Was Whit still in there?
She peaked through the crack of the door, and discovered that yes, he was—the blighter.
For a man who wasn’t there to enjoy himself, he was doing a suspiciously realistic impression of a dedicated reveler. He was drunk, she noted with disgust, and while that may have been unavoidable if he wanted to gain the group’s trust and approval, she was certain he needn’t look so bloody happy about it.
He was slouched, grinning rather stupidly, in an ancient highback chair with his cravat gone and his coat unbuttoned. He held both a wine bottle and the rapt attention of several men as he slurred out the tale of the man-eating boar he’d hunted in France. Nearly lost his life to the beast, she heard him say, and she wondered idly if she’d lose her dinner. If there was an ounce of truth in that story, she’d eat her blue chemise.
It was better that he have a fine time of it, she reminded herself. She could have found him sitting apart, watching the baron with disgust and contempt…and wondering how he might go about removing the Cole family from everything, and everyone, associated with Baron Eppersly.
Swallowing an irritated grunt, she turned back to her room. It wouldn’t be more than another hour before they began to pass out, but she’d wait two just to be safe.
She waited three hours with the idea that, in this house, it was better to be very safe than very wrong.
She left her room with a plan of sorts in mind. She’d try the door to the study first, and if it proved locked, she’d make a trip around the side of the house to see if she couldn’t shimmy up to the window. If she couldn’t—and having no shimmying experience to speak off, there was a very good chance that would be the case—or the window was locked as well, she’d simply have to find a way into the study during the day. The very idea of such an attempt had her stomach twisting into knots. It’d be so much easier to be caught during the day, and if her uncle found out she’d been snooping about his study, he’d…
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it right now.
She crept down the steps, taking care to skip the boards that creaked. In all probability, she could stomp down the narrow passage with no more stealth than a herd of elephants and no one would be the wiser. The guests had fallen asleep too drunk, and the servants too exhausted to notice, let alone care that someone was moving about in the house. Still, it never paid to take chances in her uncle’s home.
To her immense relief, she found the door to the study unlocked. Whether he’d been too drunk to remember to lock it himself, or was simply in the habit of assuming no one would dare enter without invitation, she didn’t know. Having made a point over the years of avoiding her uncle’s favorite haunt, she’d never before had reason to test the door handle.
Twisting it now, she pushed open the door just enough to allow her to slip inside. She closed the door behind her, then leaned back against it with an enormous sigh.
She’d done it. She was in her uncle’s study. She’d actually found the courage.
Remembering that her uncle’s study was not a place she generally cared to be, she pushed off from the wall and set her mind to the task at hand.
Like most studies, the room was decorated and furnished for the comfort of a man seeing to his business: dark masculine colors, large oak desk, plush leather chairs. But since her uncle rarely bothered himself with anything as mundane as seeing to business, where there would have been bookcases in other studies, there were hunting trophies in this one.
Bucks, does, foxes, and birds of every variety were stuffed and mounted along the walls like a macabre parade of disembodied heads. Mirabelle tried to ignore them as she lit a pair of candles on the desk, but there were so many. She felt a lick of nerves and had the irrational image of accusing glass eyes glaring at her back.
She flipped through a pile of papers and tried to not let the fact that Whit had been right—she hadn’t the least idea of what she was looking for—discourage her. She was so caught up in not paying attention to her nagging doubts, and not paying attention to the gruesome room around her, that she failed to notice the footsteps in the hall until they were nearly at the door.
She whirled, stunned as the footsteps came to a stop.
Dear Lord, she hadn’t a key to lock the door.
Near to panicking, she grabbed a hideous brown vase off the mantel and positioned herself behind the door just in time. It opened slowly and quietly.
She lifted the vase. She’d knock whoever it was over the head and hope it rendered them unconscious, or at least stunned enough for her to make her escape without being seen.
A foot appeared. With a prayer that she had the timing right, she stepped forward to bring the vase down.