The path joined the lane to Midwinter Mallow and from there another white-painted wooden gate led into the back of Deb’s gardens at Mallow House. At the gate Deb paused, preparing to make her farewells and fidgeting a little with her book of poetry as she did so. She realised that she had pulled some of the binding loose and peered at it with dismay.
‘Oh dear, I-’ She stopped, staring. ‘Oh-but this is not my book!’
Richard came across to her. Deb opened the book and flicked through it. Now that she was looking closely, she could see that this book was exactly the same as the one he had given her, except that it was a little older and more worn. The list of odd symbols that she had tucked carelessly inside the front cover was also missing now. She searched the pages, the frown deepening on her brow.
‘Are you looking for this?’ Richard enquired affably. He put a hand inside his jacket and retrieved a folded paper. Deb stared from it to his face. He was watching her, but with neither the speculation nor the admiration to which she had become accustomed. There was an unreadable expression in his eyes and a hard line to his mouth and Deb felt a sudden chill. She put out a hand for the sheet, but he twitched it out of her grip.
‘Oh, no, Mrs Stratton,’ he said, his voice pleasant but definite. ‘It is scarcely that simple. I believe that you have some explaining to do.’
Chapter Eight
‘A re you saying that this is your property, Mrs Stratton?’ Richard was still holding the sheet of paper out of Deb’s reach and his intent gaze had not wavered from her face.
Deb looked at him, bewildered. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I found it in the book. How did you get hold of it?’
Richard ignored her question. ‘So you are claiming that neither the book nor the sheet of paper belongs to you?’ he asked.
His high-handed manner lit a flicker of temper in Deb. ‘I am not claiming anything,’ she said sharply. ‘I am telling you that that is not my book. You should know-you gave it to me yourself!’
Richard took the book from her hand and turned it over, scrutinising it. A shadow of a smile touched his mouth. ‘It is certainly not the copy that I gave to you, but that does not mean it is not yours,’ he said smoothly. ‘Presumably you had a copy that you were using before you received my gift?’
Deb glared at him. ‘I am not entirely sure of the purpose of your questions, Lord Richard,’ she said cuttingly, ‘nor by what right you are asking them-’ She broke off as a cart came around the corner of the road, its wheels churning the dust, harness jingling. Richard gave one sharp glance over his shoulder, caught her arm and bundled her unceremoniously through the wooden gate and into the shrubbery, along the mossy path and past the tangled ranks of holly and laurel.
Deb was taken aback at the manoeuvre. It was not that she suspected him of any sinister motive, rather that his sudden action had taken her by surprise. As soon as they were out of sight of the road he released her arm and Deb sank down on to the stone bench that had once had a very pretty view across to the river, until her garden had grown so out of hand that it was now hidden from sight.
Richard remained standing. In the pale sunlight that was filtered through the leaves Deb saw that he was watching her with narrowed gaze. She rubbed her arm automatically and gave him back a defiant look, but under her bodice her heart was beating rather quickly. Whatever this was about, it was no game. She could sense that instinctively.
‘I apologise for my actions just now,’ Richard said, immaculately polite. ‘I had no wish for us to be seen or overheard.’ He glanced around. ‘I take it that we are hidden from view here?’
Deb nodded. ‘No one can see us from the house or from the road.’ She looked at him. ‘I do not understand.’
Richard paused for a moment, then came to sit beside her on the bench. He sat forward, turning the sheet of symbols over in his hand.
‘Please, would you answer some questions for me?’ he asked.
Deb nodded silently, her eyes fixed on his.
‘Before I gave you a new copy of the poetry book, what were you using?’ Richard asked.
Deb frowned. ‘I shared Olivia’s copy before,’ she said. ‘I do not have a great deal of money to spend on books.’
Richard’s gaze searched her face. ‘Tell me what happened today at the reading group,’ he said.
Deb rubbed her forehead as she tried to remember. ‘We studied “The World” by Henry Vaughan,’ she said, ‘then, after we had finished, Lady Sally asked us to go into the conservatory to have a look at the copy of the watercolour book.’
‘Did you take your book of poetry with you?’
‘No,’ Deb said, wrinkling her brow as she marshalled her thoughts in order. ‘I put it down on the table in Lady Sally’s library and picked it up again as we were on our way out. Except…’ she met his eyes ‘…I must have picked up the wrong book. We had all left our copies there. There was quite a pile of them. We all have the same edition and the books must have become muddled.’
‘You all have the same edition,’ Richard repeated. He was smiling ruefully.
‘Yes.’ Deb looked enquiringly at him. ‘All five of us have this book.’ She tapped the cover. ‘Mine was the only new copy.’
Richard’s gaze was intent on her. ‘When did you know about this?’ he asked, gesturing to the paper with the symbols on it that was still in his hand.
‘I found it when we arrived back at Midwinter Marney Hall,’ Deb said. ‘I dropped the book and the paper fell out. It was folded over, as though it had been used as a bookmark.’
She saw Richard’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. ‘Had you ever seen it before?’ he asked.
‘No, never.’ Deb shifted on the bench, increasingly uncomfortable. ‘To what end do you question me like this, my lord? Please tell me.’
Richard sat back and relaxed his shoulders against the stonework with a sigh. ‘I beg your pardon. It must seem most uncivil of me.’
‘It does,’ Deb said, determined not to be deflected, ‘and you have not answered my question yet.’
Richard laughed. ‘No, I have not.’
There was a small silence whilst Deb waited and Richard declined to elaborate. Deb could feel his gaze on her and could sense the rapid calculation going on in his mind as he weighed what she had said. She shivered a little in the cool shade. She understood what was going on. He was trying to decide whether he believed her. He was deciding whether or not he trusted her.
‘I thought it looked like some kind of code,’ Deb said, taking the bull by the horns.
Richard raised his brows. ‘Did you?’ he said.
Deb gave a sharp sigh. ‘Will you stop being so evasive, my lord? What is on the sheet of paper? And what- forgive my bluntness, but I know no other way-does this have to do with you?’
Richard hesitated, then looked her straight in the eyes, meeting her candour with equal frankness. ‘This, Mrs Stratton, is a coded letter.’ He looked at her and said deliberately, ‘A letter from a spy.’
Deb felt winded. She blinked at the paper in his hand and then at his face. ‘A spy’s letter? You mean it is written in code because it is a secret message?’
‘Exactly that,’ Richard said.
Deb felt a clutch of fear that she might have bitten off considerably more than she could deal with here.
‘And your part in this?’ she whispered. She waited, holding her breath, whilst there was a small pause.
‘I told you that I once worked for the Admiralty,’ Richard said, with a faint smile. ‘In point of fact, I still do.’
Deb felt a curious rush of relief. She studied his face, dark, impassive, a little grim. ‘What are you-a spy catcher?’
‘For want of a better word,’ Richard said, grimacing.
Deb got to her feet and took a pace away from him. Her perceptions of Lord Richard Kestrel, which had already been shaken thoroughly over the last couple of weeks, underwent another shift.
