Page 34 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

“Here you are,” Lady Thornbury said, leading Hardwicke into his chamber. “You must remember this room. You’ve stayed in it enough times.”

“Thank you,” Hardwicke replied with a nod. Lady Thornbury had always ensured he received the same accommodations since his first visit to their estate.

“I have to admit, after seeing your wife arrive separately, I despaired at the thought of seeing you.”

“Where is she, by the way?” Hardwicke asked, his eyes scanning the room.

It was neatly arranged, with only the trunks stacked by the side of the bed indicating someone was staying here.

He wondered, not for the first time, how Fiona would react to his arrival.

Would she be pleased to see him or irritated that she was now forced to share the room with him?

“There’s a Christmas Eve celebration in the ballroom. All the guests are there, busy dancing and chatting. They won’t miss me if I’m absent for a little while.” She toyed with a lock of her hair in a coquettish manner.

He felt an impulse to rush into the ballroom, to find his wife and bare his heart to her at that very moment.

But he glanced at himself. His traveling clothes were worn and rumpled, his hair disheveled, and every joint ached from the long, bitter ride.

“May I have a bath brought in?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” Lady Thornbury paused, her tongue flicking to wet the corner of her mouth. “Would you like some help with that?”

Hardwicke raised an eyebrow. “I am quite capable of bathing on my own, thank you.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, but we haven’t seen each other in such a long time. Don’t you want to spend some time with me… alone?”

She was clearly alluding to their previous liaison, and Hardwicke gritted his teeth. “You are right. It has been some time since that indiscretion between us, Paula. Surely you do not still dwell on it.”

She flipped her hair back, a wicked glint in her eye.

“Every night.” Then she pivoted and stalked toward the door.

“If you change your mind and decide to find your way into my bedroom, you know how to use the secret passages. Just be careful not to run into my husband; he might be using the passages to visit your wife.”

Hardwicke clenched his fists. The notion that Fiona might already be entertaining the baron struck him like a dagger to the chest. Yet still, he wanted her back.

They had an agreement. If she had indeed fallen into the baron’s arms already, he could not fault her.

After all, he had been the one to propose it.

He could only hope she would take him back.

He stripped down, laid out his clean clothes on the bed, and climbed into the tub once it was brought up. He stretched his legs, letting the heat work into his muscles which were stiff from the ride.

As he relaxed in the bath, his aching joints found some relief. He soaped his hair and poured water over his head but then strange noises penetrated the sound of running water.

He stilled.

A faint thump echoed down the corridor. Then another.

He frowned and sat up in the bath, water sloshing over the edges.

Shouts followed, muffled but sharp. Was that a woman’s scream? The sound seemed to come from somewhere far away.

He stood at once, water spilling over the side of the tub.

Reaching for a towel, he dried himself quickly, pulled on his breeches, and cracked the chamber door an inch to peer out.

Two rugged, tall, unkempt men walked down the corridor, carrying silver, silk sheets stuffed with other items and weapons.

Another dragged a vase from its stand and smashed it for sport.

Hardwicke pulled back at once, heart pounding.

Brigands were inside the house.

How had that happened? And was robbery their only goal?

Fiona!

She was in the ballroom. Had the scream he’d heard earlier come from there? Was she alive? Was she safe?

He had to get to her.

His eyes flicked to the tapestry on the far wall, and his mind sharpened.

The secret passage.

He stalked to it, sliding a hand beneath the fabric until he found the hidden panel. With a firm push, the door swung inward, revealing a narrow, shadowed corridor.

Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulders and down his chest. His skin was slick and clammy from the steam; he would need time to dry before he could don his stockings and boots. For now, he threw on a shirt, not bothering to tuck it in, and slid a dagger into his waistband behind his back.

Voices approached in the corridor—too close for comfort. No time for drying, no time for stockings or shoes.

He snatched his pistol, hurried into the secret passage, and stepped inside just as the handle of his chamber door rattled.