Airborne - The Hanover Restoration by Blair Bancroft Page B

present eyesight was not adequate for noting any hints of grim satisfaction.
    “There is another matter, however,” I said. “I assume you are aware Lady Thistlewaite and her guests will not arrive until tomorrow?”
    “Yes, my lady.”
    “I had hoped for a tour of the house this morning and find myself frustrated that I am unable to picture where our guests will be housed. I would like you to sketch the layout of the house and indicate where their rooms will be. My desk can provide you with paper and a level drawing surface.”
    With smooth grace—I swear the woman ran on ball feet, like Roberta—Mrs. E did as she was told, returning presently with a sketch almost as neat and precise as an architectural drawing. The house, as I suspected, was a quadrangle, its length twice the distance of its sides, with a courtyard in the center. Her drawing was of the second story above the old the abbey, the floor containing bedchambers for family and guests.
    “You are here,” she said, pointing to a corner room on the short side of the rectangle. “Lord Rochefort is here.” She indicated the corner room on the opposite end of the east front. Between you are two dressing rooms, two bathing chambers, and a sitting room, which you share.”
    A shared sitting room—I had no idea. But I was as capable as Mrs. E of keeping a straight face.
    “The long sides of the house, front and back, are kept for guests, my lady. Lord Rochefort’s father was a great one for entertaining. Ladies to the front, gentlemen to the rear, with couples housed as convenient. After the late baron’s death, Lady Rochefort moved to the corner suite on the west side.” Mrs. E pointed to a suite only slightly smaller than my own. “However,” she added, “this time she has taken the central suite on the south front, leaving the entire west wing for the guests who are arriving next week.”
    I filed that away in my not-too-bright head for further thought. “And her guests?” I asked.
    “They have been assigned rooms next to Lady Thistlewaite,” she returned blandly.
    “On which side?”
    “The east side, my lady.”
    Next to my husband. Of course. “I can see you have everything well in hand. Is there anything else you wish to discuss, Mrs. Biddle?”
    I would swear she hesitated for a moment before pronouncing a crisp, “No, my lady.” Her curtsey was infinitesimally lower than the others she had given me, and then she was gone. I had little time to contemplate either our conversation or the problem of my vision, for Tillie arrived with the tea tray, and I assuaged my anxious stomach with cucumber and watercress sandwiches, biscuits dotted with currants, and tiny tea cakes with lemon frosting. The tea was an exquisite flavor I had not tasted before. I drained the pot dry.
    Except for another visit from the doctor, who assured me, rather too heartily, that my vision would improve, I slept until Rochefort appeared just before dinner. He said all the right things. And nothing. I was injured, he was injured, but he nimbly avoided all talk of spies, assassins, rifles, or mortal enemies. For all he told me, the fire in the stables was the result of spontaneous combustion, our wounds from a bolt out of the blue.
    I didn’t feel strong enough to challenge him, but I would. Oh yes, I would.
    After devouring every morsel of my dinner, I let Tillie settle me for sleep. Tomorrow, I vowed, tomorrow would be better. In spite of being bedridden, I would be able to face Lady Thistlewaite and her guests with equanimity.
    Ha! snorted my inner voice and my common sense in unison.
    But I slept well. Until the screams began.

 
    Chapter 8
     
    At first, when I woke to the dim light of pre-dawn, I blamed my sore head—even a good thump against my goose-feather pillow still hurt. And then I heard it. Screams—shrieks of terror—echoing dow n the corridor outside my room.
    I warbled a faint cry of my own as a giant shadow catapulted from a chair near the