Isla's room is empty

Adam sneaks back to Nathalie's room. There is an old chest of drawers in the corridor just outside her door and he hides the baby blue night dress and thong in it.

No point carrying them around all night. The bulge in his pocket had been far too suspicious.

He sees the Viking book outside Nathalie's door and wonders again who the gruff man fucking Lady Chapman is. Was he with Lady Chapman when she had been outside the door earlier? Or had he been already in her room, waiting patiently with the bondage gear?

He speculates. It's exciting. He knows he'll never be able to see Lady Chapman in the same light again.

He makes his way through the corridors to the East Wing and down the stairs to the servants' quarters.

The corridors here are narrower and darker, and there are no pictures of famous ancestors on the walls. A faint smell of roast beef hangs in the air from the dinner that had been served earlier.

Adam sneaks past the half-open kitchen door where he worries the cook might still be cleaning up from the night's dinner preparations (although surely not at this late hour?). It is a short walk then to the maid's quarters.

And there - Isla's door.

No light shining through the cracks.

He checks his watch. 11:30. She is out in a pub or a club in town, he hopes. If so, she won't be back until the early hours of the morning.

He checks the corridor one more time, nervously, and then pushes the door open a crack.

The room looks empty. The bed is freshly made.

He pushes the door wider and slips inside.

Pauses. Looks around.

Isla isn't there. The light in the en-suite bathroom is turned off, and the cupboards and wardrobes are illuminated only by the faint moonlight passing in through the window.

Relief surges through him, followed by the dull throb of sexual excitement.

Nathalie would soon be at his mercy. All he needs to do is steal the clothing and get out of here.