Page 73 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“What?” Annabeth sucked in her breath sharply and glanced at Sloane.

Sloane sighed and shoved his hands back through his hair. “Yes, I probably said something like that. But that was long before Mr. Winfield died.”

“That’s true,” Simpson agreed grudgingly. “It was back when, well, you know, when Mr. Rutherford...”

“When he left.” Annabeth supplied the words.

“Yes, miss. You had gone to visit Lady Drewsbury, I believe.”

“I see.” Annabeth could well imagine that her father and Sloane had exchanged angry words then. “Thank you for answering our questions. I know it must be difficult to remember that time.”

“It is indeed.” He shook his head. “Mr. Winfield was such a good man.”

“My mother told me that she had given you Papa’s traveling desk.”

He nodded. “It was very good of her.”

“I wonder if we might see it. I’m looking for something my father wrote, and it occurred to me that it could be in that box.”

“Oh. Of course, miss. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get it for you.” He left the room and returned a few minutes later carrying a foot-long rectangular box made of mahogany, with an elegant, engraved pattern across the top.

Annabeth’s throat tightened; she could not see it without thinking of her father. Simpson set the box on the padded ottoman in front of Annabeth’s chair, and she leaned forward to open it. There were no tricks to this box. It simply folded out flat on all sides to reveal a writing area with compartments for pencils, ink, and quills.

There was indeed paper lying inside it, and she picked up the top sheet of foolscap. Her father’s signature was across the bottom, and her heart sped up as she looked at the page. The second paragraph seemed to jump out at her: In the course of an evening of drinking, I drove my curricle in a race with a companion. Intent on winning, I did not slow my pace through the village of Billingscote, and I did not see a man step into the road. My vehicle struck him, killing him. As it was late at night, no one saw the accident, and in a moment of cowardice, I returned home and kept silent about what I had done.

Annabeth pulled in a sharp breath, blood draining from her face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“ANNABETH? WHAT IS IT?” Sloane snatched the paper from her hand and ran his eyes over it.

He looked sharply at the valet. “Have you read this?”

Simpson flushed, his face stamped with embarrassment. “No, sir. I can’t—I’m just a country lad with no schooling, you see. I cannot read.”

“This is—this is what we’re searching for, isn’t it,” Annabeth said, her voice little above a whisper.

“Do you want the traveling desk back?” Simpson was obviously doing his best to keep his voice even, but dismay was written on his face.

“No.” Dazed and battling back tears, Annabeth struggled to present a normal front. “No, Papa would have wanted you to have his desk. But I would appreciate it if you would let me have this page.”

“Of course, miss, of course,” he agreed eagerly, folding the box back together.

“Thank you.” She took the valet’s hand between hers. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course, miss,” he replied. “Anything for Mr. Winfield’s daughter.”

Annabeth did not speak as they walked back to the inn, nor did Sloane, a heavy silence hanging between them. Annabeth’s mind whirled with thought, shock and pain filling her. Sloane escorted her into the private room at the inn where they had taken breakfast, but she could not sit down. She paced around the room, rubbing her arms as if they were cold.

“Anna...” Sloane began finally.

As if his word had pulled open some door in her, Annabeth burst out, “How could he have done that? He was always so good, so kind. I can’t understand it.”

“I’m sorry, Anna. I know how much it must hurt you.”

She turned to him, her eyes welling with tears. “I cannot bear to think of it. That Papa could have done such a thing!”

“He was young, and young men often do foolish, reckless things.”