Bogged down by teaching commitments for the past while, I haven’t been able to do much work on my WIP: my comedic Regency mystery. To get myself back in the mood, I thought I’d post an excerpt on #teasertuesday!
This scene is the one I am currently working on: Sir Milburn has shown up in Caroline’s room in the middle of the night..
This excerpt takes place mid scene.
“What now?” I asked, with limited patience. “Has Lord Wavelry drunk too much Madeira again?”
“Actually, he’s gone.”
“Gone!” I laughed. I couldn’t believe it, so I repeated it: “Gone!”
“Yes, gone. And I implore you, again, Caro, to keep your voice down.”
“What madness is this?”
“You may well ask.”Aggrieved, he ran his hands through his hair, messing it even more becomingly. “Somehow in spite of being guarded by myself and four of the best Runners in the country, he managed to give us the slip. He’s eluded us all. We can’t find him.”
“Lord Waverly. He escaped from my custody. About 21 hours ago. While we were in Hampshire.”
“What?” I was getting annoyed with my own repetitiveness. But—honestly: what? “How is that possible?”
“We underestimated him, that’s how. We thought he was drunk and he fooled us.”
Sir Milburn stirred impatiently.
“Might we sit down to discuss this, Caro? This could take a while.”
So saying he stepped away and pulled the chair away from the vanity table.
“Uh—” I replied, hesitantly. He was supposed to be leaving, wasn’t he?
“Go on,” he insisted, gesturing at the chair. “You sit here and I’ll sit over here.” He now took the chair that belonged to the scroll top desk and placed it so it faced the other. Then he looked at me expectantly.
We were each deliberately ignoring the bed, a vastly more comfortable place to settle—.
“All right,” I sighed.
We sat—formally, primly—like two people meeting each other at a Barrister’s office—which was absurd. Just absurd. This was my bedchamber. It was the middle of the night. On top of that, we were dressed like a couple of refugees, with me in my get-up and he, with no jacket, no waistcoat, no cravat; a torn shirt. And no boots either, I realized. Just stockinged feet.
The better to sneak into my room with, I presumed.