep herself apart from people, as she did in other respects. She added, “But she used to beat me routinely before her illness.”

Helena glared at her, but Rosalind had always thought it best to be honest. Besides, she rather liked her cousin, even if he were a bit coarse and had once consorted with smugglers. It pained Rosalind to see Helena treat him so coldly, even though Helena had been reserved toward all men of late.

Mr. Knighton hadn’t taken his eyes from her older sister while Rosalind was speaking. Now he walked silently to the far wall. Lifting an armchair, he brought it back to the pool table and positioned it so that one arm was parallel to the rim, with about a foot of space between the table and the chair.

He glanced at Helena. “Couldn’t you sit on the arm of the chair? Then you wouldn’t need your legs at all to play.”

A dark flush spread up Helena’s neck. “That’s highly impractical, Mr. Knighton. The chair would have to be moved and positioned to my order for every shot.”

Bracing his hands on the chair back, he shrugged. “That’s why you must play billiards with a great lummox like me, m’lady. I’ve lifted bigger loads a thousand times. If I can’t move a wee thing like this, then I ain’t much of a man.”

Rosalind’s heart melted.

But Helena appeared unswayed. “The arm of the chair won’t hold my weight.”

“Yes, it will.” He pressed down on the arm to demonstrate. Then he strolled up to where she sat, still eyeing him warily. He held out his hand. “In any case, you won’t know until you try it. And I promise to catch you if it breaks.”

Helena stared at his hand for a long moment. Rosalind saw the flash of yearning in her face. It had been many years since Helena had played billiards, and many more years since a man had treated her so courteously.

“Go on, Helena,” Rosalind prodded. “Mr. Brennan and I gave Mr. Knighton no chance at all to play, and if Juliet won’t play and I’m too tired, you’re the only one left.”

Helena rolled her eyes, but clearly recognized she was trapped. With a scowl, she took his hand and let him help her rise. As she hobbled to the armchair, she muttered, “If it tips me over, Mr. Knighton, I shall hold you responsible.”

He only grinned in answer, then helped her settle herself onto the chair arm.

When the two of them began their game, Juliet pulled Rosalind down the gallery, well out of earshot. “Look at him,” she whispered. “He’s so kind to Helena.”

Rosalind watched as Mr. Knighton hurried to set up the balls for the game. “Yes, he’s a kind man, I think.”

“It’s such a pity that she dislikes him so,” Juliet said mournfully. “This morning she called him a great oaf and said she’d never marry a man like that.”

“You know how foolish Helena had become about men. She’ll find any excuse to refuse them.”

“Well, she has more than an excuse in his case, I’m afraid. She thinks he’s only out for what he can get. She thinks he wants to marry an earl’s daughter who can teach him how to behave in society. So there’s no chance of her marrying him—Helena’s pride wouldn’t allow it.” Juliet worried her lower lip. “And you’ve got your eye on that man of affairs—”

“I do not!”

Juliet shook her head. “Deny it all you wish, but I can see you like him.”

“Not in the least.” She was intrigued by him, fascinated by him, tempted by him. But like him? That was far too bland a word for what he made her feel.

“So if neither of you will marry Mr. Knighton, it’s left to me.” She said it with a tone of mournful acceptance.

“Now, dearest, you mustn’t feel like that. None of us needs marry him. I told you, we can—”

“Leave Swan Park forever. I won’t do it.”

“I don’t know why not,” Rosalind snapped.

Juliet’s lower lip trembled. “You don’t understand. You never did.”

A plaintive note in Juliet’s voice gave Rosalind pause. “Why don’t you explain it to me then?”

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the gallery’s mullioned windows, spangling Juliet’s golden hair and glinting off the sudden tears in the girl’s eyes. Rosalind’s heart broke at the sight. She took her sister’s hand and squeezed it. “Oh, Juliet, please tell me what has made you so determined to marry against your heart.”

