Octavia’s eyes lit up in understanding. “You’re thinking of any notes between her and Lord Kirkland? Very clever. But you told me clandestine activities aren’t quite as easy as they may seem.”
“I’m experienced in such things,” replied Charlotte firmly.
To her credit, Octavia didn’t question how, but merely nodded for her to continue.
“And yes, there’s a good chance she has incriminating letters. After all, Kirkland is here in London, and they are likely communicating. If I were her, I wouldn’t dispose of them, as a servant might find them. I’ve an idea of where to look,” explained Charlotte. “But it’s key we have the floor to ourselves. Think hard, Miss Merton—are there usually any maids working there at this time of day?”
“No,” replied Octavia. “Their tasks are always completed in the morning hours.”
“Excellent. Now, once you escort me upstairs, your task will be to stand guard at the top of the stairs. If you hear Mrs. Ashton or a maid about to come up, you must find a way to delay them long enough for me to quit her chamber—raise holy hell about me needing absolute silence, or some such thing. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” came the resolute reply. “As it happens, we’re in luck. Mrs. Ashton is currently meeting with Mr. Blodgett, the mill supervisor, as he’s leaving later today to return to Leeds.”
Fortuitous, indeed.Would that their luck would hold. “Then come, let us not waste any more time.”
Charlotte slapped her cheeks to bring a rush of color to her face, then pulled loose some strands of hair and undid the top fastening of her high-collared gown. “Give me your arm,” she said, rising from her chair, “and help me into the corridor.”
Leaning heavily on Octavia, she followed her friend’s lead with unsteady steps, hoping her instincts were right and that the other woman would keep her nerve.
Octavia immediately proved her mettle, putting on a very convincing show of fussing in concern as a tweenie carrying an empty coal scuttle passed them.
So far, so good.
“Well done,” Charlotte murmured once they were half way up the stairs.
“You play the role of invalid to perfection,” whispered Octavia admiringly. “Why, you havemebelieving you are on the verge of a deathly swoon.”
“Necessity is an excellent teacher of playacting,” Charlotte replied dryly. Then, as they reached the top landing, she dropped all pretense of languor and came to full alert. “Describe the layout,” she demanded.
“My quarters are the first door on the left, the next is the suite used by Mr. Ashton,” pointed out Octavia. “Mrs. Ashton’s rooms are accessed through the last door.”
“And on the right?
“Just two linen closets. The door opposite mine leads to Benedict’s quarters.”
Charlotte took a moment to survey her surroundings, gauging the distances between the rooms. Satisfied, she said, “Wait here. You know your role. If you must play it, be sure that I hear you.”
“I understand.” Octavia looked pale but determined.
Feeling her pulse quicken, Charlotte swiftly traversed the passageway and entered the widow’s quarters. Slipping into her second skin—the woman who had learned all the tricks necessary to survive in the stews—felt far more comfortable than the fancy clothes she was wearing. It took only a moment to assess the small sitting room. The escritoire might be a possible hiding place, but she thought it unlikely. Even the most cunning and clever people, Charlotte had learned, allowed primal urges to overrule reason when it came to precious possessions. One kept them close.
A jewel case, a travel desk for private correspondence, a box of lace fichus. Her feeling was that any incriminating letters would be kept in an intimate, portable place. As time was of the essence, a thorough search wasn’t possible. She would have to trust her instincts.
Without hesitation, Charlotte continued on to the bedchamber.
No feminine frills were in evidence—it was decorated in the same dark, masculine colors that dominated the rest of the house. The furniture was mahogany, heavy with ornate carvings. There was no warmth to the room, and yet she sensed that the widow felt at home there.
Charlotte immediately moved to the dressing table, where a set of silver-backed brushes and an array of crystal cosmetic pots were aligned on either side of a large-looking glass framed in a brass pedestal.
Mrs. Ashton’s iron-willed self-control extended to her toilette.
To the right of the brushes sat a small rosewood chest, its lid inlaid with an intricate rosette made of ivory. Dropping her gaze, she saw a large brass keyhole.
A quick tug confirmed it was locked.
Charlotte pulled a steel hairpin from her topknot and with a few precise jiggles and twists was rewarded with a satisfyingsnick.
The top velvet-lined tray contained several pairs of earrings and matching bracelets. Garnets and peridots—nothing flashy. Beneath it was a larger divided compartment, with a double strand of lustrous pearls coiled on one side and a filigree gold necklace on the other. She lifted the jewelry out of the chest and carefully inspected the velvet lining, poking and prodding with her pin to see if there was any sign of a false bottom.
