Swiftly, she debated. She couldn’t search every gentleman’s room, but she could search the rooms of the critical four.
She’d seen Penelope’s sketch of the house; closing her eyes, Constance called it to mind. Edward’s room was the farthest away, around the corner at the end of the gentlemen’s wing and along the family wing. She’d start there.
She didn’t have time to reassess; if she was to do this, it had to be done now.
Quickly and quietly, she walked down the corridor. Nearing the corner around which she’d intended to turn, she saw that the door to Percy’s room—which faced directly up the corridor—was ajar.
She halted and stared at the slightly open door.
It was possible a maid or footman hadn’t closed it properly.
She debated for a second more, then crept closer. She put out one hand and gently eased the door farther open. It swung noiselessly; she poked her head around and peered inside.
And saw no one and nothing out of place.
The tension that had gripped her abruptly drained away.
Then she heard the scrape of a drawer.
Someone was in Percy’s bedroom. Given the hour, it wouldn’t be him.
Caution tugged at her, urging her to back away, but she couldn’t leave without knowing…
Stealthily, she edged around the door. Holding her breath, she crept across the carpet; placing her slippered feet with care, she crossed the anteroom to where she could see past the dividing wall and into Percy’s bedroom.
To the tallboy against the wall. The same tallboy in which they’d found Glynis’s letters in the top right-hand drawer.
Edward Mandeville stood with that same drawer open, peering inside.
The mirror sitting on top of the tallboy gave Constance a clear view of Edward’s face. He was frowning down at where the letters had been.
From the fingers of his left hand, a gold chain hung, a lady’s ring dangling pendant-like on the chain.
Constance’s lungs seized. She took a step back.
Edward looked up—into the mirror. His eyes clashed with hers.
For a split second, they both froze.
Then Constance whirled and fled.
She ripped open the door and raced into the corridor.
Her full skirts tangled about her legs. She drew in a breath.
Then Edward was on her. He slapped a hard palm across her lips, yanking her head up and back against his shoulder, smothering her scream. His other arm wrapped like a steel band around her waist, and despite her height and robust strength, Constance couldn’t escape.
She tried kicking back at his legs and frantically squirming.
Edward proved far stronger than she’d imagined. He held her easily.
“You fool,” he hissed into her ear. “Now, it’ll have to be you, too.”
Constance heaved forward, but he countered the movement. Then he started to drag her back down the west wing.
Furious—and increasingly terrified—Constance fought every step of the way. One of her arms was clamped to her side, the other hampered by her reticule; she violently shook her wrist to make the reticule’s strings slip over her hand. Finally, the reticule fell, and she had one hand free.
She tried to tug Edward’s hand from her lips. Unfortunately, being a practical lady, she kept her nails neat and short—they were useless for scratching and inflicting damage, at least damage enough to make Edward let go.