“I have to marry Mr. Knighton. I have to!” Juliet bent her head, several gilt curls falling over her brow. “It’s all my fault that we’ll lose Swan Park, so I must prevent it.”

“How could it possibly be your fault?”

“Because if…if Mama hadn’t died giving birth to me, Papa would have been able to have a son.” Tears rolled down her angelic cheeks. “And then the estate would never have been entailed away.”

So that was the source of all Juliet’s stubbornness. With wrenching sadness, Rosalind tugged her sister into her embrace. “Oh, my dearest, don’t even think it. It’s not your fault women die in childbirth. And Papa could have had more children if he’d chosen to remarry. But he didn’t. How can you blame yourself for that?”

“B-Because Papa b-blames me,” she whispered through her tears.

A surge of protectiveness made Rosalind clutch her sister tightly. “Do you mean Papa has told you it is your duty to marry Mr. Knighton because—”

“No, of course not!” Juliet rubbed the tears from her cheeks with her small fists. “Papa would never say it like that. But I know he blames me. It’s in his face and voice whenever he speaks of Mama, whenever he speaks of my marrying to save Swan Park. He doesn’t have to say it—I know what he feels.”

Rosalind felt helpless in the face of such youthful misapprehension. Their father could be stern and misguided sometimes, but he did love his children in his own way. “I’m sure he doesn’t blame you, dearest. None of us do, not even Papa.”

Juliet jerked away, more tears coursing down her face. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“But I do! I only think that—”

“That I’m a silly girl who imagines things. Well, I’m not imagining this, no matter what you say to spare my feelings. I’ll prove to all of you I can do my part for the family, the way you have by taking care of Swan Park. That’s why I shall marry Mr. Knighton even if I don’t…love him!” And with that impassioned speech, she whirled and ran off down the west-wing stairs.

“Juliet!” Rosalind called out, running to the top of the stairs to look down, but her fleet-of-foot little sister was already halfway down. There was no point to remonstrating further with her when she was in her present mood, anyway.

Rosalind shook her head balefully as she returned to the gallery. Blast it all. Juliet’s determination to “save” the family was rooted more deeply than she’d realized. She and Helena had probably coddled the girl too much, made her feel as if she could do nothing to help. Now they would pay for it dearly.

She collapsed into a nearby chair, her mind in turmoil. Oh, however were they to unravel this coil? Juliet wouldn’t be satisfied until Swan Park was saved, and clearly she took that to mean she must marry Mr. Knighton. Unless Rosalind could think of how to stop it before it was too late. To her knowledge, Mr. Knighton hadn’t yet offered for any of them—Papa would have crowed over it—but this limbo couldn’t continue forever. Mr. Knighton had a business in London, after all.

A delay was what she needed, something to give her time to think of a plan that would suit all of them. Papa had sprung this on them so quickly, she’d hardly had time to consider their choices.

The trouble was, she had no control over the situation, no way to predict when the engagement would occur, how long it would last, or what would be done. The only way to gain control would be to agree to marry the bloody man herself.

Rosalind’s heart began to pound. Yes, that would work! If she agreed to marry Mr. Knighton herself, she could play the skittish fiancée: insist on time to plan the wedding, do all manner of things to make him change his mind about marrying any of them…

She scowled. There was only one problem with that plan: He would never marry her. He wanted a woman like Juliet—the perfect, socially acceptable wife.

With a sigh, she stood. Perhaps she could find some way to tempt him in her direction. She’d have to think on it, for this was by far her best plan to date. She yawned. First, however, she’d take a nap. She always thought better after she’d slept. Or maybe some solution would come to her in a dream.

Only when she was halfway down the gallery did she remember she’d promised to send John away before Griff left his room again. Blast.

According to the clock, he’d only been in there half an hour, so she had plenty of time. He generally spent over two hours working in his bedchamber in the afternoon. Still, she wanted it done. Then she could nap, and consider her plan further.

