The Valet Who Loved Me - Valerie Bowman Page 0,45

traitor, and Beau was feeling entirely out of sorts. He desperately wanted to know who Marianne really was, but he knew that wasn’t possible while he remained unwilling to tell her the truth about his own identity. It would be both selfish and hypocritical of him to ask her to reveal her secret when he had no intention of revealing his own.

The worst part was, there was a large part of him that didn’t want to know the truth about who she was. What if he found out, and it meant they would be forced to end their affair? That was selfish of him too, but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting the affair to continue. He wanted her whenever he saw her, whenever he smelled her, whenever she was in his presence, and when she was out of it. It was ludicrous, but true.

Even now, as he stood in the servants’ hall waiting for a letter that he was expecting, he couldn’t help but want her. He was getting hard just thinking about her. Blast. Blast. Blast.

Marianne wasn’t here in the hall. Before she’d left his bed last night, she’d told him something about needing to be up early to see to a picnic for Lady Copperpot and Wilhelmina. But even knowing she probably wouldn’t be at the post call, Beau found himself searching the crowd of servants’ faces for her.

The butler calling out for Nicholas Baxter finally served to distract him, and he grabbed his letter—clearly another one from the Home Office—and made his way up to his room to read it.

The letter didn’t say much. Curiously, it still revealed absolutely nothing about Marianne’s true identity, and all it mentioned about Mr. Broomsley was that there was nothing suspicious whatsoever in that man’s past. Not exactly news to Beau. The letter asked him to concentrate on Mr. Wilson. He was their best lead at the moment, but besides noting the other night at dinner that the man had certainly appeared to be hiding something, Beau had made little progress in that quarter.

The only thing he’d done was locate Wilson’s bedchamber. It was three down from his own, on the opposite side of the corridor. His next move would be to sneak into the room and search for a writing sample. He wouldn’t have much more time to do it.

Beau took a deep breath. It was his sole goal for the entire day. After a morning thunderstorm, the Copperpots embarked on their picnic, and Beau had little else to do but search Mr. Wilson’s room.

Beau briefly considered asking Marianne if she would serve as lookout for him. But he quickly discarded the notion. Such a request would likely prompt her to ask more questions about what he was up to. And selfish or no, he quite liked the arrangement as they had it for the moment.

No, Beau had to search Wilson’s room quickly and alone.

He’d become a bloody expert at peering out into the hallway of the fourth floor to ensure the way was clear. He did so now, quickly and efficiently, pleased to discover the corridor was empty. At this time of day, he knew from experience, most of the servants were either tending to their needy masters and mistresses or down in the servants’ hall chatting with one another.

After closing the door to his own room, Beau quickly made his way down to Wilson’s door. Taking another glance each way, he pressed his ear against the door to ensure the man wasn’t inside. He waited a full two minutes by the count of the clock in the hallway. When he’d heard neither shuffling nor snoring, he’d decided it was safe to try the door.

It opened, thank Christ, and Beau was able to see at a glance that the small room was empty.

Much like his own, the room consisted of only a small wardrobe, cot, desk, and chair. And like his own, there wasn’t much lying around Mr. Wilson’s room.

Beau began with the desk, reasoning that if there was any writing to be found, it might well be in the desk drawer. A search of the desk turned up a couple of odd pieces of cheap paper and a quill but otherwise nothing.

Blast.

Next, he turned his attention to the wardrobe. Swinging both doors wide, he rifled through the man’s rucksack and clothing, even checking the pockets before relenting. Nothing. Not so much as a scrap of paper with a note hastily scrawled on it.

He made a cursory search