Her Ladyship's Man (11 page)

Two minutes later he held the ring and fob side by side, studying the feathered crest carefully. It was a heraldic device, that much he could tell, but it wasn't one he recognized. He took a piece of paper and pen from the desk and traced the crest to
show Sir, reasoning that if anyone would know what it meant, it would be his superior.

That done, he conducted a quick search of Barrymore's private correspondence, looking for anything that might explain his sudden affluence. He found several bills from his tailor, all marked paid, and a few markers for gaming debts, but nothing of a more personal nature. Disgusted, he was about to give up when something made him take a closer look at the name on one of the markers. Parkinson. He stared at the name, wondering why he should recognize it, then in a flash it came to him. Parkinson was Lord Marlehope's son and heir, and, if memory served, an up-and-coming officer in the Foreign Service.

Using the same pen and paper he had used to copy the crest, Drew transcribed the marker for Sir. He was certain Sir would be interested in the connection, especially if it had been Marlehope who had arranged for Barrymore to be hired by Terrington; and Marlehope who swore to Barrymore's innocence in the matter now under investigation. All in all a good night's work, he decided, giving the room a final glance to make sure he had left no trace of his snooping behind. Sir would be pleased.

Melanie spent the next week attending every ball to which she had been invited and studiously devouring the Gothics Miss Evingale had lent her. Although she learned little of interest with her eavesdropping, she did find the novels to be most instructive, and she soon grew restive to act upon her newfound knowledge. The first thing she decided she must do was to take a more active role in the mystery.

In her Gothics the heroines were forever sneak
ing about, peeking into locked drawers and snooping around abandoned dungeons. There were no dungeons in Marchfield House, but there was a locked drawer in the desk in Papa's study. If she was to clear his name, she decided, she would have to know what was inside.

She waited until Papa and Mr. Barrymore had left for the day before making her try. It was the day before her presentation, and with the household so distracted, she was certain no one would notice her stealing into her father's study. Not that it should really matter, she thought, creeping down the hallway. It was Papa's house, after all, and if anyone should dare question her, she could simply say she was looking for something. But in the books, stealth was indicated as being of major importance, and she thought it best not to quibble with the experts.

The room looked perfectly ordinary in the bright sunlight pouring through the open drapes, and for a moment Melanie was vaguely disappointed. It would have been much more intriguing if she'd had to do her snooping in a dark and deserted monastery, as had Constance Bartholomew in
The Sinister Hand
. She crossed the pale cream and blue carpet to the desk, extracting the butter knife she had slipped into her pocket a few minutes earlier. In another moment she was behind the desk, regarding the shiny brass lock with a frown. The author had simply written that Constance had used a knife to open the rusty lock on the poor box, but she hadn't indicated precisely how this was accomplished. Ah, well. She shrugged her slender shoulders and bent her head over the desk, cautiously prying at the drawer with the flat edge of the knife.

From his position behind the drapes, Drew
watched her amateurish probings with grim interest. He had seen her stealthy progress down the hall, and realizing she was heading for the study, he had quickly availed himself of the secret passage into the room which Marchfield had prudently shown him. He had barely hidden himself behind the drapes when she slipped soundlessly into the room.

So Melanie was involved, he thought angrily, his hands clenching into tight fists. The little baggage! And here he had all but convinced Sir that the real traitor was Barrymore. Not that he could entirely rule the assistant out, of course. The two could well be working as confederates. But why? What possible reason could Melanie have for putting her head in a noose? The only reason he could think of was love, and he was shocked to discover that he found the thought of Melanie in love with Barrymore almost as hateful as the notion of her being involved in treason.

The sound of wood giving way was followed by Melanie's soft gasp of delight as the knife fell to the floor. He ventured a cautious peek around the edge of the crimson velvet drape, watching as she lifted the sealed papers from the drawer.

