candles with his fingertips without pausing as he passed them by. He left only a few burning in case he needed to run for it.
Where to start? Obviously the lady's bedchamber would hold the most secrets—some ladies more so than others—but since the lady in question was undoubtedly sleeping in that room—
I wonder what she wears to bed? Would her hair be loose or braided? Did she bathe in rosewater before bed—
Marcus stopped still long enough to banish such unruly thinking, then continued on his way. He would begin with the obvious, in the spirit of elimination—the study.
It was a spacious and manly room, all gleaming wood panels and velvet drapery. The enormous mahogany desk caused Marcus a pang of acquisitive lust, for it was a lord's delight of elegance and function. It was also entirely empty, containing not even a stump of pencil.
There was nothing in the safe box but a note. "Amateur."
He found a promising hollow portion of the desk. He worked free the secret drawer. Another note. "Oh, go home. You lack imagination."
He had to laugh. Someone had a wicked sense of humor. Surely it could not be the ice carving, Lady Barrowby?
He realized that the study was too obvious, and that she rarely seemed to frequent it anyway. Where did she spend most of her time?
He worked his way back down the hall, taking each room into closer consideration. He knew it the moment he found it. There was a pleasing little withdrawing room off the music room with a view of the garden and a writing desk, a comfortable chair and hassock, topped by an embroidery basket.
There was nothing in the desk but estate records, kept in a precise hand that surpassed his own. Lady Barrowby seemed to keep every detail herself, with no steward in her employ. She was doing a bang-up job of it, too, except that she kept far too many servants even for this vast a house.
The embroidery basket drew his eye once more.
He couldn't explain why its presence struck him as so odd, except that, once again, Lady Barrowby didn't seem the "embroidery sort."
The basket certainly had an air of neglect about it, although the desk saw hard use. He bent to brush dust from the handle of the basket. Curious, for he simply couldn't picture the vital, energetic Julia settling down to a long evening of stitching, he lifted the lid to see what he assumed were the usual accoutrements of such a pastime. Colored floss, needles, tiny golden scissors… and in the bottom of the case, a false bottom.
Most people would not have seen it as such, but it was obvious to him. The outer dimensions of the basket extended a good half-inch farther than the inner dimensions. He fiddled with the bottom of the basket for a long moment—he was beginning to feel a bit silly about it in fact—when he flipped up the bottom to reveal a shallow compartment that contained simply a key.
Not a door key, not a safe-box key—it lacked the sturdy importance. It was a pretty key, the shank ending in a carving and a tiny jeweled eye. The key to some sort of luxury item… a box? Perhaps the sort that ladies used to keep dried bouquets and the left-behind handkerchiefs of solicitous gentlemen?
Like the one he'd seen in the… where? Music room? First parlor? Surely not. Not left so negligently in plain sight, day after day, where any stranger could spot it?
Unless… unless she was counting on just that sort of reaction. God, her thinking was twisted.
He returned to the parlor where he'd borne that excruciating jousting session with her other suitors. There it was, on the side table with a pair of dainty spectacles carelessly laid on the top. He slipped the key into the lock and turned. With a click, the lid lifted slightly, released.
Inside the box, things were much as he'd expected. There was a dried bouquet, a shell from the sea, a curling, faded ribbon… and another key.
This one had the heft and authority the other key had lacked. It was definitely the key to a room. Nor was it the
Where to start? Obviously the lady's bedchamber would hold the most secrets—some ladies more so than others—but since the lady in question was undoubtedly sleeping in that room—
I wonder what she wears to bed? Would her hair be loose or braided? Did she bathe in rosewater before bed—
Marcus stopped still long enough to banish such unruly thinking, then continued on his way. He would begin with the obvious, in the spirit of elimination—the study.
It was a spacious and manly room, all gleaming wood panels and velvet drapery. The enormous mahogany desk caused Marcus a pang of acquisitive lust, for it was a lord's delight of elegance and function. It was also entirely empty, containing not even a stump of pencil.
There was nothing in the safe box but a note. "Amateur."
He found a promising hollow portion of the desk. He worked free the secret drawer. Another note. "Oh, go home. You lack imagination."
He had to laugh. Someone had a wicked sense of humor. Surely it could not be the ice carving, Lady Barrowby?
He realized that the study was too obvious, and that she rarely seemed to frequent it anyway. Where did she spend most of her time?
He worked his way back down the hall, taking each room into closer consideration. He knew it the moment he found it. There was a pleasing little withdrawing room off the music room with a view of the garden and a writing desk, a comfortable chair and hassock, topped by an embroidery basket.
There was nothing in the desk but estate records, kept in a precise hand that surpassed his own. Lady Barrowby seemed to keep every detail herself, with no steward in her employ. She was doing a bang-up job of it, too, except that she kept far too many servants even for this vast a house.
The embroidery basket drew his eye once more.
He couldn't explain why its presence struck him as so odd, except that, once again, Lady Barrowby didn't seem the "embroidery sort."
The basket certainly had an air of neglect about it, although the desk saw hard use. He bent to brush dust from the handle of the basket. Curious, for he simply couldn't picture the vital, energetic Julia settling down to a long evening of stitching, he lifted the lid to see what he assumed were the usual accoutrements of such a pastime. Colored floss, needles, tiny golden scissors… and in the bottom of the case, a false bottom.
Most people would not have seen it as such, but it was obvious to him. The outer dimensions of the basket extended a good half-inch farther than the inner dimensions. He fiddled with the bottom of the basket for a long moment—he was beginning to feel a bit silly about it in fact—when he flipped up the bottom to reveal a shallow compartment that contained simply a key.
Not a door key, not a safe-box key—it lacked the sturdy importance. It was a pretty key, the shank ending in a carving and a tiny jeweled eye. The key to some sort of luxury item… a box? Perhaps the sort that ladies used to keep dried bouquets and the left-behind handkerchiefs of solicitous gentlemen?
Like the one he'd seen in the… where? Music room? First parlor? Surely not. Not left so negligently in plain sight, day after day, where any stranger could spot it?
Unless… unless she was counting on just that sort of reaction. God, her thinking was twisted.
He returned to the parlor where he'd borne that excruciating jousting session with her other suitors. There it was, on the side table with a pair of dainty spectacles carelessly laid on the top. He slipped the key into the lock and turned. With a click, the lid lifted slightly, released.
Inside the box, things were much as he'd expected. There was a dried bouquet, a shell from the sea, a curling, faded ribbon… and another key.
This one had the heft and authority the other key had lacked. It was definitely the key to a room. Nor was it the
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