Not much in his life was by his choosing, save this room, his private study. Every servant in Asquith Court knew not to enter without his express consent. Yet someone had, indeed, dared.
In truth, he hadn’t yet found anything missing, only items disturbed. Three days ago, the first indication had been the inkwell. The angle of it hadn’t been square to the corner of his desk, and it wasalwayssquare to the corner of his desk.
Every day since, he’d found a different item angled oddly. The only logical conclusion was that someone was rifling through his belongings in the night. The belongings, it was worth noting, of a marquess. Whatever this person was seeking, they would soon understand it wasn’t worth the price.
A slow, creaking noise sounded at the opposite end of the room. A sliver of light widened along its oak length as the door cracked open, and anticipation surged through him. In slipped a form so slight it could be mistaken for a passing shadow.
His heart accelerated into a gallop as the shadow crossed the room on footsteps that made not a sound. Eyes squinted, he attempted to make out any features or details of this person beyond their slight build. Dark trousers. Dark shirt. A lad, mayhap a hall or stable boy.
What stupid daring for a boy who only had everything to lose if he was caught. Which he was. Another sort of anger shot through Jamie. This time for the utter waste of a young life.
The lad stopped before an imposing cabinet and swung both doors wide. Fists planted on his hips, he looked up and down, evaluating its contents from top to bottom. Commandeering a nearby chair, he started at the top. Thoroughly,systematically, he searched the contents. Curious that.
Jamie kept quiet. Clearly, the lad was after a specific item. What could it be?
That cabinet contained naught more than century-old scientific journals, essays, treatises, bric-a-brac from various parts of the world, tomes about any number of subjects ranging from landscape gardening to the proper care of one’s livestock to Parliamentary procedure—such as the book on his lap—and a musty old blanket in the bottom drawer.
The lad was now refolding and replacing the blanket, which had made him sneeze twice. He pushed the cabinet doors shut, carefully, so as not to make a sound, and exhaled a sigh. That sigh held the frustration of the thwarted. He hadn’t found his prize.
On impulse, Jamie said, “If you would simply tell me what you’re searching for, mayhap I could be of some assistance.”
Though the room was lit only by a low fire in the hearth, he was able to catch the instant the lad’s body went rigid. Shoulders tensed, his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. A trio of heavy heartbeats thudded past before, at last, he turned.
The intruder had black hair pulled back and tied at the nape. Delicate chin and jaw. Red rosebud mouth. Smooth, dewy skin…
Shock traced through him. If he wasn’t very mistaken, this person was no lad, but was, in fact, a…woman.
She stared out at him from beneath straight black eyebrows. Firelight flickered and offered a glimpse of extraordinary blue depths. He might have expected fright or, at least, sheepishness, in those eyes, but standing before him was a woman decidedly unflinching and unapologetic.
The outrage that had grown too familiar these last few days surged. What audacity. “What are you looking to steal?” he asked in a tone that implied no quarter would be given.
“Steal?” Was that amusement he detected in her voice? “Nuthin’.”
“Then for what purpose have you been despoiling my study these last three nights?”
“Where do ye keep ’em?” she asked.
What a strange conversational turn. “Keep what?”
“Yer bottles o’ brandy. Or whate’er it is ye soak yerself in.”
“Bottles of—” Suspicion lifted its head. He sat forward and rested his hands on his knees, his entire being focused on this woman. “Who sent you?”
Her head cocked, surely a perfect mirror of his. “You know who.”
If he’d been a dog, his ears would have pricked forward at the sudden change in her speech. Notye know ’oo, butyou know who. She’d stopped dropping her aitches, going from Cockney to refined in an instant. Yet he detected an inflection within, too. A softness he couldn’t quite place.
That instant, he knew. “Nick.” His brother’s name had barely crossed his lips when the next question followed. “Why?”
“He hasn’t seen you in months.”
“It’s not unusual for us to go that long without seeing each other.” It was only the truth. Realization sank in. She’d been searching for bottles, which meant… “He thinks I’m drinking myself into the grave.”
“Aren’t you?”
At last, he recognized the accent hiding behind the woman’s perfect English.French.An intriguing detail, admittedly, but one he wouldn’t allow to divert him. “I was,” he admitted.
Why did he feel compelled to explain himself to this singular woman? He was a marquess. He need only explain himself to the king.
