Leslie Lafoy (5 page)

She couldn’t clearly define the light that came into his eyes as he nodded his acceptance. There was an element of wariness to it. And perhaps a bit of curiosity too, she thought. But there was something else as well. Something … Well, “menacing” wasn’t quite the right word. Neither was foreboding. But her stomach was tight and it was hard to breathe as he walked away. And she most definitely had the sense that, unless she were very careful, in the end she was going to add Barrett Stanbridge to the long list of reasons she hated Mignon.

“I’m destined to live long,” she reminded herself, turning and heading back through the house. “Madame Tanay said so.”

Chapter Three

Barrett took the stairs two at time, wishing that it didn’t require quite so much effort to keep his thoughts coherent. Getting his staff on their way to their respective destinations had been accomplished in a relatively painless process that had owed much to their ability to think for themselves once he’d managed to set them in motion.

Damn Mignon. If it weren’t for her, he’d be tucked away at his club, drinking whisky with Carden and Aiden and letting them bore him to tears with their stories of children, pets, and marital bliss. His life would still be well ordered and his only goddamned problem would be finding a wife to make his parents happy. His bedroom wouldn’t be a shambles. His staff wouldn’t be fleeing for their safety. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have one foot on the gallows steps.

He stopped on the threshold of his room. And, if it weren’t for Mignon Richard’s deviousness, he’d have never known that Isabella Dandaneau existed. Unless he saw her at a play. Or on a public walk. Or at someone’s party. Damn if she wasn’t every bit the beauty her cousin had been. Maybe even more so for lacking Mignon’s obvious carnality. There was something inherently appealing about innocence and goodness. And where Mignon had spent her time in his room doing her best to tear the sheets from the feather mattress, Isabella was using hers to put them back on.

He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, stunned by her domesticity and all that she’d accomplished in just the few minutes she’d had. His clothes were back in the armoire, the doors and drawers pushed neatly closed. She’d righted the night tables on either side of the headboard and rolled up the oil-soaked, glass-encrusted rugs that had run the length of the bed. The books were still lying on the floor at the base of the shelves and she hadn’t gotten his sitting area put back to rights yet, but, given her efficiency, it wouldn’t be long before his room was completely habitable again.

She smoothed the top sheet and moved toward the comforter lying on the floor at the footboard. Then her gaze moved past it to his feet and slowly up the length of his body. He tried to stifle the warmth that her perusal sparked and failed miserably. Having no greater success in finding some pithy comment with which to open a conversation, he crossed his arms over his chest and cast himself on her mercy.

“Well, looking on the bright side,” she said softly, blindly gathering the comforter from the floor and holding it in front of her like a fluffy shield, “it’s obvious that they didn’t find the map when they searched Mignon’s rooms.”

He nodded and pushed himself off the jamb. Making his way to the far side of the bed, he observed, “But looking on the other side, we don’t know whether they found it in searching mine.”

Dropping the comforter on the bed, she began searching for the corners of it while saying, “They certainly upended things well enough.” As he collected the ends for his side of the cover and pulled the lower one into place, she added, “And I’m afraid that they broke your night lamps and crushed in one side of the center drawer on your desk.”

“Things can be replaced or repaired,” he replied with a shrug as they drew their respective sides of the comforter to the top of the bed.

Scooping the pillows from the floor at her feet, she tossed them into place, fluffed them, and then stepped back to put her hands on her hips and survey the rest of the room. “Can you tell if they missed looking anywhere?”

Barrett, too, looked around the room. Despite her efforts to tidy it, he could well remember what it had looked like when he’d first seen it in the aftermath of the rough search. “They appear to have been quite thorough,” he admitted. “At least in searching this room.”

Isabella blinked as realization struck. “Mignon had to pass through others to get to this one, didn’t she?”

Something akin to a chagrined smile lifted one corner of his mouth as he nodded. “It took us quite a while to get this far, actually.”

And this was the only room the intruders had thought to rifle. The obvious place for Mignon to have hidden the map. But Mignon never chose the obvious course. Never. “You can spare me the details,” Isabella declared, her hope renewed. “Just show me the general path you took.”

