Once she was gone, he cursed himself for every kind of coward. He felt like a charlatan. He’d wanted to confide in her, to make her aware of the danger that yet lurked, but something had stopped the words from being said. He knew she wasn’t a traitor to her country, he felt it in the pit of his stomach, so why couldn’t he simply tell her the truth: that he was an agent working with the Home Office assigned to gather information to brand Roger the turncoat?
With a sigh, he realized that he knew exactly what kept him from revealing his perfidy. There was still that small seed of doubt that remained. But not only that, if she learned he was an imposter, it would only make a difficult situation worse, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Lyra even more.
* * *
Lyra went to her room first, but when her mind wouldn’t allow her to rest, she considered going to the library. Eventually she found herself down the hall at the door to the master’s suite. Thankfully, her chamber had never connected with Roger’s through an adjoining sitting room. Before her husband had purchased Weston House, it had originally been set up for a dower and designed with a single owner in mind. Upon their marriage, Lyra was actually placed in one of the nicer guest rooms, while Roger had maintained the main bedchamber.
Now, as she stood before that door, she hesitated, holding a single key in her palm. Ever since a handful of investigators had paraded through her home, she had ordered Roger’s room to remain closed off from the rest of the house with orders that no one enter, not even to clean. She hadn’t wanted any reminders of a disastrous marriage that had taken a horrendous twist to end in death.
Taking a bracing breath, she turned the knob and went inside.
The curtains were drawn against the late afternoon sun, giving the room a dark, tomblike appearance. With a shudder, she walked over and yanked one of the heavy, velvet drapes open. She gave a light cough when a plethora of tiny dust motes floated through the air.
Perhaps it was time she let a maid inside, she thought as she waved a hand in front of her face.
As the air around her settled, she glanced about the room. The first thing she noticed was Roger’s personal effects on his dressing table. There were half empty bottles and various items scattered in disarray, frozen in time. If it wasn’t for the slight layer of dust over it all, she might have thought he had only stepped away temporarily. She reached out and touched one of the decanters, then snatched her hand back when the scent of his cologne water wafted to her nostrils. It had been a smell she’d learned to fear.
In truth, she wasn’t even sure what had drawn her to this place. It certainly wasn’t out of some misguided sense of loyalty to a man who had disrespected her in every way possible. Instead of helping her through the pain of two failed pregnancies, he had taken on a string of lovers without even trying to be discreet about it like he had before. She had ignored the shame of his actions for a time, but when she finally began to stand up for herself and refuse his advances, the abuse had grown. For twelve long months, she had endured his cruelty, until that fateful day made her a widow at only one and twenty. When she realized he was dead, her first emotion hadn’t been of sadness or loss but relief. She had felt free for the first time in three years.
And then she’d been arrested for murder.
By some miracle, God had answered her prayers in the form of the Duke of Albright. He had come to her aid when no one else would have dared, and now, with the help of Mr. Lyridon she was on the way to tasting freedom once again.
But would it last? She couldn’t help but wonder how long it might be before something else happened and she would be right back where she started, hoping to connect with the woman she used to be.
With a sigh, she sank on the edge of the chair in front of the empty fireplace, frowning when she realized that something was digging into her hip. She carefully reached down between the arm and the seat cushion to pull forth Roger’s pocket watch. It was strange that she hadn’t given it a thought before, for it was always on Roger’s person whenever he left the house. In fact, he never went anywhere without it.
She noticed the gold metal fob was broken. That would certainly explain why he didn’t have it on him the day he’d died. Inspecting the item more closely, she saw there was a small scrap of paper sticking up behind the watch face. After looking around for something to pry it open, she spied a small knife on the dressing table.
It took her several tries, but she finally wedged the narrow blade in far enough so she could pop the timepiece out. Her heart was pounding as she reached forward and withdrew the small scrap carefully tucked away. She unfolded the paper, only to tilt her head curiously. She had been expecting some sort of lurid love letter. A jumbled series of numbers wasn’t what she had been anticipating in the least.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Startled, Lyra instantly dropped the knife, crying out when the metal scratched her foot before it clattered noisily on the hard wood.
“What thedevil?” Alister’s sharp query brought him around to where she sat. As he spied the faint red line and the tear on her stocking, he looked as if he wished to inquire further—until he saw what was in her lap. “What is that?”
“I found…something.” She hesitated only slightly before she handed the paper to him. She certainly couldn’t make any sense of the strange series of numbers, so perhaps he might.
“Where did you get this?” he asked after a time.
“It was behind the face of Roger’s pocket watch.” As if to prove her point, she dumped the remaining contents onto the dressing table.
“It seems like some sort of cipher,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “But to what end?” Glancing up, he asked, “Have you found anything else like this?”
“No. I’ve had Roger’s room closed up since his death. I just happened to stumble upon that.” Her eyes widened. “Do you think there might be something else hidden in here?”
Alister frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s…possible.”
She clapped her hands together, and she could tell she’d surprised Alister by her excitement. “Oh, it’s like a scavenger hunt! We could even make this an adventure, like we were part of the La Surete Nationale.”
Alister raised a brow. “Surely you aren’t referring to Napoleon’s French spy organization led by that cretin, Eugene Francois Vidocq?”
“Naturally,” she said, warming up even more to the idea. “He did arrest over eight hundred people and reduced crime in Paris during the Restoration.”
“And you think we might accomplish such a feat with a single scrap of paper?” he asked dryly.
“I wouldn’t go that far.” She rolled her eyes. “But I have no idea what sort of things Roger hid from me.”