She strolled back to the west-wing stairs and climbed to the second floor. John lounged in the hall outside Griff’s bedchamber as always, but rose quickly from his chair when she approached.

“Mr. Brennan has been in his room for some time, my lady,” he reported.

She listened at the door, but could hear nothing. She sighed. “You may go. And you may return to your usual duties from now on.”

He nodded, too well trained to question the whims of the lady of the house. She started to leave, too, then stopped, assailed by curiosity as always. What did Griff do in there every day? She seldom saw him and Mr. Knighton discussing business, so how did he come to have so much work all the time?

She plastered her ear to the door for a minute. An ominous silence was all she heard. Of course, writing letters and such didn’t make any noise. But one would think there’d be the occasional scrape of a chair or something. And he couldn’t spend the entire time writing letters, could he? His hand would cramp.

Her eyes narrowed. Come to think of it, he didn’t post any great quantity of letters. Hmmm. How very odd. What did he do in there?

With sudden resolve, she rapped on the door. No answer. She rapped again, this time with more impatience. Still silent.

Suspicion tightened her brow into a black frown. Had he gotten past her footman? There was only one way to find out. She tried the door, but it was locked. Blast.

Now determined to ferret out his secret, she withdrew her ring of keys, then tried several until she found the one that unlocked the door. She started to turn the knob, but hesitated. It would be awful if he were sleeping or something, and she burst in upon him.

Then again, she could always claim she’d only come to tell him the footman had been dismissed or some such nonsense, couldn’t she? Feeling secure in that rationale, she opened the door and entered.

The room was empty—completely and utterly empty. She stood with her hands on her hips and cursed. No doubt John had popped down to the kitchen or something earlier, and Griff had left while he was gone.

As she scanned the room, she noticed that Griff’s coat was thrown across a chair and his waistcoat and cravat hung from the handle of the clothespress. Could he have changed clothes before he left? But why? And why only those pieces of clothing? No, it seemed more likely that wherever he was, he was in his shirtsleeves. Yet that was uncharacteristic of the well-dressed Mr. Brennan.

Then something else caught her eye. The bureau had been moved away from the wall. She moved nearer. There were cracks in the paneling behind it…And it hit her with sudden force how Griff had left his room.

Through the servants’ door, the sealed servants’ door. Curse him! Leave it to Griff to discover the door none of them ever used.

She opened the door, glanced down the stairwell, and saw the assorted furnishings blocking the stairs. She’d been told that the upper stairs were unsafe, which was why no one used them. Clearly that had been an exaggeration, for Griff obviously did.

Well, she thought grimly, he must be very proud of himself. All this time he’d been sneaking out whenever he wanted, for as long as he wanted, and she hadn’t even realized it. And he’d made such a big to-do about their wager, too!

The more she thought about it, the more infuriated she became. So he wanted to move about the house at will, did he, sneaking into other people’s rooms, searching for God knows what? The man was a rat. She wished she knew exactly what he was up to, for knowing his plans might help her determine her own.

Frustrated, she turned to his writing table. Several papers were scattered on it. Did any of them belong to her family? Approaching the table, she stared down at the confusion, then realized most of it dealt with the business of Knighton Trading.

A slow grin crossed her lips. If Griff insisted upon nosing about her house where he didn’t belong, perhaps she should do the same. Who knows? She might even be lucky enough to stumble across something that would reveal his employer’s true intentions. Then she could go to Papa with her suspicions, and he’d have to listen.

She glanced over at the closed door to the servants’ stairs and hesitated. She wouldn’t want him to find her here alone, not after what he’d threatened.

Still, it had only been a short while since she’d seen him last, and he always stayed away at least two or three hours. Surely she had time to do some snooping of her own and be gone before he returned. Feeling deliciously devious, she settled herself into his chair and picked up a sheaf of papers. She’d stay only a few minutes, that’s all. Just long enough to find out what he was up to.