“Oh, dear Lord, yes, thank you,” she whispered.

“I heard that,” he growled.

With a step in the direction of the door, he tucked his shirt into his breeches and jerked his shirtsleeves and collar into place.

“There.” Combing his hair with his fingers, he inquired, “Do I look presentable, as the lord of the manor should?”

“For a lord of the manor who is without a decent valet to tend to his appearance, yes.”

“Or a decent wife, for that matter.”

Sophia watched him go, knowing he had intended the last comment to cut.

She retrieved his coat from where it had fallen from the settee and draped it over the back of a chair. Fastidiously, she straightened the cushions. Hearing the door open and voices, she waited to welcome whatever visitor might accompany Claxton over the threshold.

He reappeared alone.

“Who was it?” she inquired.

“A young man from the village. Mr. Kettle sent him to deliver the horse and sledge for us to use at our convenience.”

“How thoughtful of Mr. Kettle.”

“Well, it is our sledge and horse after all.”

“I assumed that. You gave the man a shilling, of course.” The words slipped out before she’d given them any thought, reminding her disturbingly of the way her mother used to speak to her father.

“Don’t play games with me, Sophia,” Claxton warned quietly, sending a chill through her. “Either you are my wife or you are not.”

“I’m not playing games,” she said. “Not the sort of games you imply. All I’m saying is there is no reason we must rush into a decision. Perhaps we should separate. Perhaps not. I don’t claim to know the answer, but there’s no reason we have to decide at this very moment.”

“Perhaps you’re correct,” he muttered darkly. “Heaven forbid we actually enjoy a pleasant Christmas together.”

“That’s not fair. Don’t use Christmas against me.”

“Better you learn now; I don’t play fair.” He lifted the teapot. Removing the lid, he peeked inside and sniffed suspiciously.

“It’s just tea,” she advised.

“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of,” he muttered.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He leaned toward her and with a wicked grin said, “It means I’m dumping out this swill and making a new pot.”

She’d known full well her tea wasn’t as good as her maid Mary’s at home, but for him to label her efforts as swill? She frowned in consternation but returned her attention to the quest.

“Claxton, where is the Evil Dark Spirit Room?”

He set down the teapot and tilted his head. “What did you say?”

Chapter Ten

Did you even bother to read what your mother wrote?” She held up the quest, exasperated. “The Evil Dark Spirit Room. It’s all in capitals, as if it is a rather formal designation. The. Evil. Dark. Spirit. Room.”

“If I told you, then I’d have to kill you.” He sauntered closer, looking dangerous and handsome. “I am rather inclined to strangle you right now.”

She threw him a distancing look. “I beg your pardon.”

“It’s quite the family secret.”

“Well?” she demanded urgently. “Tell me.”

“It’s all right here in front of you.” He rested his hand on the mantel.

“The great room is the Evil Dark Spirit Room?” She harrumphed, lowering the quest in disappointment. “That’s not very interesting.”

“No?” His hand moved to the right side of the mantel where the wall was overlaid with wood paneling. With his fingertips, he applied pressure to a narrow bit of decorative framing. With a click, a man-sized section of the wall released and shifted inward to reveal a darkened space behind.

“A secret passage,” she exclaimed. “Or a priest hole?”

“It’s the Evil Dark Spirit Room,” he quipped. Then more dramatically, “Enter if you dare.”

“Aha! That’s how you got inside the house the first night.”

His wry smile confessed all. How delightful! Of course, she hadn’t thought that the first night, but she did now.

“You go first,” she said, after lighting a lantern and handing it to him. “I’ll follow.”

Oh, how she wished Clarissa and Daphne were here to see. Her sisters shared her appreciation for games and adventure, and she’d much prefer their company to Claxton’s. Well, that wasn’t necessarily true, but it felt right to think it.

“Why me first? Are you afraid?” His query held a hint of the nefarious, as did his wicked expression.

A little ripple of excitement traveled through her at being the recipient of that wolfish stare. “Just cautious. Given our present circumstances, I wouldn’t be surprised if you wished to murder me.” Or seduced her. “I don’t want to find myself shut up in this wall.”

