Chapter Eight

P hilippa had begged off dinner that evening, pleading a headache and staying her room while Elizabeth dined with her uncle. It wasn't only because of what had transpired between them earlier that day, though it certainly played a part. If she meant to continue her employment, her infatuation with him—and that was all she was willing to allow it to be—had to end. The very idea that it might be something more than infatuation was surely the well-paved road to perdition.

Unlike his afternoon rides, dinner was regimented and structured. She knew, almost to the minute, how long he would be away from his chambers. And she needed to get back into that dressing room.

When she'd been in there during the afternoon, hiding behind the cheval mirror, something strange had occurred. A breeze. In a closed room with no windows and no chimney... and there had been a breeze. Not some cold spot like in ghost stories told to frighten children, but an honest to goodness breeze which had brought with it a somewhat musty air. There were no phantoms at Peregrine Hall, but had she been inclined to wager, she'd have put money on the presence of secret passages and priest holes.

Checking the corridor as she slipped out, she once more made the trek to the master suite. From there she let herself in and made directly for the dressing room. This time, she did not bother with the trunk that held Miss Hawley's belongings. Instead, she went immediately behind the mirror and began examining the wall. Running her fingertips over it, she tested every nook and cranny, every depression and protuberance. She had almost given up when something unexpected happened. It wasn't some sort of secret passage at all. Well, it was. But it was not the entrance to said passage.

She'd placed her hand over a small decorative medallion in the woodwork and felt that cool air on her fingertips. Standing on her toes, Philippa rose up just high enough to be able to see that there were holes in the medallion. Peepholes. A place for someone to observe whatever was occurring in the room beyond.

While it was disturbing enough to think that someone had been watching him dress and undress, that they might well have seen the intimate and highly improper interlude they had shared there, there was a more disturbing thought. Were there other such hidden devices in other rooms of the house? Was someone moving between the walls and spying on all of them?

Backing away from the horrifying discovery and what it could well signify, Philippa bumped into something quite large and very firm. Before she could scream, a hand came over her mouth, muffling any sound.

"If you scream, half the servants will come rushing in," warned an all too familiar and welcome voice. "We really must stop meeting in my private chambers, Miss Thomas. When you come here, you are playing with a fire that will burn us both."

Breathing a sigh of relief that it was him and not Mrs. Baynard or his valet, the tension just seeped from her body, leaving her all but limp against him. "I have a reason for being here," she said.

"I'm certain you do. I'm also certain it's not the one I'd wish for."

Philippa blushed, his meaning quite evident. "No. And with what I'm about to show you, you will understand why nothing of that nature can occur here ever again."

*

Devon's surprise at finding her there had been superseded by his pleasure at the prospect of having another stolen moment with her. Because he'd made a decision since the last time they'd been locked in his dressing room alone. Philippa Thomas would no longer be simply his niece's governess. He would make her his wife.

"Show me, and then there is a matter that we must discuss."

She walked over to the mirror and beckoned for him to follow. Together, they moved the heavy cheval looking glass to one side. Then she took his hand and placed it over a small carving on the wall. The cold draft was puzzling and alarming. "This is not an exterior wall. There should be no draft here."

"Look closely," she urged.

Devon leaned in, and what he saw made his blood run cold. There was a void behind that carving. And if there was a void and air was moving through it, that meant someone could come and go easily and spy on him. Spy on anyone in the house, potentially. Because if there was at least one, there would be more. And anyone who could slip secretly in and out of various rooms in the house clearly had terrible motives.

"I think," she said, "that this is how we've been hearing the humming. How the cold drafts have been created. And I think, wherever the entrance to this space is, that is how our phantom appears and disappears so mysteriously."

"This is dangerous. Clearly. We have no idea who is behind this. Suspicion is not enough. You will leave this matter be, and I will address it. I will not have you putting yourself in danger... Mrs. Hobson has been employed here longer than anyone else. I will speak to her about these insidious spaces. But in the meantime, this will be one place where no one will spy on us."

With that, Devon moved the heavy mirror back in place. He positioned it so that no one would be able to peer around it from their hiding place. For good measure, he draped a heavy cloak over the back of the mirror, the folds of it blocking any chance of observation.

"Now, Miss Thomas, that we are finally truly alone, there is a question I must ask you."

"Of course."

"Will you marry me?"