Page 4 of What a Lord Wants

The grand entry hall was filled with the same flurry of activity as the portico, with just as many paintings and furnishings coming and going. Footman scurried about, giving conflicting orders to the porters who roamed the room like a confused army, not knowing which pieces to grab up and which to leave behind.

A short man dressed in a black uniform with fastidiously combed hair stood in the middle of the foyer and smack in the midst of the fray, directing the movers with agitated gestures of his arms and shouts above the din. The man who was supposedly in charge.

She waved to catch his attention from across the room, unable to wind her way any closer. “I’m here on behalf of the Duchess of Trent to pick up the marquess’s gift to Lord and Lady Robert Carlisle.”

The man scowled. “Pardon?”

“A painting by Vincenzo that his lordship is giving them.”

Exasperation shone on the man’s grimacing face as he cupped his hand behind his ear to hear better. The scrutinizing gaze he moved over her narrowed in disapproval. “The delivery entrance is in the rear!”

“Painting!” she yelled to correct him, drawing the attention of the men walking past. “Vincenzo!”

The man’s eyes widened and his face paled, as if she’d just admitted to attempting to kill the king. He charged toward her across the hall, clearly agitated and not caring that he’d stepped in front of the porters and disrupted the flow of furniture and artwork out of the house.

“No,” he nervously—and angrily—chastised her. “No, no,no! You are in the wrong place. Howdareyou come here?”

Thatstunned her. Her mouth fell open. “But-but the painting—”

“Nothere. Noteverhere.” He took her arm and drew her none too kindly to a tall table pushed up against the wall near the door. Muttering to himself about scandal, lunatics, and Italian painters, he opened the small drawer, took out a calling card, and scribbled onto the back of it with quill and ink. Then he shoved it into her hand. “This is where you need to go. You are not welcome here.”

As Eve stared at him, flabbergasted and speechless that she would be treated this way by a member of the marquess’s household, he pushed her out the front door and onto the portico.

“Good day!” The man shot her a cutting glower over his shoulder, then he spun on his heel and marched back inside, wiping his hands as he went.

What on earth had she done to warrant that?Oh, that devil!She had half a mind to go charging back inside and give him a talking down that—

A bubble of laughter escaped her.

Her hand flew to her lips in surprise. Goodness! How boring and painfully dull had her life become if this was the most excitement she’d had in nearly a month, for heaven’s sake?

Thatcertainly needed to change.

She returned to the waiting carriage, where a wide-eyed Penelope had been watching events unfold.

“The painting is elsewhere,” Evelyn explained succinctly as the tiger held open the door for her. But she didn’t step inside the carriage. Instead, she frowned at the direction scribbled on the card. “This is all the way down in Chelsea.” At least an hour round trip and too far to fit in before the breakfast, especially since she now had to change.

An idea formed in her head…a wonderfully devilish idea!

“Just as well that it’s too far out of the way, then.” Penelope fussed with her skirts. “We’re already late. If we hurry, we can be there by—”

“You go on without me.” The words flew out, the outburst born of pure survival instinct. Because one more boring afternoon would end her.

Penelope blinked. “Withoutyou?”

“Yes. Well…” Her mind whirled to make her excuse sound convincing. “I can’t attend the breakfast in a dirty dress, can I? There’s no point in both of us missing it. So you go on ahead without me and give my apologies to our friends. I’ll hire a hackney and—”

“A hackney!” Penelope was aghast at the idea.

“They’re perfectly safe.” Especially when she didn’t want to take the Winslow carriage and risk her father finding out where she’d been. “I hire them all the time.” Or at least she used to. Until her wrecked elopement with Burton Williams ruined everything. “I’ll hire one to take me to Chelsea, where I’ll pick up the painting, then I’ll go home to change and join you at Lady Bertram’s for the end of the breakfast. Our friends won’t leave before five o’clock anyway, especially if Cicely’s telling stories about her brothers’ days at Oxford.”

Penelope bit her lip. “I don’t know…”

“I’ll go straight there and back, and I’ll be at breakfast before they serve the cake. Besides,” she added, only feeling a tiny prick of guilt at using the duchess to gain a small bit of freedom, “I’ve promised Her Grace that I would take care of this today.”

She waited anxiously, ready to shoot down whatever new objection Penelope might raise. A whole hour to herself—she could barely dare hope! No pitying looks from her family, no prying glances from her friends, no gossipy old hens just waiting to cut her for being different from the rest of society. An hour in which she could be completely alone, free from the suffocating rules of proper behavior. And have the chance to experience some sort of adventure, however slim.

Exactly the kind of fun she hadn’t dared attempt since her return from Scotland. For the past two months she’d been forced to play the role of a perfectly proper young lady. A lady who would never elope with a man or do all the daring antics she and Mariah had committed in the past. One who was slowly going mad with boredom.