Page 50 of Irresistible
“They did. His situation sounds very sad.”
“Ogelby corresponds with him,” Dougal noted. “Rather, he writes to a nurse who responds on Dumont’s behalf.”
“That’s lovely. It’s also more than I learned. I had no way of knowing if Dumont was simply a Frenchman or if he had any ties to his homeland.”
“Ogelby said he fled after the revolution. It sounds as if Dumont was quite happy to leave France and had a great love for his new home here.”
“Does that mean we don’t need to investigate him any further?” Jess asked, thinking investigations were bloody complicated.
“I don’t think so. I’m satisfied that the prior owner being from France is merely a coincidence.”
Jess arched her brows. “That’s one.”
Dougal laughed. “So it is. I should get to my bath before the water cools too much.”
His bath. All this time, only his head was visible, and it was because he was likely nude. She shouldn’t think about that, especially after what was already swirling in her mind due to Mary’s rather provocative conversation. Unfortunately, it was impossible not to envision what he might look like without his clothing. She’d seen his neck and far upper chest and his calves and feet. It was enough to feed her imagination.
She pulled herself back to reality. “Ah, before you go, I’ve determined which poem is Mary’s favorite—the one about the daffodils, which shesaidwas one of her favorites right after we arrived. I am angry with myself for not recalling that.” It could have saved her a night of reading.
His eyes widened briefly, then he gave her a warm, gentle smile. “You are too hard on yourself.”
Probably, but she couldn’t change how she felt. “The Chesmores will be meeting with Ogelby and Mrs. Farr in about an hour if you wanted to search their room.”
“Then I’ll have to hurry my bath. I’d best get to it.” He withdrew and closed the door.
Jess had already arranged for a bath later this afternoon prior to the party. She looked forward to the solitude to hopefully quiet her mind. Or at least exorcise lurid thoughts of Dougal from it. Perhaps she ought to finish what she’d started in bed the other night. That might settle her.
Somehow, however, she suspected it might take more than self-gratification to banish the ache inside her.
First, Dougal made sure the Chesmores, Ogelby, and Mrs. Farr were gathered in the dining room. Then he quickly made his way to the William Blake Room. It was quite similar, at least in arrangement, to his and Jess’s Wordsworth Room, except it was larger. The dressing room was also configured a bit differently, its door on the same wall as the door to the bedchamber.
He closed himself inside and started with the bedchamber, going first to Mary’s bedside dresser where he quietly opened drawers and carefully searched the contents. Finding nothing of interest, he moved on throughout the room, working rapidly and efficiently, having done this countless times.
When he reached the desk, he found several drawings spread across the top. They were of Mary in the garden and on the beach. And they weren’t particularly good. These must be the sketches Gil made on their outings.
Dougal searched the drawers next and found more of his drawings as well as some writings. They were in French and English and seemed to be poetry. Extremely flowery, romantic poetry. He also found other sketches made in a different, lighter hand. These were better. They depicted landscapes. Several were clearly the prospect of beach and ocean from the house. These must be Mary’s.
Finding nothing of import, Dougal closed up the desk and turned to consider where to go next. The door to the dressing room was ajar. Dougal slid inside and executed the same methodical approach. Until he reached the jewelry cabinet. It was locked.
Removing one of the pins holding his wig in place, Dougal inserted it into the lock and searched for the release. It took a bit of angling, but he found the mechanism and the lock clicked.
Dougal thrust the pin back into his hairpiece and opened the top. There was a tray with rings, bracelets, and earrings, which he picked up and set aside. The next tray was actually a drawer accessed by the front. He pulled it open, ignoring the contents of necklaces. Looking back into the open lid, he saw straight to the bottom now. There sat a stack of letters tied with a pink ribbon. His pulse quickened, hoping one of them might be coded.
Picking them up, he flipped through the stack. They were all numbers. All of them were coded.
Had they not sent these to France? Perhaps they wrote many before they met with a courier for transport and stored them here. Or mayhap they made copies, which would be exceptionally foolish. And if they’d arrived from France and hadn’t been burned? Well, that would be the height of idiocy.
He couldn’t take them all, but he could slip a few from the center. He did just that, taking two more beyond the one he’d already removed, and quickly dropped the stack into the box. Then he replaced the drawer. As he pulled down the lid, the door to the bedchamber opened. There was no mistaking the sound.
Holding his breath, Dougal made sure everything was as it should be and crept behind the door. He peeked through the tiny opening between the hinges and saw that it was Gil. Hopefully, he wouldn’t come into the dressing chamber.
He moved toward the windows so that Dougal couldn’t see him any longer. However, he could hear the man, and he was talking to himself in French. Dougal couldn’t make out every word, but he spoke of love and comfort and excitement and…birds. It reminded Dougal of the “poetry” he’d found in the desk. It was hard not to be charmed by their host.
Gil left the room, and Dougal waited several minutes before following. He tucked the letters into his coat and stole from the room as carefully as he’d entered. He made his way to the library with haste, intent on searching for the daffodil poem Jess was trying to recall.
Her frustration bothered him. He wanted to help her, and not just for the sake of the mission. He wanted her to be successful—for her.
In the library, he started in one corner and worked methodically, just as he’d done in the William Blake Room. He pulled each book from the shelf and reviewed its contents. After a half hour, he realized this would take him the rest of the day. Which he didn’t have.