"It worked!" she exclaimed triumphantly, lifting the first document and peeking at its contents eagerly. She found nothing of interest and set it down, studying the remaining papers with the same hopeful caution. It was only as she examined all of them that she realized that she had no notion of what she should be searching for. Papa had said only that some of his dispatches had found their way into enemy hands, but he had never told her precisely what those dispatches contained. Nor would he, she
realized glumly. Papa never discussed such things with her.

Glancing down at the papers in her hand, a faint sense of shame and embarrassment began creeping over her. She had broken into the duke's desk and betrayed her father's trust in her, and all for naught. Clearly she was not destined to be a heroine, she decided with a heavy sigh as she rose to her feet.

She was returning the papers to the desk when the sensation she was being watched stole over her. She'd felt tendrils of the sensation earlier when she had forced the lock, but she had shrugged the feeling aside as guilt. Now there was no ignoring the sickening feeling of awareness that was hammering at her consciousness. Taking a deep breath to steady her racing pulses, she whirled around to confront her unseen observer. There was nothing, not even the slightest movement or sound to indicate another's presence in the study.

Melanie eyed the drapes cautiously, even taking a step toward them before she realized how foolishly she was behaving. Idiot! She gave a self-conscious laugh, mentally scolding herself for acting in such a missish fashion. Of course there was no one in the room. The only way into the room was through the door, and she would have known if anyone had entered. Shaking her head at her own gullibility, she straightened her skirts and quietly exited the room.

It was only when she was halfway up the stairs that she remembered the butter knife lying on the carpet. If it were discovered, then someone would know Papa's desk had been searched, and she shuddered to think of the havoc it would wreak were
she found to be the culprit. Repressing a small sigh, she turned and retraced her steps to the study.

She would also have to think of some way of returning the knife to the kitchens, Melanie realized, opening the door and walking over to the desk. Apparently there was more to this investigating business than she had first supposed, she mused, her lips quirking in a smile as she bent down to retrieve the knife. It was gone.

Chapter Seven

M
elanie stared at the blank expanse of carpet in stunned dismay. It had to be here, she thought frantically, scrambling around on her knees as her fingers felt under the desk. There was nothing, no sign of the knife or the mysterious forces that had spirited it away. She sat back on her haunches, forcing her frozen mind to function.

Perhaps one of the servants had innocently happened along, and finding the knife, had simply returned it to the kitchens. But even as this thought occurred to her, she rejected it. She had been gone from the room less than a minute, and there was no way a servant, or anyone else for that matter, could have slipped out of the room and down the hall without her seeing them, which left only one logical conclusion, she realized, her stomach clenching with dread. Someone
had
been in the room with her.

But who, and why had he taken her knife with him? Both Mr. Barrymore and her father had been
gone for well over an hour, and she found it difficult to envision either Miss Evingale or her grandmother behaving in so clandestine a fashion. Her companion lacked the wit to carry the thing off successfully, and such subtlety was beyond Lady Charlotte's abrasive but forthright personality. Which left the servants, she decided, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. And she thought she might have a very good idea what servant that might be. Davies.

She thought of everything she did and did not know of him. He was young, much too young to be a butler, and far too handsome as well. In the past week she had been in any number of elegant London homes, and not a single butler she had seen looked anything like Davies. Then there was the time she had caught him in the study, standing beside this very desk. And he knew what a hakim was, she remembered, struggling awkwardly to her feet. If he was not the villain, she would eat each and every one of Miss Evingale's Gothics!

But in the next moment she was frowning again. It couldn't be Davies, she realized, her confusion mounting. Papa said the dispatches had disappeared during their last year in Washington, and Davies had been safely tucked away on the Duke of Marchfield's country estates at that time. Or had he? She shook her head in bewilderment. None of this made the slightest bit of sense to her.

On the one hand, Davies was the only possible suspect, but on the other hand, he couldn't possibly be involved in whatever mischief was afoot. But whatever the case, she vowed she would keep a closer eye on the butler. If he made any movement she considered suspicious, then she would decide what she must do.

