“Yes?”
“You haven’t said a word for an entire minute. And you are looking at me as if I’m a summer roach.”
He quickly wiped his face of expression.
“You really think it’s this man? This renegade footman?”
“I think we should search the address I was given and see what we can find. Perhaps we find nothing on the footman. But if she did think he was stalking her, perhaps we will.”
He had spun a fast tale. He had left Alcroft out of it, and anything to do with either him or his family as well, of course.
He’d protected Jeremy all his life. He would take the fall before Jeremy, if it came down to it. There was no question in his mind. It was purely fact. His brother would be protected over everything.
He gazed into Marietta’s eyes. Was it any wonder, after all, that she had sparked something in him from the first? Concern for her brother outstripping everything, including self-preservation.
“When are we going to search her house?”
“In the morning. We can use the daylight instead of having to rely on lamps and lights. The neighbors might notice.”
“And how are we going to get inside?”
“Leave that to me.”
Marietta looked around a bit frantically as Gabriel did something to the door of number six. No one seemed to be paying them any mind, but she felt as if there was a news caller on the corner shouting, “Illegal tampering,” and pointing right at them.
Relief swept through her as the door clicked open and Gabriel walked inside. She hurried after him and he pushed the door shut.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“A good ser—” He fiddled with the tool he had used, closing it. “A good sir always knows how to pick a lock.”
“That makes not a whit of sense.”
He smiled wolfishly. “That it doesn’t.”
She had no reply for that and followed him as he poked around the front hall. There was a table stand with unopened mail and a ring of keys on top.
“What do you suppose happened to the servants?”
“Let go, perhaps?” He lifted the ring. “An odd thing for a butler to leave the house keys behind. I can try the servant network and see if anyone knows anything.”
Not one to question the value of servants’ gossip, Marietta pawed through the invitations, recognizing a few of them. “Abigail Winstead was a member of society. Not an outstanding member from the invitations, but she had a few connections.”
She fingered a gold filigreed invitation in disgust. “The Shossers didn’t see fit to extend us an invitation a week ago.”
“It is surprising that society hasn’t wanted the gossip directly.”
“Oh, they did, at first. We had a number of callers the first two days.” She threw the invitation down. “But no one wants us to grace their doors now. At least not yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if when Kenny goes to trial we receive a few—to judge our state, mind you.”
“Cynicism is such a lovely trait to possess.”
“Realism. You should know the difference.”
He hummed in agreement and poked through more of the unopened mail. “Shall we see if we can find her writing desk?”
The victim’s writing desk was in her sitting room. A lovely mahogany box with mother of pearl inlay. Marietta opened it and found a jumble of papers, as if someone had collected the lot and thrown them inside. She touched the edge of a book and unearthed a leather-bound journal from the mess.
“What did you find?” Gabriel was searching the table, where papers were neatly stacked.
