Mr. Baxter came to stand near her. He leaned one shoulder against the wall near the door. “You do seem to be a mistrustful sort.”
“Wot, me?” she said, squelching her smile.
“Yes, you,” he replied with a nod.
She crossed her arms over her chest and arched a brow. “Have ye given me anythin’ ta be trustin’ ye fer?”
He scratched his chin and cocked his head to the side. “I suppose not.”
“Well, then, there ye are.” She gathered her skirts in one hand and made to step around him through the still-open door.
“In such a hurry?” He was so close his words brushed her ear.
She froze, still looking straight ahead. “I have work ta do.”
“Do you never take a moment to enjoy yourself?” The words were like silk. The siren song of a skilled seducer?
She turned her head ever so slightly to the side to look at him. It was a mistake. He was far too close and far too handsome. She forced herself to speak slowly so her voice would remain steady and sure. “Is that wot this is? Enjoyable?”
“It could be, if you’d like.”
A rush of heat spread through Marianne’s limbs. Oh, he was good. A bit too good. “The truth is, I’m wonderin’ why ye’re so interested in findin’ out about me, Mr. Baxter.”
He bit his lip. Dear lord, the man had to know how good he looked when he bit his lip. “Perhaps because you’re a mystery, and I enjoy solving mysteries.”
She met his gaze with her own steady one. “I’m no more a mystery than ye are.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded slightly. “Before you go, may I ask you one more question, Miss Notley?”
“Very well.”
“Why did your accent change when you asked me to hand you the thread?”
CHAPTER NINE
Miss Notley was hiding something. Beau was certain of it. Yesterday in the storage room, she’d quickly brushed off his question about her accent changing. She told him she’d no idea what he was talking about. But he was in the business of noticing details, and he had not been mistaken; the young woman’s intonation had changed. Slightly, perhaps, and temporarily, but he heard it. She’d spoken one complete sentence without the hint of either an Irish or a lower-class accent.
He had to tread carefully. She clearly didn’t trust anyone, and she’d already put up her guard around him. If he pushed her too far, she might refuse to speak to him at all, and then he’d get nowhere. He’d backed off of the question once he’d seen the look on her face, a mixture of shock and the stubborn refusal to admit the truth. He’d sensed that if he pressed her for an answer, he would not like the results.
Last night, for the first night since he’d come here, he’d had trouble sleeping. He’d tossed and turned on his cot in the little room on the fourth floor where he slept. Miss Notley’s room wasn’t far away. It was on the other end of the hallway where the upper female servants slept. He’d watched her disappear into her room last night after she’d seen to Lady Copperpot for Mrs. Wimbley, who’d taken ill with gout and was confined to her own bedchamber.
While he’d tossed and turned, he’d come to the conclusion that he was spending far too much time wondering about Miss Notley. She might be hiding something, but he highly doubted she had anything do with the traitor of Bidassoa. Even if Lord Copperpot was the traitor, it was unlikely that he’d asked a female servant in his daughter’s employ to help him write the letter.
Beau would do much better to focus his attention on the male servants of Copperpot, Hightower, and Cunningham. The odds were much higher that one of them—specifically, one of their valets—was involved. That was the assumption the Home Office was working under, at least. Aside from speaking to Copperpot’s groomsman, Beau had been attempting to spend more time chatting up Hightower’s valet, Mr. Broomsley, and a Mr. Wilson, Cunningham’s man.
The two men couldn’t have been more different. Broomsley was a talker who left nothing unsaid, while Wilson barely uttered more than a word or two no matter how many questions Beau asked him or how friendly he attempted to be. He was beginning to wonder if Wilson was somehow distantly related to Miss Notley.
Of course, Beau had already discarded the notion that Mr. Broughton, Copperpot’s regular valet, had been the one involved. According to all reports from the other Copperpot servants, if the man wasn’t working, he was drinking and was otherwise indolent and unreliable. Beau doubted that Copperpot would have called on a man like that to help him write such an important letter. No. Whoever had written the Bidassoa letter had been quite close to and trusted by his master indeed.
A slight knock on the door to his small but private bedchamber made Beau glance up. He’d been writing another letter to the Home Office. This time asking for their help in gathering information about the two other valets.
Beau had been writing a different letter yesterday when Miss Notley had found him in the cupboard in the servants’ hall. That letter had been his report of the conversation he’d overheard between the three men in the study. He’d seen Miss Notley standing beside the letter near the keg. She’d wanted to flip it over and see who he was writing. He could tell. She’d kept moving closer and closer to the letter, circling like a carrion bird. It must have driven her mad to wonder to whom he was writing. Good. He smiled to himself.
“Come in,” he called, putting aside his latest letter, and standing to face his visitor.
Clayton pushed open the door and entered. He glanced around the room. “It’s a bit small, but I do hope it’s comfortable, Bell,” he said with a grin.
Beau spread his arms wide. “Trust me. I’ve slept in worse. Much worse.”