He started for the door, motioning with his head for her to follow. She obediently fell into step behind him, her heart racing in anticipation. In a matter of mere moments she could have the map in hand. All she had to do was think like Mignon, to see the opportunities as she had.

And to keep up with Barrett Stanbridge’s long strides, she reminded herself as he reached the base of the stairs and headed for the rear portion of the house. She hiked the hems of her skirts, silently cursed the tightness of her corset, and trotted to catch up to him. She was winded by the time he reached the back side of the kitchen and stopped.

“We came in the back door there,” he said, pointing to the doorway leading outside, his gaze distant, obviously fixed on the memories of that evening. “It’s closest to the carriage house.”

The stitch in her side easing, Isabella stepped around him to move to the door. Once there, she turned and stood looking into the room, trying to see it as Mignon had. It was approaching noon now, though, and the room was flooded with light. Isabella squinted in an effort to dim the room and blur the edges as the night would have. A central worktable. A dry sink, counters, cupboards, and cabinets. There were a thousand possible hiding places.
If
Mignon had had the time and the freedom to get to them.

“Did you leave her alone in here?” she asked. “Did you turn away for a little while? Perhaps just long enough to light a lamp?”

“We didn’t need a light,” he answered. He swallowed and expelled a hard breath. “And, no, I never left her or turned my back on her.”

The edge to his manner reminded her of his uneasiness while she’d searched his carriage. She arched a brow. “Did you pass directly through here or did you … pause?”

“Paused,” he admitted tightly, his chin lowering and his brows drawing down. “Your cousin was a woman with a ferocious appetite.”

“So I’ve heard,” she quipped, finding his discomfiture rather endearing. The poor man; there simply wasn’t going to be any way to spare him. “As much as I am loath to ask, I must,” she began, eyeing the kitchen table. “Where, precisely, did you pause with her?”

“Take one step back.”

Ignoring the tautness of the command, she did as he instructed. The impact was unexpected and she couldn’t help but look back over her shoulder to be sure. “I’m against the wall,” she announced, perplexed.

“So was she,” he practically growled.

Understanding came on a sudden, vivid image. Only it wasn’t Mignon pinned against the wall in the darkness, her skirts rucked up to her waist, her legs wrapped around Barrett Stanbridge’s lean hips. No, it wasn’t Mignon at all. Isabella dragged a shaky breath into her lungs and locked her knees. She had to moisten her parched lower lip before she could find the wherewithal to admonish, “I told you that I didn’t need the details.”

“Well,” he snapped, his dark eyes flashing indignantly, defiantly, “how am I supposed to tell you where the hell she might have hidden a scrap of paper without telling you precisely where she was at any given moment and what she was doing at the time?”

That would teach her to find someone else’s embarrassment amusing. “You have a point,” she conceded.

“Thank you.”

She knew that he wasn’t the least bit grateful. “I know this must be difficult for you.”

“You have no idea just how difficult.”

She suspected that she did, but she wasn’t willing to argue with him. Admitting to a too vivid imagination, a throbbing pulse, and weak knees wasn’t a good idea at all. Isabella drew another deep breath and looked around, surveying what would have been within Mignon’s reach during those moments. Only Barrett, she concluded. Which, as tactile sensations went, couldn’t have been at all disappointing.

“Perhaps if we move along?” she blurted, disturbed by the physical impact of her visualization. “Where did you go from here?”

“The dining room,” he supplied, turning and walking away. “And, before you ask,
yes,
we
paused
there, too.”

Sweet Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,
she thought as she once again trailed after him. Standing just inside the dining room, she gazed absently around it. She’d always heard the whispers but really hadn’t believed them. But apparently Mignon had indeed been insatiable. The carriage, the kitchen, the dining room … Barrett was undoubtedly an inspiration and perfectly capable of fueling intense desire, but … Good God, even rabbits needed time to recoup their strength.

“I fail to see,” he snarled from off on her left, “what might be the least bit humorous about any of this, Mrs. Dandaneau.”

