the path which led to the hot springs on her property as well as to a pair of neighboring cottages. He’d learned that one of those homes was currently unoccupied, and the other had been let several months ago to an artist, Mr. Blackwell. Was Mrs. Ralston heading for the hot springs, or for a visit with the artist? Or did she have another destination in mind? Simon didn’t know. And as much as he’d wanted to follow her, right now her cottage was empty and he needed to take advantage of the opportunity to find the alabaster box containing the proof that would clear his name.
Crouching low, he sprinted the short distance to the cottage. Slipping a thin strip of metal between the nearest French windows, he expertly finessed the tool over the lock. Good fortune was with him as clouds momentarily obscured the stars and moon, casting the area in unrelenting blackness, which suited his purposes perfectly.
He pulled in a slow, deep breath of cool air scented with the first hints of autumn, opened the window and slipped inside a well-appointed sitting room. As he searched, taking care to leave everything exactly as he found it, he noted that Mrs. Ralston had an excellent eye for furnishings and a weakness for artwork. Framed pieces adorned the cream-colored walls, everything from landscapes to sketches to framed poetry to portrait miniatures.
Based on what little he’d been able to find out about her since he’d first heard her name just two days earlier, Genevieve Ralston was not a rich woman, yet her possessions spoke of understated wealth. How could she afford such trappings? Gifts from a generous benefactor-or payment for murder?
A loud meow broke into his thoughts and he looked down. An enormous black-and-white cat stared up at him, its fluffy tail twitching.
“Are you friend or foe?” he murmured.
The cat rubbed its whiskers against his boots then twined its furry self between his feet.
“Friend, then.” He crouched down to scratch behind the beast’s ears and was rewarded with the loudest purr he’d ever heard.
“You like that, don’t you.” A smile pulled at his lips when the cat answered with what sounded like a feline sigh of bliss.
“You must be a lady. You’re much too pretty to be a boy.”
She flicked her tail and moved just out of his reach, then looked at him as if to say, “If you want to continue to pet me, you’ll have to come over here.”
A chuckle tickled Simon’s throat. Definitely a female.
He stretched out his arm and gave the cat one last scratch, then rose. “As grateful as I am that you’re not a large snarling dog, I’m afraid I have no more time for you.”
Precisely. Time was ticking and the alabaster box was nowhere in the sitting room. He moved on to the dining room, library and morning room, with the cat following him, weaving between his legs at every opportunity. Artwork and finely crafted furniture filled each room, but he found nothing resembling the box he sought. Tamping down his frustration, Simon climbed the stairs and made his way to Mrs. Ralston’s bedchamber. After closing the door behind him to keep out the overly curious cat, he glanced around, noting it was the most richly appointed room in the house. Moonlight now streamed in through the windows flanking the four-poster bed covered with a pale-green counterpane and accented with fluffy pillows. Opposite the bed was a dresser and an oval cheval glass. A massive carved-wood wardrobe and dressing screen occupied the far wall, while a feminine escritoire and a chintz-covered chair lined the other.
More framed artwork hung on the pale-gray walls, but the most striking object in the room was a life-sized statue of a woman wearing nothing save a secretive smile. She stood in the corner beside the escritoire, a reigning goddess of pure-white marble that glowed in the moonlight. One of her graceful hands extended outward in invitation, and Simon could almost hear her teasingly whisper
Pulling his gaze from the statue, he crossed to the wardrobe. An examination of the contents revealed that Mrs. Ralston preferred simple yet exquisitely made gowns in fine materials and owned more bonnets and shoes than any woman could possibly require. His brows raised when he discovered a small, pearl-handled pistol tucked inside a boot in the back of the wardrobe. Clearly, in spite of living in a sleepy little village, Mrs. Ralston felt the need for protection. From what? Or whom? Did she fear for her safety because she was guilty of something-such as the death of her former lover?
So many questions regarding this woman…questions, he suspected, that would lead to the answers he sought regarding Ridgemoor’s death, thereby proving Simon’s innocence and saving his neck from the hangman’s noose.
He continued on to the dresser. Several pale strands of Mrs. Ralston’s blond hair were trapped in her brush. He lifted the cut-crystal perfume bottle to his nose and sniffed. She liked the scent of roses. Small ceramic pots on the dresser top contained an array of feminine creams and potions.
The first two drawers revealed dozens of pairs of gloves, in a dizzying variety of styles, materials and colors. Bloody hell, her weakness for shoes and bonnets didn’t begin to compare with her apparent addiction to gloves. The other drawers revealed chemises and stockings so sheer they were nearly transparent. Simon well knew that the more sheer the underclothes, the more costly they were. Obviously Mrs. Ralston had done very well for herself. Because she traded in secrets and murder plots that impacted national security?
He slipped his hands beneath the filmy undergarments and stilled when his fingers brushed something hard. His pulse kicking with excitement, he slipped the object from its hiding place.
An alabaster box.
With a rush of satisfaction, he moved closer to the beam of silvery moonlight and turned the book-sized object in his hand. A quick examination revealed it wasn’t an ordinary box, but a puzzle. Bloody hell. He’d opened boxes such as this-depending on the intricacy of the pattern involved, it could require anywhere from a few minutes to several hours to find the correct combination of moves to release the top.
He hoped like hell it would only require a few minutes.
Employing the calm patience that had served him well through the years, he pressed his fingers over the cool, smooth surface, searching for a panel that would slide. The previous boxes he’d opened had been made of wood inlaid with intricate designs, which had made finding the sliding panels a bit easier. This box, however, looked like a solid piece of alabaster and contained no markings other than the pale swirls of color that naturally occurred in the mineral.
Several minutes passed before he finally touched the right spot and a slim section of alabaster slid forward. He continued, painstakingly touching the box again and again until he discovered the next small section to slide into place.
For the next quarter hour, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the mantel clock as he turned the box over and over, working the intricate pattern of sliding pieces. Finally he slid the piece into place that released the top of the box.
And stared into an empty cavity.
He frowned, slipping his fingers all around the inside the chamber, but it was indeed empty. Bloody hell.
Where was the letter? The proof he needed to save his neck? His lips flattened into a grim line. It seemed clear that Mrs. Ralston had found the evidence before he could.
Why would she remove it? The fact that she must have done so certainly pointed directly toward guilt of some sort. Had she acted alone in the plot to kill Ridgemoor, or was she in collaboration with others? What role did she play in this circle of death closing in on him? And what the bloody hell would she have done with the information? Hidden it somewhere else in the house?
Another quick examination of the box confirmed his belief that no other opening existed. With a sigh of frustration and disgust, he slid the panels back into place, replaced the box among the sheer underclothes and closed the drawer.
What next? Where to look? His gaze landed on the night table, and he strode across the room. A bouquet of flowers in a small crystal vase rested on the table’s polished wood surface, along with an oil lamp and a book. Simon peered at the title.
Interesting. He’d noted that same title during his search of the library. There had recently been some scandal attached to the book he remembered, although he hadn’t paid particular attention. Still, it was curious that Mrs.
