Page 52 of Irresistible
Sweeping past him, she went to the desk and laid them out. “These are in different hands.”
Dougal joined her, standing shoulder to shoulder as he looked down at the parchment. “You’re right.” It reminded him of the difference in the drawing styles he’d found in the desk—clearly two different people putting pencil to parchment.
“This one looks feminine and matches the one I’ve been trying to decipher.” She hurried back to the dressing chamber and returned with the letter. “I keep it with me when I’m not working on it, and I’m ashamed to say I left it behind in my excitement for the book. You must think me an abysmal disappointment.”
“Not at all. Thisisexciting, and there was no harm done.”
Her teeth snagged her lower lip briefly. “You keep saying that, but I fear I will make a mistake that will cause trouble.”
“You won’t.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “On the contrary, I think you’re brilliant. You’re going to decipher these letters, and we’ll determine what the Chesmores are up to.”
Her gaze met his and held. It would be so easy to run his hands along her collarbones and cup her face. Lower his head. Kiss her. She’d said he should aim for her mouth next time.
But this wasn’t next time. There was no reason to kiss her save his rampant desire.
He took his hands from her and looked toward the desk. “Are you sure there are just two writers of the letters?”
She went to the desk and laid the other letter down with the rest so they formed a two-by-two square. Then she exchanged it with another in placement. Gesturing to the top row, she said, “These are the feminine hand. This one is the one Mrs. Farr gave us.” She pointed to the one on the left. “These on the bottom seem to be a masculine hand, if I had to guess. They are also longer than the others.”
“I think you’re right about feminine and masculine. Definitely two authors, and just those two. I found a number of sketches in their room. They were clearly done by two different people. There were drawings of Mary, which I assumed Gil made. The stroke of his pencil seems similar to the letters here that you saw are more masculine. The other letters seem more like the landscapes I found, which I assume were drawn by Mary.”
“How helpful that you found those,” Jess said. “Were they any good?”
“Mary’s showed promise. Gil should probably stick to writing poetry. On second thought, that effort wasn’t much better,” he added with a grimace.
“You found poetry too?”
“I did. Quite effusive and overwrought.”
“That sounds about right,” she murmured with humor. Her gaze went back to the letters laid out on the desk. “I wish we didn’t have this dinner party, because I should like to sit down and work until I’ve found the key.” She pulled a face. “Can you tell them I’m ill?”
“I suppose I could, but you know Mary will be terribly disappointed.”
Jess exhaled, frowning. “You’re right, of course. But I can’t promise not to come down with a headache.”
Dougal grinned. “I won’t quarrel with that. I suppose we should get ready.”
“In a moment. I just want to look at these two poems together.” She sat at the desk. “The key has to be in these. If it’s not, I don’t know where else to turn.”
He touched her shoulder. “You’ll get it. I know you will.” She tipped her head up to look at him, her expression grateful. He reluctantly removed his hand. “I’m eager to understand why the Chesmores have so many letters in their possession. It just doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“The sooner I can decipher these, the better.” Jess slid into the chair and opened the Wordsworth, turning pages until she found the poem she needed.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Dougal retreated to the dressing chamber and closed the door so he could change for dinner.
He hadn’t wanted a partner, but he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed working with Jess. While he was looking forward to finishing this mission and getting back to his investigation, he would miss her.
Perhaps he ought to make the most of the time they had left.
Chapter13
The dinner party seemed a smashing success, particularly due to the surprise arrival of Gilbert’s older brother, Sylvester Chesmore. Taller and more reserved—which perhaps wasn’t saying much—than his younger sibling, Sylvester was charming and droll, and Dougal was glad to be seated next to him at dinner. The other guests were neighbors, some from along the coast and others from neighboring towns, including Bournemouth and Poole. Oddly, none of them were spending the night, save Sylvester, who’d come from Bristol.
The men lingered over port in the dining room while the ladies moved to the drawing room. Dougal could tell that Jess was nearly crawling out of her skin with the need to return to her deciphering. She’d been somewhat quiet at dinner, and he imagined she was working out possible solutions in her head.
“How long have you been visiting?” Sylvester asked Dougal.
“Just three days.”