“Wouldn’t that be convenient?” He smiled devilishly. He stepped into the dark and disappeared. She followed him and bumped straightaway into his shoulder. “Careful, there are steps here, rather steep.”

His hand caught her arm just above the elbow, and she allowed it, appreciative of his guidance in the dark. Here, frigid air chilled her skin. Extremely narrow, the passage forced them to sidle along in close proximity, the duke a tall and tautly muscled presence beside her in the dark. He put off the most delicious heat, which kept her close. After just a few feet they arrived in a tiny, slightly more expansive space crudely finished and with a tiny door that she knew would lead to the outside of the house.

“This is it. The Evil Dark Spirit Room.” He crouched, because if he stood full upright, his head would strike the low ceiling. His breath puffed like smoke from his nostrils. “I could be wrong, but I believe we are looking for a loose stone, but please don’t get your hopes up. There may be nothing here for us to find.”

He stood behind her and directed the lamp’s light over the wall. Keenly aware of every brush of his clothing and his body against her, Sophia’s hands moved over the cold stone and mortar, seeking movement or imperfection. Her heart beat faster, nearly bursting with curiosity.

“Here, I think,” said Claxton, his voice low and sensual. His arm came around her, half of an embrace, to press his fingertips against a stone level with his chin. The rectangle shifted, emitting a soft grinding sound. “You do the honors.”

Sophia caught the edges of the stone and carefully pulled it out. Claxton lifted the lantern outside the resulting space.

An envelope lay inside, very much identical to the first.

Sophia gasped in pleasure. “How exciting. It’s like a voice from the past, Claxton, your mother’s. I’ve got chills. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly. “I do.”

“Aren’t you going to take it?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder. He stood close enough to kiss.

“You.” He did not smile. “You are the one who insisted on searching for the next quest, when I would have preferred other activities. It seems only right that you should claim it.”

Sophia ignored his comment and reached inside. After replacing the stone, they returned to the great room. She sought the warmth of the fire, relieved to again put a bit more space between herself and her maddeningly attractive husband.

Sophia peered down at the envelope. “When you and your brother played the game together, did you compete against one another or work together to complete the quests?”

Claxton crouched beside the settee and located its errant leg underneath. “It depended on our mood, really, whether we could suffer one another’s company for the day.”

“Oh, Claxton, let’s play lookabout. Let’s accomplish the quests and claim the treasure.”

He lifted the legless corner of the settee, and for the second time since arriving at Camellia House, he affixed the missing post into place. “Convince me.”

“I shouldn’t have to.” Sophia’s eyes widened in dismay, as if he were a clod for not immediately agreeing.

“After the state you left me in last night,” he muttered, but playfully, hoping to extend the agreeable mood between them, “I’m not inclined to do you any favors.”

Sophia’s lashes lowered against her cheeks and she blushed. “You wouldn’t be doing me, but yourself, a favor. Your mother wrote the clues. I think it would be wonderful to finish the game, no matter your age. As a tribute to her.”

He sank into the tufted armchair, extending his legs. “Likely we’d go through all the trouble only to find the next clue missing or destroyed. It’s been twenty years. Why don’t you come over here and sit with me.” He threw a wolfish glance down at his lap. “And we can discuss it.”

“As if I would truly come and sit in your lap,” she retorted, but softly and without anger.

“I have my own game of lookabout that I’d like to propose. One that involves you and me and a bed—and the only quest that in this moment I’m hoping to accomplish.”

There, he’d coaxed a smile. A big, shocked one with blushing cheeks to match.

“I want to play this version of the game,” she said, flapping the envelope in her hand.

He shrugged. “A man can hope.”

She glanced down at the quest. “We’ve already found the second quest. How will we know about the existence of the next if we don’t at least try?”

“For what reward? A petrified piece of peppermint or a shriveled orange? It’s cold anywhere but here beside the fire. Again, it’s been—”

She walked the perimeter of the room. “Twenty years, yes, I know. Come now, it is better than sitting here in this dark room all day dancing around the subject of things we’ve already discussed to death. It also takes my mind off worrying about Christmas and that we might not make it back to London in time.”