The Valet Who Loved Me - Valerie Bowman Page 0,51
at her from the page.
She read it a fourth time. But it was clear. General Grimaldi didn’t make mistakes. She needed to speak to Beau.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The blasted house party was set to end tomorrow and Beau was no closer to finding his traitor than he’d been when he arrived. The only good thing he could say for this damned party was that he’d won the blasted bet, but he’d give every farthing of his winnings and more to find the Bidassoa traitor.
He’d finally manage to contrive a reason to ask Mr. Wilson to write something. Beau had feigned a hand injury, of all inane things, and pushed a piece of paper and quill toward the man as he sat next to him in the servants’ dining hall earlier this afternoon.
“Would you mind terribly, finishing this letter to my sister in London?” he’d asked, sliding the mostly written letter over to the man.
Mr. Wilson had eyed him with both distaste and suspicion, but he’d obligingly written the final two innocuous sentences that Beau had dictated to him before pushing the letter back and saying, “Here, will that do?”
Beau had thanked the man profusely and studied the handwriting extensively, but he’d known the moment Wilson began writing that he was not the author of the traitorous Bidassoa letter.
Beau’s final attempt to find the traitor was even more ludicrous than feigning a hand injury. He’d actually sneaked into Marianne’s room, found her journal, and examined a few pages from it. He ensured he didn’t look at any of the recent entries, if there were any. He didn’t want to completely invade her privacy. As it was, he felt like a complete arse for suspecting her. But he’d hardly be doing his job if he didn’t rule her out. And rule her out he did. Her handwriting was lovely, nothing like the scrawled scratchings of the Bidassoa traitor.
Marianne had stayed away from his room last night. He’d tried to block the thought from his mind all day, but he hadn’t been able to. He hadn’t even seen her since the day before yesterday. He was beginning to believe she was avoiding him. But why?
The way things stood, he knew he might not see her again before the end of the party, and that thought made him feel vaguely ill. He was waiting for a final letter from the Home Office, the one in which he would get his next set of orders. Without having made any progress on the traitor, he fully expected to be ordered to continue to investigate the matter, but he’d already ruled out Lord Copperpot. It was unlikely that he’d be asked to remain with the family. What purpose would that serve?
Beau was pacing in his small bedchamber, mentally debating. Should he go find Marianne and demand a reason for her disappearing from his life? Or would he be better off quietly leaving after the party ended tomorrow without a word to her, and cherish his memories of their nights together?
A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts.
In a foul mood, he stalked over to the door and ripped it open.
Clayton stood in the doorway, a sly smile on his face. “I swear you get more letters than I do, and I live here.” The viscount stepped into the small bedchamber, holding a new letter between two fingers.
In no mood for pretense, Beau grabbed the letter from his friend and ripped it open.
His gaze scanned the page. “Christ!”
“What?” Clayton asked, excitement in his voice. The viscount leaned forward as if to glance at the letter’s contents. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.” Beau let both the letter and his hand drop to his side.
Beau stalked over to the window. He scanned the page again to ensure he’d read it correctly. In a hundred years, he wouldn’t have guessed this. Not in a thousand years, actually. He read it for a third time. The words weren’t changing. It said precisely what he’d thought it said the first two times.
“My apologies, Clayton. I must go.” Beau turned and brushed past the viscount on his way out the door.
Once in the hallway, Beau glanced both ways. There was no more debate. Where was she? He had to find Marianne immediately.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Marianne remained scarce the rest of the day. She desperately needed to speak with Beau, but she intended to wait until they had complete privacy and the cover of darkness.
She’d spent most of the day in the antechamber of Lady Wilhelmina’s