Downstairs, he went to Barrington's study. He pushed aside the panel, exposing the wall safe. And just as he'd observed them from their meeting, the numbers fell into place beneath his fingers, the small door silently swinging open.
He pushed aside the odd pieces of jewelry, a thickly wrapped bundle of hundred-pound notes, other documents, and finally found the draft. He tucked it inside his shirt, then closed the safe. Let Barrington wonder what had happened to the draft.
* * *
"Where did you find this?" The black eye-patch fluttered in Jerrold Barrington's fingers.
His housekeeper, Mrs. Evers, shifted uneasily. "It was in his room, sir."
"And nothing else?"
"As I said, your lordship. It's as if he's disappeared." The woman's smile disappeared at the look in his eyes.
"A man doesn't simply vanish without a trace. We're not talking about ghosts or spirits, Mrs. Evers. What about the stables?"
"His coach and coachman are gone as well."
"Did Mr. Rooney say when he left?"
"He didn't know, sir." She didn't dare tell him Rooney had been found slumped over a table, snoring through a drunken stupor.
Jerrold slammed his fist down hard on the table, causing the silver tea service to rattle. His eyes narrowed.
Why would a man who'd lost an eye leave behind the item that covered that affliction? He'd thought the man a bumbling fool to be taken advantage of. It seemed he might have been wrong. But who was this mysterious stranger if not a nobleman? A muscle ticked in his cheek.
He looked up at the housekeeper." I want to see Mr. Lash."
Mrs. Evers’ gaze widened. She didn't like Mr. Lash, no one did. He was a big brute of a man employed to handle "private"matters. Her hands twisted into knots.
"He's not here, sir."
Jerrold whirled on her, his eyes dark and piercing. "What do you mean he's not here? He should have been back hours ago." It wasn't like Lash to be absent. The man had an unnerving ability to attain perfection in everything. If he hadn't returned yet, then something must have gone wrong.
"I want to know the moment he returns," he told her.
"Yes, sir." She bobbed a curtsy and quickly left the room.
Jerrold Barrington paced the room. Suddenly he whirled around, his gaze fastening on the painting, the third from the left corner. It stood a fraction of an inch away from the wall.
Elyse stood before the portrait of Felicia Barrington that had been covered and stored away. Restless, unable to sleep after the dream had driven her from her bed, she'd come to this room. Now she looked at the portrait, her fingers gently clutching the diamond and pearl pendant in her hand. It was of the same design as the earbobs Lady Barrington wore.
She studied the painting, watching those eyes that stared back at her, reaching out to her from every angle no matter where she stood.
"1837," she repeated the year inscribed in the brass plate. "Your engagement portrait. What could have so drastically changed your life? You seem so happy?"
"She was happy."
Elyse whirled around, then smiled at her grandmother. "I thought the walls had started talking to me, or perhaps she had." She looked at the portrait of Felicia Barrington.
"Your maid said that I would find you here. I wanted to see the painting again."
"You've seen it before?" she asked with surprise.
Lady Regina crossed the room, her smile softened by memories. "Oh yes, just before it was finished. She was happy then, as radiantly happy as she looks in that painting."
"You said she was a very sad woman. She certainly doesn't look like it in the painting."
"She wasn't when this was painted. I've never seen a more vibrant woman or one more in love. But that was a very long time ago."
