Page 24 of A Night of Forever
She was about to step inside when she noticed a tiny black feather fluttering to the floor. Where had it come from? It must have fallen when she opened the door. She stood for a moment considering the feather, then retrieved it and tucked it into her pocket. She would place it back in the door before she left. She only wished she had seen precisely where it had been placed.
She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
It was cold. Not merely in temperature—it didn’t look as if the grate had ever held a fire—but also in furnishing. A bed, a wooden chair, and an armoire. The space was immaculately clean. He must do it himself.
At least there were not many places for her to search.
She hesitated before opening the drawers on the armoire, checking for more feathers or some other telltale signs that would tell Monsieur Dufort that someone had touched his things.
Guilt hit her as she slid the first drawer open. She was violating his privacy. She hoped she would find something that would implicate him so she didn’t feel so bad.
She searched carefully through his clothes, putting each item back as she had found it. By the time she’d searched the last drawer she had found exactly nothing.
There didn’t appear to be any more drawers to hide…whatever he had to hide. That was the problem. She didn’t know what he might wish to conceal. The only place left to look was under the bed.
She dropped to her hands and knees and looked under the bed. Her optimism rose when she found several trunks. She tugged the first one, but it did not move an inch. She would have to crawl under the giant bed and find how far she could lift the lid.
To her dismay, the first heavy trunk was locked. So she rolled onto her other side and tried another.
The lid of the second one lifted high enough for her to prop herself onto her elbows and peer inside. It was full of documents.
Damn. She didn’t have time to go through them all. She’d been there too long already. She stuck her hand into the trunk and pulled out a stash of paper.
The first document appeared to be ownership papers for a company in Durham. A coal mining company.
The second document was a map of the mine and the shafts running under the ground.
She was about to return it to the trunk when a cross on the map caught her eye. There was a name next to the cross:Labourd.
Arend didn’t own a coal mine, did he? He did, however, have a hunting lodge near York.
She cursed under her breath and blew an errant curl out of her mouth. She couldn’t keep looking. Time was running out. She replaced all the papers carefully except the map and then shut the trunk. Then she backed out from under the bed. After a careful survey of the floor to make sure she’d left no marks, dust, or footprints, she left the room, replacing the feather in the door where she imagined someone might leave it to warn of unwanted visitors.
She made it back to her drawing room without anyone seeing her. Once in her bedchamber she sank onto the bed and tried to gather her galloping heartbeat. She looked at the map, listening to the parchment crackle as her hands shook. She could not believe she’d done it, and without alerting anyone’s notice. She was almost giddy with her success.
But the euphoria died as she thought of the danger she was in.
She was safe in her room…for now.
She took a moment to decide where to hide the map. In the end, she chose her reticule. No one would dare search her room while she was home, and she would take it with her when she went out.
She and Arend were attending Lord Beaumont’s ball that evening. She’d show her fiancé the map and perhaps steal a moment alone with him on the balcony. Or, more scandalously, in the garden. An image of the Garden of Eden with its serpent sliding through the shadows flashed in her head.
Try to remember that Arend is dangerous too.
—
“Someone has been in my room.”
At Dufort’s words Victoria’s head jerked up from the missive she was reviewing. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. The feather I keep in the door was not where it should have been.”
“But it was there?” Victoria’s voice could not hide her worry. He nodded in the affirmative.
Dufort voiced what she was thinking. “I don’t believe a servant would have thought to replace the feather. Hashebeen in the house?”
The “he” Dufort was referring to was Arend Aubury, Baron Labourd—her stepdaughter’s fiancé, and her mortal enemy.
