She placed her ear against the lock and began delicately to turn the knob. The clicks sounded like crashing cymbals in the silence, but experience told her that only she could hear them. Her fingers were slippery with sweat and her shoulders cramped abruptly with the tension.
She straightened, rolling her shoulders, and dried her sweating fingers on the skirt of the robe. Then she bent again to her task, listening for the sweet connection when the tumblers meshed. The night stretched into eternity in the silent, silver-washed room. The winter-bare branch of a tree scraped against the window and her heart jumped into her throat. She took a deep breath and continued with the delicate manipulation.
"Got it!" she breathed in soft satisfaction as she felt the tumblers connect. Gently, she eased open the door of the safe and surveyed its contents-the spymaster's secrets laid bare.
Wiping her hands again, she took out the sheaf of papers. She hadn't known what she'd find, but this series of neat accounting documents, columns of figures, prices of wheat, lists of repairs to tenant housing, was not what she'd expected.
Disappointed, she replaced the papers and closed the safe. Back to square one. She turned to pick up the volumes from the side table. Something caught her eye. A shaft of moonlight set something aglimmer on the carpet at the bottom of the bookcase.
She bent to look more closely. A fine strand of silvery hair lay on the carpet. Her body went very still as her mind raced. It was easily explained. Nathaniel had been at the safe earlier, she'd seen him. He could have brushed a fallen hair from his shoulder.
But supposing he hadn't? The hair was an old trick to test for intruders. Could Nathaniel be testing her?
Of course he could. He was a spymaster. The cleverest the English had ever had, according to Talleyrand and Fouche. Why else would he so nonchalantly reveal the location of his safe?
Damn the man! He was a crafty, devious, bloody-minded, oversuspicious snake! And now she'd have to put it back.
The whole tedious business of manipulating the knob began again. She refused to wonder how long she'd been down here… to speculate on whether Nathaniel was asleep… to consider for one minute the possibility of discovery.
The safe door finally opened again. Gabrielle held the hair between finger and thumb. Where had he placed it? At the top, or at the side?
Merde! She couldn't possibly know. But then again, perhaps it wouldn't matter. As soon as he opened the door, the hair would surely fall out just as it had when she'd opened it. And he'd never see where it came from. But he might be looking for it.
She had no choice. Swiftly yet delicately she inserted the hair between the upper edges of the safe and its door and closed the door again. She wiped the surface of the safe with the full sleeve of the robe so there were no smudges or fingerprints. Then her heart sank again. Could he have used a film of dusting powder as well? If so, she was lost.
There was no sign of powder now and no use in worrying about it, she told herself briskly, replacing the volumes of Locke. She looked around the room again.
To her astonishment, she saw from the clock that the entire futile operation had lasted less than half an hour.
Her spirit rebelled at retiring empty-handed. There was still the locked drawer in the desk. A much easier proposition, and it might yield something of interest.
She flitted to the desk. The paper knife was where it had been that morning. She sat in Nathaniel's big leather chair and gently slid the blade of the knife between the top of the drawer and the desk, feeling for the hinge of the lock. Once located, it was simplicity itself to press the hinge down with the tip of the knife, springing the lock. The drawer contained a roll of parchment tied with a black tibbon.
Gabrielle looked at it, chewing her lip. Surely a spymaster wouldn't keep precious secrets tied up with a ribbon. They must be private documents.
Just to be sure, she lifted the roll of papers from the drawer, untied the ribbon, and unrolled them.
They were letters, very private letters. Love letters. They were a courtship correspondence between Nathaniel Praed and his then fiancee, Helen. Gabrielle stared at the signatures, hardly taking in the contents. She hadn't bargained for anything quite so intimate.
Suddenly, the fine hairs on the nape of her neck rose and her scalp crawled. She couldn't hear anything, but the knowledge that someone was approaching ran in her veins, turning her blood as cold and thin as a mountain stream. She dropped the letters into the drawer, the ribbon on top of them, and softly closed the drawer just as the doorknob turned.
"I've been looking all over for you. I can't go to sleep when you're staying up on your own. What are you doing in here? It's as cold as charity."
Nathaniel, still in his robe, stood in the doorway, squinting into the silvered dimness.
Gabrielle's heart hammered. How long had he been looking all over for her? How had she not heard his steps in the house? What if he'd walked in a minute earlier?
"I was looking for something to read," she said, rising casually from the chair, turning to lean against the desk with the appearance of complete relaxation while covering the violated drawer with the skirts of Nathaniel's robe. Not that there was anything to see, but for the moment she was so unnerved, she could almost imagine her guilt gleaming behind her.
"In the dark?" Nathaniel stepped farther into the room.
"I was looking for flint and tinder." Both commodities were in full view on the mantelshelf, and she averted her eyes.
"I'll light the candle for you." Nathaniel strolled over to the fireplace. Flint scraped and a pool of golden light fell from the candle on the mantelpiece.
"What do you feel like reading?" Taking the candlestick, he held it high and walked over to the bookshelves.
Gabrielle pushed herself away from the desk. Somehow, she'd have to reopen the drawer and retie the letters with the black ribbon. Surely he wouldn't want to look at them tonight. Oh, please don't let him want to revisit the correspondence tonight!
"I don't really know. I was feeling restless." She came up beside him, brushing against him as she examined the spines of the books under the candlelight.
Nathaniel glanced down at her. Her pallor in the golden glow seemed more pronounced than usual. "I don't know about restless," he commented. "You look drained. Why don't you try to sleep instead?"
"Yes, perhaps I will." She pushed back her hair and offered him what she hoped was a natural smile. Lightly, she blew out the candle he held. "Let's go upstairs."
Nathaniel made no attempt to persuade her to join him in his bed when she turned toward her own apartments. He said only, "If you need me, you know where to find me."
"Yes," she replied. "Thank you."
She stood by the connecting door between her boudoir and Nathaniel's apartments for ten minutes, listening for the silence that would tell her he was asleep again. When she could no longer hear the creak of the bedropes as he settled himself for sleep, she sped down to the library, once again blocking her mind to all thoughts of discovery, worked her trick with the paper knife again, retied the letters, and replaced them in as near to their original position as she could remember.
It had been an unproductive night's work… except that she now knew that the spymaster did not trust her.
Chapter 9
"How long will it take us to journey to Burley Manor, Simon?"
"Burley Manor?" Lord Vanbrugh looked up from his platter of sirloin, regarding his wife with some surprise as she entered the breakfast parlor.
"Yes. I've just had a letter from Gabby." Georgiana flourished a sheet of paper that had arrived with her morning chocolate. "She wants us to send on all her belongings. She's staying with Lord Praed for-let me see, how did she put it-ah, yes, here it is, an indefinite period, she says."