She located one of those lovely Argand lamps on Sebastian’s desk, but discarded the notion of lighting it. From what she’d read, they provided the same amount of illumination as six candles. Catherine only needed the light of one.
Unable to locate a taper anywhere, Catherine swallowed her fear and lit the lamp. Golden light flooded the room, momentarily blinding her. She glanced at the crack beneath the door and rushed to retrieve a throw from the chaise longue to place in front of it.
The clock on the mantel mocked her with its incessant passage of time. Perspiration dampened her skin. She searched his desk, his bookshelves, and any other drawer she could find. Nothing.
Recalling the hidden compartment in her writing box, she returned to his desk and bookshelves to poke, push, pull anything she could get her hands on. Still nothing.
Frustration seethed beneath layers of fear and desperation. She whirled in a wild circle, seeking some other source for secreting away valuables. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
She drew in a ragged breath, grappling with a sense of defeat and utter relief. Pulling herself together, she extinguished the lamp and replaced the throw on the chaise. She stood in the gloom-filled study, hesitating. Her gaze lifted to the upstairs bedchamber, where a handsome, complicated earl slept in a halo of repletion. Repletion she had given him.
Shrugging off the maudlin thought, Catherine opened the tall paned doors leading out to the garden, closing them behind her. She made her way down to the stables to fetch Gypsy, ignoring the burning sensation in the back of her head. She could not worry about a pair of searing steel-gray eyes watching her, not when she was busy repairing the ruins of her wall.
Eighteen
August 16
“Still no sign of the list, daughter?”
Catherine finished entering the date of Mr. Tucker’s repair on her schedule before answering her mother. Once the notation was made, Catherine surveyed the meadow for their two gaolers from beneath the small tent Edward had erected for them. Silas was nowhere to be found, a condition that made her more nervous than if he’d been standing five feet away.
She located Mrs. Clarke kneeling on a blanket out in the middle of the field, instructing Sophie on how to build a kite. With nothing more than a couple of sturdy sticks, yards of string, and silk from an old ball gown, her daughter was well on her way to flying her first kite. Catherine wished the joyful moment weren’t tainted by an undercurrent of fear.
“No,” Catherine said. “Two evenings of searching, and not a single treasonous note.”
Her mother drew a long, red thread through a square of linen. “Have you searched Lord Somerton’s rooms again?”
“Not yet.” Catherine dropped her quill pen onto her portable writing box. “Now that I’ve completed the lower level, his private chambers are next.” She hated speaking of such things with her mother. Although the words were never spoken, Evelyn Shaw knew how her daughter spent her evenings. Thankfully, her mother understood the situation well enough not to cast judgment on Catherine’s actions. “Last night, I caught a glimpse of a half-composed letter on the writing desk in his bedchamber. From the few sentences I had time to read, the words were disjointed and illogical.”
“Disjointed,” her mother repeated. “Could it be a coded message, like Ashcroft’s letters?”
“Perhaps.” Catherine stared at her daughter, standing now with the framework of a kite. “I’ll copy it tonight, so that I might study it in more detail on the morrow. If I can’t obtain the list of agents, Cochran might be appeased with an important message instead.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes until Sophie’s laughter broke into their musings.
“My granddaughter seems to be taking to her new governess.”
“Yes.” After the initial shock of their gaolers’ invasion had passed, Sophie had gradually warmed up to her constant companion. Mrs. Clarke’s kindness and inventiveness kept Sophie’s mind occupied with games and an assortment of crafts, rather than the disastrous way in which they were introduced. “In many ways, Mrs. Clarke is the perfect governess for Sophie.”
Proving Cochran’s contemptuous comment true. Why would a woman such as she align herself with so despicable a man? The question piqued her troublesome curiosity.
“I am sorry that you have this to deal with in addition to the loss of your father and husband.”
“No need to fret on my account.” Catherine clasped her mother’s cold hand in hers, forcing a light tone into her voice. “Although I would rather be