To his delight, Gillian leaned closer. The warmth of her breath tickled—a delicious feeling. “My uncle’s desk, his rooms? Is such an invasion of his personal rooms really necessary? You have the note speaking of a meeting.”
“Gillian, unfortunately, we must mount our search here for any information that will either solidify our case of treason or as you believe clear him of any wrongdoing. Should we prove your uncle is not involved, we may find evidence of who is.”
She grumbled. “Must we abuse my uncle’s hospitality? Wasn’t one infraction of his privacy enough? The silly man goes to tea with King George each week. He is one of a few who are still allowed to visit. Queen Charlotte holds him in great respect and encourages his visits with the king. A boon few receive. What would she say if she knew your suspicions?”
He closed his eyes and prayed for patience before explaining himself. A feat he never did, not even to his mother. Thus, only confirming having a wife was a tedious business.
“Gillian, Queen Charlotte would be the first to say I should leave no rock unturned to ensure her husband’s monarchy. I abhor invading Whitney’s rooms as much as you do. This is our procedure. Searching his desk and rooms will establish those rooms as free of incriminating evidence as of a specific date should we be called to testify.”
Gillian picked up her serviette and wiped her mouth. “Well, if you are intent on this search, we should get this business over with. Shall we?”
Before he could rise from his chair, she pushed her own backward and rose. Moreham jumped up grabbing her arm. Didn’t the girl listen to him? This was no game, they must act their parts as a newly wedded couple, or all would be lost before they ever got started.
“Gillian, you are in love, remember?” He muttered as the dining room doors opened before them.
She stopped walking and leaned closer and twitched his cravat and smiled at him. At least, that was what the butler saw. Moreham saw the anger in her eyes.
“Dearest James, I would like to spend the evening in the library. I’ll have Perkins retrieve that book of poems from our sitting room and you can read to me.”
To his surprise, the minx brushed his hair back from his brow before going up on her tiptoes and kissing him. Not a kiss of passion. A quick buss on the lips. To his dismay, once she returned flat footed to the floor, he felt bereft.
An ill wind blew down his back at the sight of amusement in Gillian’s eyes as she took hold of his arm and led him out of the dining room. At that moment, he knew he was in trouble. Was his father looking down on him, laughing at how easily this slip of a woman had bound him in knots?
Once the tea tray was served and Perkins had delivered Gillian’s book, they were finally alone. Gillian bounced to her feet, but he tugged her back down beside him on the settee with a finger to her lips.
“Wait, we may have a spy already among us.”
“You don’t think Perkins is your spy?”
“No, but one of the footmen? Do you recognize all the servants we’ve seen today?”
“No, but I am certain my aunt ordered additional staff be retained to accommodate her guests.”
“Exactly, far easier to slip someone into the house. House party needs a full staff to see to the duke’s guests. Now, shall we?”
Moreham picked up the volume Lyrical Ballads, with a Few Other Poems and rolled his eyes. “You like Wordsworth and Coleridge?”
“Of course, I do. Do I seem like a brainless ninny to you?” Gillian shot back.
She fell back against the cushions looking like a pasha. He thumbed his way to Coleridge’s poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Serve her right to have to endure the insufferable poet’s words. If he could have found a volume of Byron’s works, he’d have really made her suffer.
The low ebb and flow of Moreham’s voice washed over Gillian like a babe’s lullaby. With a start she realized he was no longer reading, and she couldn’t say if he had finished reading the poem about the old mariner or had just stopped.
“I haven’t heard any footsteps in the last quarter hour. I think we can get on with our work.” Moreham whispered, “You go to the door. Don’t open it but keep your ear to the keyhole. You should be able to hear footsteps if someone is coming this way.”
He nudged Gillian toward the door. He had stopped reading halfway through the poem. The dreamy look in her eyes mesmerized him. All he wanted to do was lean over and kiss her. He slammed the book shut and was rewarded by Gillian’s abrupt start to the sound. She hesitated for an instant then left him to stand watch at the library doors.
Once she waved in his direction, Moreham went around the large monstrosity of a desk. Ornately carved with lion heads on each corner, the mahogany wood shined from years of polishing. The surface was bare except for one inkwell and a pair of quills in the top right corner. Ready for the duke to appear and work without any fuss.
He sat down in the upholstered chair behind the desk. Moreham pulled each drawer open and found only orderly stacks of foolscap and more quills in one of the top drawers. Another had fresh ledger books with the duke’s crest embossed on the front. Nothing.
He closed the bottom drawer with a resounding thud. To his surprise, Gillian had remained quietly at her post. He stood then moved around the room on the lookout for a safe behind one of the many paintings, only to come up empty.
Completely dejected, at not finding anything either to clear the duke or to condemn him, Moreham heard Gillian squeal a few seconds before she slammed into his body.
“S-someone’s c-coming,” she stuttered in his ear.
For someone
