On the way up the well-remembered flight of stairs to the second floor, memories flooded back. The pictures on the walls, all gone now, the pale green paint picked out in white replaced with Chinese silk. She flung open the chamber door, fearing the worst. If the pictures were gone, would the furniture be gone, too?

Everything was covered in holland covers—chairs, chests, tables. Hardly daring to hope, she lifted the corner of a sheet and discovered her father’s desk in its usual place. A cloud of dust rose in the air. She sneezed. The woman who dusted clearly didn’t make a very good job of it.

She smiled at the desk she remembered so well. Her father’s escritoire, inlaid with gilt and rosewood flowers and birds. She’d sat on his lap while he wrote his personal letters. She also remembered the secret drawer beneath the lid.

Could it be this simple? Could what she sought be right here, tucked away and forgotten? If it was going to be anywhere, would it not be here where he must have known she would look?

It had to be.

Breath held, fingers trembling with hope, Rosa felt far at the back for the catch inside on the roof of the pigeonhole. A small raised knob. It was easier to twist as a child. It slipped from between her thumb and forefinger. She huffed. Tried again. It turned. A faint click.

A drawer slid out from the elegant carving above the writing surface. She peered in. Nothing.

Either someone had found it already, or … Neither scenario boded well for her quest. She refused to give room to her doubts. He must have put it elsewhere.

She would not lose hope. For her sisters’ sake, she must search everywhere.

She glanced around the room. Under the bed?

She crawled on the floor, but found only dust.

Perhaps another secret hiding place. One she did not know about. She walked around the room and its adjoining dressing room, pushing and twisting any projection or seeming oddity in the hearth and the panelling until her fingers were sore.

A loose floorboard squeaked beneath her feet. She snatched up the poker and pried it up. An old mouse’s nest, full of bits of wool and fluff, met her gaze.

Rosa shuddered.

Despair rose in her throat. Hot moisture burned the backs of her eyes. She swallowed hard. She’d been so sure it would be in the desk.

She sucked in a breath. She’d try the other bedrooms on this floor and then the library, and after that, she’d try every other room in the house. And if she didn’t find it tonight, she’d come back tomorrow.

Oh, please let her find it tonight.

Garth wanted to curse. He would never have believed the woman could slip out of a house so quickly. He’d had to run to catch her up. Or at least to catch up to the sight of her lantern willow-wisping ahead to who knew where.

Thank heavens for the lack of a moon, though he could have done without the rain.

The lantern danced ahead like a glow worm. Or a naughty little wood sprite of children’s stories. Except there was nothing of the wood sprite in Mrs Travenor. Far from it. She looked like an innocent and sang like a siren, an erotic siren. As exotic as an eastern princess.

The lantern stopped bobbing.

Damn. She’d heard him. He remained still, not breathing, staring into the dark, listening to the sound of the rain splattering on leaves, on his hat and his shoulders. The rain itself was of the fine drizzling sort, a kind of irritating mist, but the leaves harboured the foggy stuff, releasing it in big fat drops.

The twinkle moved on. Faster this time. He increased the length of his stride, determined not to lose her. In his mind’s eye, he tried to guess her destination. There was nothing out here, except woods. He’d checked with the gardeners.

A new sound, the sound of running water, overpowered the pattering of the rain on the leafy floor. A small stream, if he recalled the map, with a narrow footbridge. It defined the boundary of the neighbouring estate.

The progress of the lantern slowed to a crawl. He drew closer, catching glimpses of ancient wooden rails in the swinging circle of light. Why would she risk life and limb crossing such a rickety structure?

He waited until she was clear and approached the stream. Feeling the slick boards beneath his feet and the shake in the timbers in his grip, he crossed slowly.

Wherever she was going, it had to be important to risk traversing this bridge.

By the time he reached the other side, all sign of her lantern had disappeared. Cursing under his breath, he wandered around seeking a path. Without her light to guide him, it took him a good few minutes to find the track, only to discover he’d gone in a circle ending back at the bridge. This time he used his brain and sparked his tinderbox. In the brief flash it provided, he found her footprints in the mud, heading off to the right.

He pressed on through the tangle of brambles. A wet branch slapped him in the face. He grabbed for his hat. He cursed at the trickle of chilly rain running down between his collar and his skin. Any owner of a property who let his woods grow wild ought to be shot.

The woods ended at a lawn. And beyond the lawn there had to be a house.

Got you!

He frowned. Why so much secrecy? He couldn’t imagine

Lady Keswick caring if her lady companion had a special friend at her neighbour’s house. He could even imagine the old girl encouraging the lass.

Perhaps she had. Then why not admit it?

He forged on. The house was there, he knew, he’d seen it on the map, but strangely, it was utterly dark. Even if all the occupants were abed, which they couldn’t be if she was meeting someone there, then there ought to be some light in the corridors and stairways.

The house must be empty.

The crunching of gravel beneath his feet signified he’d reached a drive, albeit a rather weedy one. And at the end of the drive, he found a house. Of Mrs Travenor there was no sign. How far ahead of him was she? He must have lost sight of her at least a half an hour before. He went around to the back of the house and stopped.

Here were the lights he sought. A lantern hanging beside a back entrance to the house. It bounced off slick cobbles.

Of Mrs Travenor there was no sign.

He crossed the courtyard, searching for a clue to her whereabouts. He scanned the back of the house. There. A light. On the second floor. It wasn’t very bright, but it had to be her.

She’d gone inside. It was the only explanation.

What in hell’s name was she doing?

He walked carefully up to what was clearly the kitchen door and put his ear to the crack at the jamb. Nothing.

Slowly, he depressed the latch. The door opened silently. He stilled, breath held. No cry of alarm. No footsteps coming his way. He opened the door enough to allow his body to slide through and closed it behind him.

Now he really was in the dark. In the pitch-black, with the echoing sound of footsteps somewhere deeper in the house.

It seemed Mrs Travenor was up to no good.

A sense of disappointment slid through him, bitter edged and sharp. He hesitated. He could just walk away and forget what he’d seen. Or he could catch her in the act and, damn it, see her brought to justice. Clearly she’d been using Lady Keswick as her dupe to gain access to this empty house and now was about to make off with some sort of loot. His gut knotted. He almost preferred to think of her in the arms of a lover than this.

He fumbled around as quietly as possible until he found the stub of a candle. Taking his time in order not to alert her to his presence, he lit the wick. The light revealed an abandoned kitchen. Clean. Tidy, but definitely not used recently. A narrow set of stairs led upwards. Perfect. He’d take the servants’ stairs to the second floor, where he’d seen the light, and catch her in the act.