The only other object in the room was a small wooden wardrobe. She moved over to it and opened the doors wide with both arms. The scent of starch and soap hit her nostrils. Two shirts, two pairs of breeches. One other pair of boots. She briefly went through the drawers on the bottom of the wardrobe. Two handkerchiefs, two neck cloths, one pair of suspenders, one pair of stockings. A variety of items for the care of men’s clothing. No doubt used in his position as valet. Hmm. There was nothing else here. It was as if the man owned nothing else. His small rucksack lay in the bottom of the wardrobe. It was empty, its contents having been hung up and put in the drawers.
The man was tidy. She’d give him that. But there was absolutely nothing personal here. Not one thing. Even she had a small cross her younger brother had given her before he’d left for the army, and a book of poems her mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday. But this man, it was as if he didn’t exist.
There was absolutely nothing in this room that could give her a hint about him. She stood staring blindly into the wardrobe. She opened the first drawer again. A bit of marking on the edge of one of the handkerchiefs caught her eye. His initials! Perhaps he was lying about his name after all. She grabbed it up.NLB. Blast. Perhaps not. What did the L stand for? She couldn’t help but wonder. But it was odd for a valet to have monogrammed handkerchiefs… unless they were a gift from a former employer.
Feeling a bit desperate, she leaned down and looked under the bed. It was completely barren. There wasn’t even a dust ball. Confound it. She’d no idea what she’d hoped to find coming in here, but she hadn’t found anything at all. Well, nothing more than a suspiciously burnt letter.
Standing up again, she turned in a circle, her hands on her hips. That was it. There was no other place to hide anything. She was just about to admit defeat and leave the room when the door slowly swung open and Mr. Baxter himself stood leaning one shoulder negligently against the frame.
“Ah, Miss Notley. So good to see you. May I help you with something?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Beau stood with his arms crossed over his chest blinking at Miss Notley with a smug smile pinned to his lips. Two thoughts raced through his mind simultaneously. First, he’d been right to burn that letter. Second, this couldn’t have gone better if he’d planned it himself.
He finally had Miss Notley precisely where he wanted her. At the moment, given her stammering and flushed cheeks, that place was at a distinct loss for words.
“Mr.… Mr. Baxter,” she finally managed to choke out.
“Yes?” he asked agreeably, still smiling at her. The woman had some explaining to do and he couldn’t wait to make her do it.
“I… I…”
“Umm hmm,” he prompted, grabbing his opposite wrist behind him, and rocking back and forth on his heels.
“I was lookin’ fer…” Her eyes darted back and forth. The poor woman was clearly floundering for an excuse.
“Yes?” he asked, frankly on tenterhooks to see what she would come up with. Just how good of a liar was Miss Notley? He was about to find out.
“I was lookin’ fer my room, and must have got lost.”
He shook his head. Obviously a very, very poor one. “Oh, come now, Miss Notley, surely you can do better than that.”
She turned a shade of pink that was most becoming, and her freckles stood out in stark relief against her pale skin.
“I didn’t mean ta…” Her lips pursed and her eyes darted back and forth. She looked as if she might attempt to grab her skirts and run past him.
“What?” he asked, ensuring that his form filled the doorway. He wasn’t about to let her run away from this. “You didn’t mean to poke through my things? I see you opened my wardrobe. What were you hoping to find?”
She looked as if she wanted to sink through the floor, poor woman. He might feel sorry for her if he wasn’t having such a grand time watching her squirm. After all of her high-handedness, accusing him of being untrustworthy, she had just been caught poking aroundhisprivate room. Comeuppance was delightful. He’d always thought so.
“No need for further excuses,” he said. “I see you’re as meddlesome as you are condemnatory, and honestly, I like it.”
“What?” Her eyes became round blue orbs and her jaw fell open.
He nodded once. “You heard me.” He wasn’t about to point out that her accent had disappeared yet again.
Her brow furrowed. “Ye like it?”
Oh, apparently her accent was back. He stood to the side and rested one shoulder on the doorframe again. “Yes, because now you won’t be so self-righteous around me. You’ve no excuse to be.”
She opened her mouth, no doubt to issue some sort of scathing retort, but quickly snapped it shut and blinked at him instead.
“Well, that’s a first. I’ve left you speechless, have I?” He chuckled.
She smoothed her hands down the front of her bright white apron and nodded slowly. “I suppose ye’re right. I’ve no excuse. I shouldn’t be here.”
Beau looked her up and down. By God, he didn’t hear a hint of sarcasm in her tone. She’d been caughtin flagrante delicto, and she wasadmittingto being wrong. Nowthatwas something he could admire. In his line of work, he’d generally met people who would lie till their dying breath, in the face of overwhelming proof to the contrary.