After returning the knife to the pantry, Drew retired to his room to pace and think. Now, here was a fine kettle of fish, and no mistake about it, he thought, raking an impatient hand through his tousled hair. What had Melanie been thinking when she came creeping into that study? She hadn't even opened some of those documents, and the others she had discarded after scarcely glancing at them. If she'd been looking for something important, wouldn't she have taken greater care in examining the papers? And if she wasn't looking for anything specific, then why had she broken into the desk in the first place? He shook his head. This was without doubt the most convoluted mission he had ever undertaken for Sir, and he wished to heaven it was over.

He paused in his pacing to study his reflection in the mirror; the frown wrinkling his brow growing more pronounced as he remembered Melanie's conversation with Barrymore. She had been so eloquent in her father's defense, and so patently eager to help prove his innocence. Why then would she turn around and search his office without his permission? Unless—his golden-brown eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose—unless she had broken into the desk looking for some sort of information that would help her clear his name.

No, he dismissed the thought angrily, not even Melanie could be that big of a gudgeon. And yet, he admitted with mounting exasperation, it sounded precisely like something the minx would do. She was as obstinate and headstrong as she was beautiful, and he could easily imagine her devising such a stratagem.

The realization that he was allowing his parti
ality for Melanie to delude him occurred to Drew, and he was too good an agent to ignore the possibility. With so much at stake, he knew he dared not trust his own judgment in the matter, and he decided he would have to confide in Sir.

The Terringtons would be dining out this evening, which meant he would have at least four hours to himself. He could slip over to Sir's rooms near Covent Garden for a quick conference and be back in Mayfair long before the family returned home. Drew's eyes flicked to the small clock on his bedside table. It was almost noon; with any luck Sir would still be at home. He'd send a message requesting a meeting, and hopefully he would receive a reply by the time the family had left. If not, he'd simply have to risk contacting Sir on his own. Events were moving rather quickly now, and his excellently honed senses warned him they were approaching a crisis point. And when that point came, Drew was determined to be ready for any eventuality.

"You aren't accompanying the others tonight?" Drew asked, staring at Melanie in dismay. "Is there some sort of problem, my lady?"

"Not at all, Davies," Melanie replied serenely, her expression cool as she studied the butler's unhappy countenance. "I simply didn't feel like dining out this evening. Why?" She turned the tables on him with a sweet smile.

"No reason, Lady Melanie," Drew said, masking his anger at her sardonic reply. He might have known the little she-devil would manage to throw a spanner into his carefully laid plans, he thought, his agile mind working to overcome this newest dif
ficulty. "I was merely concerned that you might not be feeling well, that is all."

"Oh, I am in the best of health," she assured him with a glittering smile. "But as tomorrow night is my presentation at Court, I thought it best to make an early night of it. I shall be retiring quite shortly, as a matter of fact."

"A wise plan, my lady," Drew agreed with relief. With her tucked snugly in her bed there was still a chance he could slip away from the house undetected.

"I am glad you approve," Melanie murmured, trying not to laugh at the scheming look that stole across Davies's face. She could swear she could hear the thoughts racing inside his head, and what she heard reaffirmed her decision to remain at home rather than spend another useless evening listening to the same old tired gossip.

She had gotten the idea from one of Miss Evingale's newer books,
The Dreadful House of Clymsford
, wherein the clever heroine pretended to be asleep while the villain was skulking about doing his evil deeds. That Flavia was entombed in a crypt for her pains was dismissed as unimportant, for she had eventually found her way out. What mattered most was that the villain had been lulled into a false sense of security by the heroine's actions, thereby bringing about his own downfall. She had no idea what Davies might be up to, but she was resolved to find out.

"Would you care for a glass of milk before you retire, my lady?" Drew asked solicitously, remembering the laudanum Mrs. Musgrove kept locked in her cupboard for the maids. "It might be just the thing to help you sleep."