19 Chapter 19

Devorlane stood in the quiet coolness of the winter-lit room. He knew exactly what he was doing. He'd observed from his vantage point above the property, the flame-haired virago head along the road towards the village about half an hour ago. He'd knocked at the door. Plain faced Pearl and the husband were obviously at the hall itself, or they'd have answered. But they hadn't, although he'd knocked several times. Devorlane had been very careful slipping the latch, more careful than about anything in his whole life up to now, to make sure he wasn't observed. In fact if he'd been this careful over not letting that chit in his coach in the first place none of the next ten years would have happened.

Last night he'd thought the emeralds, but it was ridiculous, after ten years, to assume she'd come back here to find them. It was too long a time. No. There must be some other reason. A nest of thieves would hardly be in the area with the explicit intent of admiring the cherry orchards. Or tidying that rat's nest of a herb garden. Now would they?

Ruby. Pearl. Sapphire. These were all the names of jewels. Pearl was pale as milk. While Ruby? Flame haired. Sapphire? There were those damned eyes. Of course she wouldn't be called anything else. No other jewel compared. These were Starkadder Sisterhood all right.

He let his gaze roam around the room. It was strange how the damned piece preferred the simplicity of this building to any of the more formal rooms at the hall, although he could see the attraction of a place so compact. A place free of constraint. Under less furtive, less rushed circumstances, it would have been pleasant. The faded hangings-Mughal-the potpourri of furnishings, a mixed bag, all with a faintly exotic air. Dresser, vases, rag rugs, trinket boxes.

The cursory glance showed no sign of any miniature. It showed no trace of any anything that might be deemed personal either. His fingers trembling, he edged open a carved box. One of many that might have come from Mysore, but equally might have come off a market stall in Spitalfields. Empty, except for a solitary hairpin. Funny that.

He dragged open a walnut bureau drawer. Empty. A pretty sewing basket. Empty. Even the damned ornate bird-cage was empty. And the volumes that spoke were deafening.

Where was the miniature? She'd hardly keep it in the kitchen would she? Miniatures were things you displayed. Pride of place. Especially if it was a loved one. Was he meant to believe she'd really been on her way out earlier? Or was that the real reason she hadn't asked him in? Because she didn't want him seeing it in pride of place? Had forgotten till that moment it was there? Funny that too. Because she hadn't gone back in. No. On the contrary she'd donned the cloak and headed off briskly, first making sure the door was firmly locked behind her. With Ruby where? In this very room? Odd that.

His gaze shifted to the wooden staircase, his boot heels ringing on the mosaic floor as his feet followed his gaze. He hesitated. Her bedroom. Her bedroom wasn't a place he should go.

This room was as far as he should go. If she came in and caught him now, he could still explain. 'The door was open, I thought perhaps someone had broken in. I wanted to check.' But her bedroom?

His palms sweated. Was this how it felt to be a thief? Sort of exciting and furtive. The thought was fleeting because he swallowed it. He wasn't a thief. He was a man who had been wronged. Horribly, bloodily wronged. Wronged by this damned woman who wouldn't be here if she was up to any good. Would she? And that was why the wooden stairs now creaked beneath his boots.

In the silent house the noise ricocheted like rifle fire. It wouldn't be heard at the hall, but his heartbeat still quickened. Beneath a growing sense of unreality at what he was doing, he knew one thing. It wasn't just the knowledge that this was wrong that dried his throat and made his blood thrum. No.

As he rounded the bend in the stair, taking care not to knock his head off the unlit candle sconces fitted to the wall, the thought pounded, that he was about to enter her bedroom. Him. The fifth Duke of Chessington. Not something Ardent would ever have dreamed of doing. Letting a bold baggage kiss him at a cottage door, in a fluttering black robe and not a lot else either.

He reached the top step, completely unprepared for what he saw. He must have come into the cell as a boy. He'd a vague memory of a horde of children playing in the downstairs rooms. But he couldn't ever have come up here or he'd have known the whole level was open space.

Christ. All there was, was a bed. If he ignored the candelabras, the bedside table, and the simple wooden chest in the furthest corner that was. A bed that stood in the center of the floor, curtained with billowing white muslin. So plain, so simple, and yet?

He closed his eyes. When he stood here as he shouldn't, the last thing in the world he should think was of that bold piece in that bed. The silky raven hair spilling on the soft white pillows. Candlelight kissing her pearly skin. Those damned eyes of hers, bold, questing as the rest of her--for all she kept attempting that ridiculous I am the essence of serenity expression-- meeting his with the passion that was in her.

The last thing in the world he should do was let his feet move across the darkened floorboards toward the cushions strewn there, the sheets, pillows.

He'd almost reached them too when a voice said, "What exactly do you think you're doing here, Lord Hawley?"