When he reached the top of the stairs, he heard the muffled speech of a familiar voice. He turned the corner and then leaped back behind the wall.
Peeking around the wall, he watched Miss Darling shove a key into his stepbrother’s door. He almost stepped out, revealing himself. What was she doing? None of the doors were locked. What was Gable doing here with her? Were they trying to rob the place?
When she opened Cavendish’s door and looked inside, while Gable kept an eye out, Gray had had enough.
“What are you two doing?”
At the sound of his voice, Will Gable jumped backward and looked about to fall faint. But Gray barely noticed him. His hooded eyes were fastened on Miss Darling.
“Did you ask me to dance to get rid of me?” If she answered yes, he would have known that he was wrong about her. Her kind words about him being like Romeo weren’t sincere.
“No, and I don’t want you thinking that of me. I would never disrespect talent like yours. I watched until my opportunity almost slipped away.”
“What opportunity?” he asked, stepping closer, without looking away.
She stared at him for a moment before she answered. “To check your seventy-two doors.”
“Check them for what?”
“My home.”
Chapter Eight
Aria followed themarquess to a small terrace on the third landing. At his insistence she sat in one of the two delicate wooden chairs overlooking the crashing waves below. The heavy woolen blanket the marquess spread over her didn’t warm her as much as the blood rushing through her veins at his closeness when he leaned down to tuck her in. She worried that he could hear her heartbeat through her flesh and bone. It was all his dancing. It had gone straight to her head.
She looked up at Will to get her thoughts off the marquess above her against the backdrop of a starry, velvety sky. There was room for a third chair to be carried in for Will. But no offer was made by the marquess.
“Again, I would caution you not to speak of this so freely—and especially don’t go running around the halls checking doors or I might not be able to save you from the stake.”
The stake? Aria ran the back of her hand across her forehead. Did he mean, like, herburningat the stake? Oh, she really didn’t like the eighteenth century.
“You can speak freely to me out here,” the marquess offered.
Could she? What choice did she have? From the beginning, he claimed to have seen her arrival.
“Was there a door on your side?” he asked. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to put that together since she’d been checking doors for a way back. But in all the days she’d known Will, he hadn’t asked her. In fact, he didn’t ask her anything about the future or how she’d gone back through time. Because he didn’t believe her? Could she blame him?
“Yes,” she answered. “The door to the building. I was locking it.”
“So, there’s a key?” he asked.
Did he really believe her? It was such a huge relief that she relaxed in her chair, despite the turbulent waters below.
“Yes,” she told him. Then caught her breath at the magnificent beauty before her. The marquess was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. She wasn’t usually moved by such a thing, but she remembered the myriad expressions that painted him into masterpieces when he danced. He was trained in ballet. Yes, it showed. She hadn’t lied, she’d watched him spin and perform the immensely difficult grand jeté three times in the ballroom downstairs. In her future, he’d get every audition and would wind up on Broadway in no time.
“Miss Darling would like to keep the key in her possession, my lord,” Gable said.
“Who is discussing taking it from her?” the marquess asked coolly, sparing him a glance. Without waiting for an answer, he returned his attention to her. “I have no intention of taking your key, Miss Darling.”
She nodded, believing him and pulled the key from a pocket in her sleeve. “It’s one of those—”
“Master keys,” he finished for her, not remembering where he had heard the term. He reached for it.
“I’m told it’s made of real gold,” she told him while he examined it.
He blinked his somber gaze from the key to her. “Who told you that?”
Aria looked at him. His tone had changed. He sounded slicker, more doubtful. “The owner of the key, Mrs. B…Blagden, my—”