In a blink of an eye, he had the box from her hands.
One moment she had been heartily enjoying her tirade, which she had punctuated with sharp little jabs of her finger to his chest, and the next he was standing several feet away, holding her box, absently rubbing his chest, and grinning like the fool she had just accused him of being.
“God, you’re fun to rile,” he laughed. “And so delightfully easy. You’ll believe near to anything, won’t you?”
Mirabelle felt a brief flash of relief that he hadn’t meant his earlier accusation, but it was almost immediately replaced by indignation at the insinuation that she was gullible, and that was very promptly pushed aside by dread at the thought of her blue chemise. Whit’s fingers moved to idly play with the strings keeping the box closed, and her emotions shifted yet again, to something dangerously close to panic. She took several deep breaths to calm herself. The effects were negligible.
“What is it in this box that has you so jumpy?” Whit asked, toying with the knot.
She was mortified, but she’d submit to every torture known to man before she let Whit know it. “Good Lord, cretin, how did you ever convince your nanny to let you out of your gowns?”
Whit shrugged nonchalantly and she fought the urge to slap him, and blue satin be damned. “One of the benefits of being so charming. You get to wear what ever you like.”
“This is beneath even you.”
Whit raised the box to his ear and shook it. “Actually, I can’t imagine anyone it wouldn’t be beneath, but I find my curiosity has gotten the better of me. I’ve never seen you look so guilty.” He frowned thoughtfully and gave the box another shake. “So what is it, imp? It’s soft…rather light…”
“I’m humbled by your brilliance, your lordship,” Mirabelle drawled. “It’s soft, it’s light, and I’ve just come from the modiste’s.”
Whit shook the box again.
“The modiste’s, Whit. It’s cloth, it’s light, and I was…uncomfortable. Must I spell it out for you?”
By the glint in his eye, there was clearly no need.
“On the contrary, I just wanted to see if you could bring yourself to say the word.”
She glared at him.
“You can’t, can you? Very well, I shall do the dirty for you.” He wiggled his eyebrows ridiculously and, in his best rake’s voice, whispered, “Unmentionables.” Ignoring her eye roll, he continued on in his normal tone. “Silly name for a garment, or a set of garments as the case may be. Why go through the bother of naming them, then deciding they can’t be mentioned, then mentioning them as unmentionables, as if that somehow negates the fact they were just mentioned?”
“Yes, it’s a fascinating puzzle. May I have my box back now?”
“Of course not, this is far too great a prize to relinquish without payment.”
“I’ve already paid for what’s in it.”
“You haven’t paid me.”
“It doesn’t belong to you,” she managed to spit out through gritted teeth.
“Nonetheless, I have the box now, and for its return I require recompense.”
“I cannot begin to imagine…”
“No? How sadly uncreative of you. I can think of at least a dozen varieties of payment, some of them quite interesting.”
“What is it you want, Whit?”
He settled the box securely under his arm. “A favor,” he replied clearly. Mirabelle couldn’t help but notice his tone and expression had suddenly become rather serious.
“What is the nature of this favor?” she asked suspiciously.
“Its nature is pleasant enough, just not honorable.” He shot her a grin. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
“Are you asking me?”
“Not really. I want you to tell me what Kate has been doing at night.”
Her face must have shown her shock because he continued on. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not suggesting the sort of behavior you’re clearly thinking of. She’s been writing, and I want to know what, and to whom.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Go on.”
He shrugged. “Not much else to tell. I sometimes see a light coming from under her door in the small hours of the morning. I want to know what she’s doing.”
Mirabelle wanted to know what he was doing up in the small hours of the morning, but thought it best not to ask. Despite Whit’s earlier assertion, she was creative enough to think of a few reasons he might be sneaking in at dawn, and they were nothing she cared to dwell on.
“Why don’t you simply ask her?” she inquired instead.
“I have. She claims she can’t sleep some nights and keeps busy writing letters.” He scowled absently. “I don’t believe it.”
Neither do I, she thought. “Kate really isn’t one for lying.” Mostly. “And she is a faithful correspondent.”
Whit shook his head. “I need to know for certain.”
“You’re asking me to spy on my friend, your sister.”
“Yes.”
“Only you aren’t really asking.”
“No.”