Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,17

all pictures of their mother be destroyed.

On the way up the well-remembered flight of stairs to the second floor, memories flooded back. The pictures on the walls, all gone now, the pale green paint picked out in white replaced with Chinese silk. She flung open the chamber door, fearing the worst. If the pictures were gone, would the furniture be gone, too?

Everything was covered in holland covers—chairs, chests, tables. Hardly daring to hope, she lifted the corner of a sheet and discovered her father’s desk in its usual place. A cloud of dust rose in the air. She sneezed. The woman who dusted clearly didn’t make a very good job of it.

She smiled at the desk she remembered so well. Her father’s escritoire, inlaid with gilt and rosewood flowers and birds. She’d sat on his lap while he wrote his personal letters. She also remembered the secret drawer beneath the lid.

Could it be this simple? Could what she sought be right here, tucked away and forgotten? If it was going to be anywhere, would it not be here where he must have known she would look?

It had to be.

Chapter Four

Breath held, fingers trembling with hope, Rosa felt far at the back for the catch inside on the roof of the pigeon-hole. A small raised knob. It was easier to twist as a child. It slipped from between her thumb and forefinger. She huffed. Tried again. It turned. A faint click.

A drawer slid out from the elegant carving above the writing surface. She peered in. Nothing.

Either someone had found it already, or… Neither scenario boded well for her quest. She refused to give room to her doubts. He must have put it elsewhere.

She would not lose hope. For her sisters’ sake, she must search everywhere.

She glanced around the room. Under the bed?

She crawled on the floor, but found only dust.

Perhaps another secret hiding place. One she did not know about. She walked around the room and its adjoining dressing room, pushing and twisting any projection or seeming oddity in the hearth and the panelling until her fingers were sore.

A loose floorboard squeaked beneath her feet. She snatched up the poker and pried it up. An old mouse’s nest, full of bits of wool and fluff, met her gaze.

Rosa shuddered.

Despair rose in her throat. Hot moisture burned the backs of her eyes. She swallowed hard. She’d been so sure it would be in the desk.

She sucked in a breath. She’d try the other bedrooms on this floor and then the library, and after that, she’d try every other room in the house. And if she didn’t find it tonight, she’d come back tomorrow.

Oh, please let her find it tonight.

Garth wanted to curse. He would never have believed the woman could slip out of a house so quickly. He’d had to run to catch her up. Or at least to catch up to the sight of her lantern willow-wisping ahead to who knew where.

Thank heavens for the lack of a moon, though he could have done without the rain.

The lantern danced ahead like a glow worm. Or a naughty little wood sprite of children’s stories. Except there was nothing of the wood sprite in Mrs Travenor. Far from it. She looked like an innocent and sang like a siren, an erotic siren. As exotic as an eastern princess.

The lantern stopped bobbing.

Damn. She’d heard him. He remained still, not breathing, staring into the dark, listening to the sound of the rain splattering on leaves, on his hat and his shoulders. The rain itself was of the fine drizzling sort, a kind of irritating mist, but the leaves harboured the foggy stuff, releasing it in big fat drops.

The twinkle moved on. Faster this time. He increased the length of his stride, determined not to lose her. In his mind’s eye, he tried to guess her destination. There was nothing out here, except woods. He’d checked with the gardeners.

A new sound, the sound of running water, overpowered the pattering of the rain on the leafy floor. A small stream, if he recalled the map, with a narrow footbridge. It defined the boundary of the neighbouring estate.

The progress of the lantern slowed to a crawl. He drew closer, catching glimpses of ancient wooden rails in the swinging circle of light. Why would she risk life and limb crossing such a rickety structure?

He waited until she was clear and approached the stream. Feeling the slick boards beneath his feet and the shake in the timbers in his grip,