The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Ten
L
oren smacked his gloves against his hand, cursing the day he’d ever gotten involved with the French, and in turn, the Slavs, and frankly, the entire bloody war. As vile a group of undesirables as he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. Crossing Markov was out of the question. Who knew how many others would surface if the man met an untimely demise?
He took the servant stairs closest to the family wing, irritated he’d missed a good portion of last night’s parlor event. Furious that any ground he’d gained with Lady Maudsley was probably now lost.
If his own situation wasn’t so desperate, Loren would be inclined to sit back and enjoy the show. The new Maudsley sniffing after her while the sidelined marquis seethed and chomped at his bit. It was an enticing image.
Unfortunately, by the time Loren had ventured back into the parlor, long after midnight, Lady Maudsley and Brockway were nowhere to be seen. Talk twittered of the man’s abrupt departure, hauling the lady out with him. There was even implication he’d actually thrown her over his shoulder.
Rage simmered below Loren’s skin, making it itch. He turned the corner for the hall to his chambers. A soft noise halted him. He ducked in a shadowed corner and waited.
Lady Maudsley appeared, her long mahogany locks streaming scandalously to her waist, stealing guiltily to her chamber door, clinging to her loosed frock as she peered around before disappearing inside. The turn of the lock sounded curiously loud in the wee morning hours. His gut clenched, spiked his anger to something dangerously murderous. He dipped his hand into his pocket, reaching for the pistol he’d removed upon returning from the unsatisfactory meeting with Markov.
Fury blinded his stride to her door. He raised his leg, prepared to smash through the oak—
“Papa?” Winslow’s quiet hesitance pierced through the fog.
Loren blinked, then lowered his foot, his harsh breaths palpable and audible over the pounding blood in his ears. Slowly, he turned, facing his son. He was small for his age, and shy. A sweet boy of eight, he was the light in a long, dark tunnel.
Loren stepped back from an invisible shield. “Hello, Winslow. ’Tis awfully late for you to be about.”
“Yes, Papa. But I haven’t seen you since you returned to the country. I missed you.”
Loren’s gaze swung to Lady Maudsley’s locked door and back again.
He flexed his fingers to still the tremors and, with as much calm as he could muster, laid a gentle hand on Winslow’s shoulder and led him back to his chamber without a backward look.
