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She hesitated. “Possibly. I don’t think so. This is his study. We’re not to enter it, under normal circumstances.”

He was on his feet before she finished, turning in a slow circle and taking in the entire room. “But you did.”

“He kept his strongbox here. I had to come in and get money, after he left.” She didn’t mention that she’d had to pick the lock to get it open, nor that it had been nearly empty. Major Hayes had likely already deduced that much.

He stepped closer to the wall and ran one hand over the worn oak panels. “Where was the strongbox?”

“In the bottom desk drawer.” She watched in astonishment as he knelt on the floor and began tapping on the panels. “What are you looking for?”

“A hiding place.” He pulled off his coat and tossed it on the chair, then returned to the floor and leaned his ear against the wall before rapping on it with his knuckles.

Cressida gaped at his broad back. “Why?”

He rapped some more. “This is an odd room to choose for a study. It’s small and has poor light. It’s an estate manager’s office, not a gentleman’s study.” Another rap. He moved along the floor, smoothing his hand over the wall as he went, stopping to press on every crack and edge. “If he kept his strongbox here, quite likely he kept the ledger with it. Don’t you think?” He swung around so quickly Cressida jumped back, banging her elbow on the desk. She had followed his progress without realizing.

“Y-yes.” She rubbed her elbow as he nodded. There was a curious light in his eyes, almost elation, as though he had a plan.

“Many houses have hidden cupboards. Not terribly secure, just an out-of-the-way place to keep something private.” He turned back to the wall and spread his hands over the wood. “I could be wrong, of course.”

Cressida watched, askance, as he leaned against the wall. That made sense, she supposed, even though he didn’t know Papa at all and couldn’t know how closemouthed her father was about certain things. “No,” she said slowly. “I think you may well be correct.”

She moved to the opposite wall and began rapping on the panels herself, but stopped after a few tries. She didn’t know what she was doing, and was probably just making it harder for him to hear whatever he was listening for. Again she retreated to the window and waited, with nothing to do but watch as he systematically rapped at every square inch of wall. Intent on his task, he said nothing, which unfortunately only left her mind free to wander to inappropriate subjects.

The shape of his hands, for instance.

When he laid his palm flat against the wall and spread his fingers wide, Cressida couldn’t help noticing how large and capable his hands were. He paused and ran his fingertips lightly over the edge of one panel, his cheek laid right against the wall as he scrutinized every stroke of his fingers. A funny feeling stirred in her belly as she watched him caress the panel, stained dark from age and smoke. A cavalryman’s hands, she thought, ought not to be capable of such delicate motion. They surely shouldn’t inspire a hot surge of longing inside her, to feel those hands caress her skin as thoroughly as that bit of paneling. . .

“Ahh. . . ” He sighed in satisfaction and a slow, triumphant smile curved his mouth. Cressida’s breath stopped in her chest for a moment at the sight. She had better go scrub floors or pick vegetables or⁠—

“I was about to suggest we try the bedchamber,” he said, “but I think there’s no need.”

It took her brain a moment to function again. “Oh,” she said, then: “Oh!” Under those strong, capable fingers, a panel in the wall was sliding inward. He pressed harder, until the wood squealed a little before giving way, revealing a dark space about a foot square behind the wall just to the left of the fireplace.

“It’s warped,” the major said, pushing it fully open. “There’s a tiny nail hole here, as if someone tried to seal it shut. That may have alerted your father to its presence.”

“Oh,” she said for the third time. She never would have noticed such a thing. Was the major this observant about everything? “I—I never guessed. . . ”

He grinned at her and reached into the space to pull out two books, one the ledger Cressida had seen her father write in, and another, smaller one. He brought them to the window, beside her. “Let’s see what we have,” he muttered, opening the larger book in a ray of sunshine.

“That’s the ledger,” she said stupidly. Of course it was a ledger, the pages lined with long columns of neat numbers; a man who would notice a pinprick of a nail hole in the wall didn’t need to be told that.

“Indeed it is.” His eyes were flitting rapidly over the page, and he turned through a few more before closing it and setting it on the desk. “And what is this?” He flipped open the smaller book.

“I have no idea,” she said after a moment. “That appears to be Papa’s hand, but. . . ”

“It looks like a journal.” He touched one page. “Dates.”

It was. But aside from the dates, everything was nonsense. The words looked like ordinary words from a distance, but were composed of random assortments of letters that didn’t spell anything in English. “It’s—it’s a code,” she exclaimed in amazement.

He glanced at her in surprise, then paged through the rest of the book. Everything was the same odd jumble of letters. “I believe you’re right. Did you know your father used codes?”

She shook her head. “He’s always been fond of puzzles and secrets. I suppose that’s what led him to hide the books. I never saw this one, though.”

“It’s old. The dates go back over ten years, and they end”—he paged to the back of the journal—“just five months past.” He looked up, meeting her gaze. “Then you probably don’t know the key.”

Cressida bit her lip. “No, but. . . I could take a turn at deciphering it.”

“You like codes?” His eyes lit up, and she felt absurdly pleased at having delighted him. “By all means. I’ll take this”—he tapped the ledger—"and you have a go at this.”