And I’m not about to tell you,
she silently replied. “Please call me Belle,” she offered, trying desperately to gain control of her smile. “Given the nature of our general conversation—and our task—any sort of formality is a complete farce. Don’t you agree?”

“Formality,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest, “is the only thing standing between me and complete mortification.”

He wasn’t making self-control easy for her. Still, she tried yet again to rein in her smile. “You don’t strike me as the sort of man who would be easily mortified.”

“I’m not,” he admitted, meeting her gaze squarely. “Is there any hope that I could persuade you to have a seat in the parlor and allow me to conduct the search on my own?”

She shook her head as her amusement and its attendant smile faded. “No. You haven’t the slightest idea of how Mignon’s mind worked. You can’t see things as she did. I can.”

“With all due respect,” he retorted, “from what I can tell, the family resemblance went only skin deep. You’re nothing at all like your cousin.”

She knew that he hadn’t meant it as a compliment, but she took it as one nonetheless; the years of living in Mignon’s shadow had taken their toll. “Why, thank you, Barrett,” she exclaimed. “I think that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. If I knew you just a tad bit better, I’d be tempted to give you a little peck on the cheek.”

He closed his eyes and quietly groaned.

Lord, he was the most intriguing man; so very much like a bear. Teeth and claws and snarling bad temper one moment, shy and adorable and practically cuddly in the next. Which side had Mignon seen? she wondered.

Isabella shook her head and sighed, reminding herself that she had a task to complete and that the bear would be ever so much happier when it was done. “Where in here did you happen to pause?” she asked.

“On the table,” he supplied, opening his eyes to fix his gaze on the ceiling. “And under it.” She’d barely arched a brow in silent comment when he added with a sigh, “Then on the floor over by the buffet.”

“Well,” Isabella observed blithely, “if she even half tried, she died a satisfied woman. I don’t know what more she could have wanted.”

“Christ,” he half groaned, half choked.

Oh, he would no doubt—at some point very soon—exact retribution for it, but she simply couldn’t resist the temptation. “Why, Barrett. I do believe you’re blushing. Again.”

“I’ll look under the table,” he growled, all but diving for the cover it afforded.

Isabella grinned and set about examining the large tabletop. A vase of flowers sat in the center, a finely crocheted doily protecting the flawlessly finished mahogany from scratches. The water and flowers were fresh, telling her that it hadn’t been there the night before last. The doily hid nothing, not even the grain of the wood under it. Isabella focused her attention on the only other possibility. The long expanse was composed of four distinct sections with the leaves providing three narrow slits running across the width.

Leaning forward, half standing, half lying on the table, she ran a fingertip lightly along the nearest of the seams. Just off from center, she felt a slight change in the width of the space. “Aha!” she cried, slipping her fingernail into the space and using it to catch the slip of paper.

“Did you find it?”

The too small piece of paper, she realized as she freed it. “Damn,” she whispered, taking the ragged-edged piece into her hands.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“She tore her half of the map,” Isabella explained, studying the lines arcing across the scrap. “Judging by the size of this piece, into eighths.”

“That inconvenience aside,” he offered from somewhere under the table, “it’s obvious that you were correct in thinking that she came here with me just to hide her half of the map.”

Yes, but Mignon had been both self-serving and self-destructive when it came to her choices in men. She’d always attached herself to the wrong ones and never appreciated the right ones. If she’d had an ounce of good sense, she’d have understood that going with Barrett to hide the map hadn’t been at all necessary. If, instead of using him, she’d told him of her fears, of her need for protection … Had Mignon known a good man when she met one, she’d still be alive.

“One down, seven to go,” she murmured with a sigh, tucking the paper into her pocket.

“Two,” he amended, rolling out from under the table and handing her another piece of paper. “I’ll go look by the buffet.”

Isabella stared down at the scrap he’d found and her heart skittered. The upper edge was smooth, the right and lower edges matching the same rough pattern on the piece she’d found in the table. The left edge, though, was torn in a different, very familiar fashion. She read the words and knew precisely where they fit into the puzzle.