shoulder as the ladies bustled down the corridor toward the salon.
Chloe would definitely not be attending any sort of riotous, extremely amusing, weekly literature appreciation event with wine and cakes and friendly, vivacious young ladies... hosted by the type of dazzlingly perfect woman the Duke of Faircliffe did pay attention to.
She clenched her teeth and tightened her hold on her basket. She was not jealous. She didn’t even like the Duke of Faircliffe.
Not anymore.
Over the past weeks of countless returned letters and endless rebuffs in person, Faircliffe had shown his true colors as a lofty, smug, self-centered knave. The only thing Chloe wanted from him now was the rightful return of the Wynchester family heirloom.
If Philippa York thought she could melt that pompous arse’s icy heart, then she was welcome to him.
Chloe had orphans to save.
Chapter 13
Chloe pulled out her pocket watch and grimaced.
Ten minutes.
Those gracious, sociable, vexingly entertaining connoisseurs of depraved literature had managed to waste ten precious minutes of rescue time.
Now that the corridor was empty, Chloe gave up all pretense of nonchalance.
She tightened her hold on her basket and burst into a sprint, skidding around the corner past the wards, past the kitchen...
Here.
Miss Spranklin’s private office.
Chloe dropped to her knees to peek through the keyhole. Dim light filled the room from wall sconces.
She fished in her pocket for her iron picks and set to work on the lock.
The first trick was to push up... there, just like that. The delicate part was not letting the lever drop whilst the other pick... jiggled... and teased... and coaxed... until...
In.
She sprang to her feet, flung open the door, and closed it tight behind her.
Miss Spranklin’s private office.
The room was small but did not feel cramped. Likely because nothing was out of place. The floor was empty, the surface of her desk was empty, and the bookshelves lining the walls were meticulously organized. There were no paintings or flowers or little personal touches to give an indication of what sort of person spent her time within these walls.
Chloe supposed that in itself was an indication.
She peeked through the curtains. The window frames were nailed in place and painted shut. Apparently, Miss Spranklin preferred to swelter in the summertime than risk easy external access to her private office.
Chloe smirked. Unluckily for Miss Spranklin, Wynchesters were not limited to doors and windows. With a stone from her basket, Chloe gave a tat, rat-a-tat, tat on the fireplace to let Graham know she’d breached the locked door.
An answering pattern sounded against the brick of the chimney, followed by a soft rustle high above.
From his position on the roof, Graham could not be seen from the windows. He was sequestered behind a gable on the side opposite the road, well out of view of the carriages.
For now.
Chloe looked about the room. She needed to find a ledger or album containing contracts, and there were shelves everywhere. Books squeezed side by side upon each shelf. It would take hours to flip through each volume in search of the one with damning evidence of Miss Spranklin’s unconscionable actions.
With a frustrated sigh, Chloe turned to the first bookshelf and checked the spines of its volumes.
Unmarked.
Of course it wouldn’t be simple.
She picked up the first book and thumbed the pages, sending up a choking cloud of dust. Shopping lists. Who kept old shopping lists?
Chloe put down the book and picked up another. Rents paid on the current building. That was financial, at least, though it didn’t help in the slightest.
She flipped through the next book, and the next, and the next.
Something light fell down the chimney. Another of Chloe’s wicker baskets, this one attached to a rope so that Graham could pull the incontrovertible proof up and away the moment Chloe found it.
If she found it.
The girls were half an hour into their performance.
Chloe glanced about in desperation. For such a small office, it contained far too many journals. How did Miss Spranklin find the ones she needed?
With a quick intake of breath, Chloe rushed to the escritoire and seated herself in Miss Spranklin’s chair. The headmistress would not keep important volumes far from her reach.
But there were no books on the escritoire.
None in the drawers.
The floor surrounding the desk contained a parasol, a pair of boots, and a shawl half-covering up some kind of old wooden...
Strongbox!
She tossed the shawl aside to reveal a rectangular wooden box. This was exactly where Chloe would put something that she didn’t want anyone else to stumble across. Well, not exactly. Chloe would