His ever-efficient assistant was apparently inventorying trunk contents. Most of the trunks belonged to the twins. It was just the idea of theft on top of murder on top of last night’s near-brawl. . .
This was one too many incidents to be ignored. He just could not fathom motive.
“Someone rummaged, but really, there is nothing of value to steal.” Eleanor sent Grey a speaking glance.
Message received. His manuscript was invaluable. But she had brilliantly secured that in her own—undisturbed—room.
“My room will be next,” he declared. “Without our own place, we will have no privacy in which to work and no safety. We must proceed to Bath.”
“We have a private library,” Verity Russell, the gracious innkeeper’s wife interjected, eager to appease. “We keep it locked. No one really knows it is there. Thieves are unlikely to look for books, are they?”
Grey feared that was exactly what they were after, but they had never done so. . . until last week. Leaving Andrew behind to return the trunk contents to order, he and Leonard followed their landlady. An inn with a library appealed to his curiosity. She led them back down the inn’s lengthy upper hall to the central corridor.
“It is not large, but it provides a work table and a modicum of privacy. You might store your valuables here and no one would be the wiser. The room goes unused.” Mrs. Russell unlocked the door.
Grey studied the old library table and its padded chairs, trying to quell his irrational fear. His book was immensely important to him—and possibly the art world—but to a common thief? Unlikely.
If nothing was stolen. . . had someone actually followed him here, half a kingdom away from the school? Why? Normally, once he moved on, the odd incidents ended. To think he’d been followed. . . was disturbing. Most likely, a coincidence that a thief happened upon his trunks.
He had hoped that the ransacking of his desk at Harrowby was simple nosiness, but if not, he didn’t wish to see two years of hard work destroyed. Precautions should be taken.
The inn’s library bookshelves were reassuringly lined with substantial volumes on a variety of subjects. It was quiet. Good. Out of sight, even better. If he could protect his assistants as well. . . “This works,” he admitted grudgingly.
Their landlady sighed in relief. The inn obviously needed his patronage.
Miss Leonard set down her files. “This is a kindness, Mrs. Russell. If you will give us the key and put the room on Lord Greybourne’s tab, we shall work in here. We’d appreciate it if you did not reveal our presence.”
Reminded again that some vermin had dared invade his trunk, Grey bit back a growl. Perhaps driving him out of town was the only purpose of this useless mischief? If so, the vandals did not know him well. He wasn’t leaving until he’d explored all possibilities.
Grey had to assume Comfrey was not murdered in order to drive him away. He was not that consequential, surely. But his trunks. . .
He paced the shelves, plotting. No one got away with rummaging through his belongings—but he was aware that he could not strangle everyone crossing his path. This was an inn. Theft happened, the reason he never carried valuables.
“I do not know how anyone learned of your trunks,” Mrs. Russell said worriedly. “We have no other guests to see them. Rafe will warn the staff about mentioning the library. But word leaks, one way or another, sir. You have attracted interest, I fear. People will note your presence.”
“Bath,” he muttered as the lady swept out, leaving them the key. “No one would notice us in Bath.”
“Or London or Birmingham,” Miss Leonard said serenely, laying out her papers, pens, and ink. “Let us box up your completed pages and send them to your publisher for safekeeping.”
Grey sent her a look of horror. “I am not done with them. I cannot be done with the beginning until I have finished the ending. They are all related.”
She refrained from arguing, although the tight set of her rather expressive lips showed she’d like to. “Why are you so set on Bath as an alternative?”
“Townhouse there, on an abominably noisy street.” Studying the shelves, Grey worked his way through titles on architecture, while pondering yesterday’s encounters. That one last night still grated. Unlike Comfrey, the intended brawl had been personal. “You did not have to save me last night, y’know. I am perfectly capable of fending off tosspots without your dramatics.”
She made a dismissive noise. “I am certain you are, my lord, but Andrew is not. And while a brawl might have been amusing, I was in no humor to see Mr. Russell’s tidy pub damaged if you took to crushing heads with chairs. Crude bullies need to be reminded that the world does not revolve around them.”
“Right. I’m sure your vapors properly chastised the oafs.” He found a volume the size he wanted. “Place our critical notes in here while we work. I’ll store them later on a top shelf. No thief will have the time to search every book.”
“Will you sleep on the manuscript tonight to prevent them finding it?” she asked in a tone that offered her low opinion of his security. “You would think you are writing the Holy Bible from the original parchment.”
It was only because she’d stored the box of files under the bed of her lady’s maid that they hadn’t been found. His assistant had calculated rightly that no thief would so much as consider the existence of a lowly servant, much less believe a woman protected Grey’s valuables.
They couldn’t count on that ploy working again. “I have loyal servants in Bath. You would be safer there.”
“You would allow your enemies to keep you from your chosen course?” she countered, knowing him too well. She took a seat and sorted through papers. “Have you considered that Mr. Comfrey died because he told someone you were renting the house?”
If that was her argument for staying, it was a poor one.
