In truth, she had no idea of the time.
Simon shrugged. “Perhaps, like us, they fled Kitty’s court.”
They walked on; Simon steered her in a different direction to their usual route, she assumed so they could slip into the house unseen. They were still some way from the walls when they heard the thud of footsteps, then the rustle of leaves drawing nearer.
Simon halted; perforce she did, too, in the black shadows thrown by a tree. Silent and still, they waited.
A figure emerged some yards away, cutting down the narrow paths heading away from the house. He didn’t see them, but as he passed from shadow to shadow, they saw him.
Recognition was instant; as before the gypsy continued through the gardens as if he knew every inch of them.
When he was gone, and Simon urged her on, she whispered, “Who the devil is he? Is he really a gypsy?”
“Apparently he’s the leader of a band of gypsies that spends most summers camped nearby. His name’s Arturo.”
They’d nearly reached the house when Simon stopped again. She peered ahead, and saw what he had—the young gardener standing under a tree to their right, near a corner of the mansion. He wasn’t looking their way—he was watching the other face of the house, the one out of their sight. The one the gypsy, Arturo, had most likely come from.
The same wing of the house that contained the family’s private rooms.
Portia glanced at Simon. He looked down at her, then waved her on. The path they were on was lawn, as were most of the paths in the garden, perfect for moving along silently.
They rounded the corner they’d been making for; Simon opened a door and ushered her into a small garden hall. The instant he shut the door, she asked, “Why do you think the gardener’s boy’s out there?”
Simon looked at her, then grimaced. “He’s not a local—he’s one of the gypsies. Apparently he knows his plants—he often works here through the summers, helping with the beds.”
Portia frowned. “But if he was keeping watch for Arturo, why is he still there?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Taking her arm, Simon propelled her to the door. “Let’s get upstairs.”
They emerged into one of the minor corridors. No one was around. They strolled nonchalantly, but silently along. Both were used to country houses, to the subtle signs of where people were, the hum of distant conversation; all were presently lacking.
They came upon a candle left burning on a side table. Simon stopped. “Keep watch.”
He swiftly retied his cravat into something that, in the dim corridors, would pass muster if they met anyone.
They went on, but didn’t. When they reached the front hall, she murmured, “It really does look like everyone’s gone up.”
Which seemed odd; a clock they’d passed had given the time as not quite midnight.
Simon shrugged and steered her to the main stairs. They were halfway up when voices reached them.
“It’ll cause a scandal, of course.”
They both stopped, exchanged a glance. It was Henry who had spoken.
Simon moved to the balustrade and looked over; she moved to his side and did the same.
The library door was ajar; inside the room, they could see the back of an armchair, the back of James’s head, and his hand, resting on the chair’s arm, gently swirling a crystal glass holding amber liquid.
“The way it’s shaping, you’ll risk a far greater scandal if you don’t.”
Henry humphed. After a moment, he replied, “You’re right, of course. I just wish you weren’t, that there was some other way . . .”
His tone told them what—or rather who—was being discussed; as one, she and Simon turned and silently continued up the stairs.
In the gallery, he kissed her fingertips and they parted—no need for words.
Reaching her room without encountering anyone, she wondered what they’d missed. What Kitty had done to send everyone to bed early, and leave Henry and James discussing the relative merits of scandals.