Alex took pity on him. “I’m sure she was speaking theoretically, Whit. Passionately, I’ll grant, but you did interrupt one of her great pleasures.”
“Knife throwing,” Whit muttered. “I can’t fathom why you’ve allowed it.”
“It was a compromise. One of a great many made to keep her safely distanced from my work with William.”
“She knows of that?”
“She does, and a bloody load of trouble it’s been too,” Alex grumbled.
“Then why did you tell her?”
“I didn’t, though I suspect I would have eventually. I wouldn’t care to keep something like that from her.”
“How did she come to know of your work, then?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll relate it some other time.” Alex turned to leave. “I need to check on Sophie. Like as not, she’s halfway up a ladder by now, hanging garlands.”
By nine o’clock that evening, Mirabelle was starving, exhausted, and immensely grateful that Lady Thurston hosted only one ball during her pre-Season house party rather than her famous three as she did during her larger end-of-Season gathering.
She had worked through the noon meal, as well as tea, assisting Lady Thurston in everything from decorations to seating choices for the meal. Mirabelle didn’t mind in the least, but she was now more than ready for the chance to sit down and eat.
She stopped by her room for a quick wash and change. Most of the guests would be in the parlor by now, waiting for the announcement that dinner was served. She was finishing her hair, repinning the parts that had fallen during the day, when she saw it—the slightest movement on the bed.
It was nothing more than a twitch of her pillow, but it had her arms falling to her sides and her mouth opening in surprise.
Someone had put something in her bed, and she’d bet her last pence she knew who that someone was. More amused than annoyed, she stalked over to pull the bed linens away.
She very nearly laughed at the small frightened lizard cowering under her pillow.
“Oh, for goodness sake.”
If Victor Jarles had been a mischievous young man rather than a cruel one, she might have brought the small reptile back into his room to lay under his blankets. It would have been a grand laugh for the both of them in the morning. But the little monster would likely kill the thing as not, so she fetched a basin and towel instead.
“Poor little thing,” she murmured, scooping up the lizard and gently placing him in the deep bowl. “Scared half to death, I wager. Not to worry, I’ll set you free.”
“Who the devil are you talking to?”
Mirabelle started at the sound of the masculine voice and glanced over to see a very confused looking Whit standing in the open doorway.
“You startled me. I didn’t hear you knock,” she said as she draped the towel over the basin.
“Likely because I didn’t. Your door was open.” Whit made a quick search for witnesses in the hallway before entering the room and closing the door behind him. “What have you got there?”
“A very frightened lizard I found hiding in my bed. A gift from young Victor Jarles, I suspect.”
Whit crouched to peek under the towel.
“Huh.” he murmured, obviously unimpressed. “That’s a bit disappointing, isn’t it? I’d have expected more from the likes of him.”
“I’m terribly sorry he failed to live up to your expectations,” Mirabelle drawled. “Perhaps you could take him aside and give him a few pointers.”
“The idea has merit,” he said, returning to a stand. “If one is going to be a troublesome little boy, after all, one ought to make the effort to do it properly.”
“He’s not little,” she grumbled. “And he’d not troublesome. He’s just trouble.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Trouble enough to call a lady names?”
“Would that elevate him to the status of a properly troublesome little boy in your estimation?”
“Mirabelle.”
She brushed an errant lock of hair out of her eyes and stood. “Let it alone, Whit. And for heaven’s sake, get out of my room before someone comes along and makes a fuss.”
“Door’s closed. Who’s to know?”
“My eight o’clock assignation. He’s the jealous sort, and generally quite prompt.”
“He’d be generally quite dead if he were real,” Whit only half jested. He ignored her dramatic eye roll in favor of holding out his arm. “May I escort you to dinner?”
It would be nice, she thought, to be seen on Whit’s arm. But it wasn’t appropriate. “You can’t, I’m not the highest ranking woman in the house.”
“I can do what I like, but if it makes you uneasy—may I at least escort you to the parlor?”
“I’d like that,” she replied with a broad smile. “But check the hallway first, won’t you? And if anyone should ask, we ran into each other on the back stairs.”