The Valet Who Loved Me - Valerie Bowman Page 0,27

of herself and astute, yet vulnerable at the same time, that he’d never encountered in a woman before.

However, his attraction to her didn’t change the fact that he was in the middle of a mission, and he needed to keep his mind on his work. It was inconvenient to be attracted to her, but it didn’t change anything. He needed to focus on getting closer to the other valets and asking them questions. Ever since Copperpot, Hightower, and Cunningham’s talk in the study, there’d been no other inkling of contact between them. He doubted he’d learn much from the men themselves.

A knock at his door startled Beau from his thoughts. He pushed himself off the bed to stand and answer it.

“Good to see you, Bell. Still playacting at being a valet?” It was Clayton. The man asked the question from the corridor in what seemed to Beau to be a booming voice.

“Get in here, Clayton,” Beau replied in a much quieter tone, quickly ushering his friend into his room. “And keep your bloody voice down. Clearly, you’re not cut out to be a spy.”

As he stood aside to let Clayton enter, Beau tried to ignore the disappointment blooming in his chest. For some reason he’d hoped it would be Marianne at the door. Of course, she wouldn’t knock on his bedchamber door, bold-as-you-please, at this hour of the night—but he couldn’t keep himself from wishing it.

Clayton tiptoed into the room as if that action would make up for his loud pronouncement moments earlier. “Apologies, old boy,” Clayton said. “I clearly had a bit too much wine at dinner.”

Beau shut the door behind him and turned to face him. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve come with another letter.” Clayton patted his jacket and spoke in a much quieter tone this time. “It just arrived before dinner. I assumed you wouldn’t want to wait till morning to read it.”

Clayton pulled the letter from his inside coat pocket and Beau grabbed it and ripped it open. He wasn’t about to wait this time. Just like the last one, this letter was from the Home Office. He could only hope they’d uncovered something useful at last. His eyes quickly scanned the single page.

* * *

Baxter,

We’ve uncovered two bits of information you may find useful. First, Mr. August Wilson has been under suspicion for being part of a club that is known to discuss treasonous plots; and second, we have found no record of a Miss Marianne Notley of Brighton. Before the record of employment with Lady Courtney, no such person exists.

We continue to research Mr. Thomas Broomsley, and hope to have more information for you soon.

* * *

“Well?” Clayton prompted, waggling his eyebrows.

Beau took two steps over toward the candle that still flickered on the desk and began burning the letter. “You know I can’t tell you anything.”

Clayton sighed and shrugged. “That’s what I expected you to say, but I still had to ask.” The viscount grinned at him.

“Thank you for bringing this to me right away.” Beau gestured to the letter that continued to burn, the little black ashes floating into the brass candleholder.

“My pleasure,” Clayton replied. “Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.” He turned, opened the door, and slipped outside, at least leaving much more quietly than he’d arrived, thank Christ.

Beau finished burning the letter. He stared into the flame, contemplating the contents of the missive. The news about Wilson didn’t surprise him at all. He’d already suspected the valet. But no such person as Marianne Notley? Was the Home Office mistaken?

He quickly discarded the notion. The Home Office rarely made mistakes when it came to such things. It had to be true. Whomever the young woman he’d been spending time with was, her name wasn’t Marianne Notley. Was anything about her what it appeared to be?

He was just about to blow out the candle and climb back into his cot when another knock sounded at the door. He reached the door in two strides and ripped it open. “Look, Clayton, I’m trying to—”

Beau stopped short. Standing in front of him was none other than Marianne (or whatever her name was). She was wearing her blue gown, but the apron was gone and a few tendrils of hair had fallen from her usually tidy bun. He poked his head into the corridor and looked both ways. No one was there, and all the doors appeared shut. Decision made. He pulled her directly into his room and shut the door.

He caught her in his