“Perhaps we should ride to the Abbey and see if Dalziel has sent any word.”
Charles shook his head. “Not enough time has passed since I sent my report. The reply will come late tonight at the earliest, but most likely sometime tomorrow.” He looked at her. “Let’s have a quick lunch at the Pelican, and then, given Nicholas had a delivery this morning, I think a stint in the folly might be wise.”
They walked on in silence. As they neared the Pelican, she said, “On the way back, I’m going to stop off at Essington Manor. If I’m not seen about, visiting as usual, people will start wondering where I am—”
“And what you’re doing.” Charles sent her one of his devilish grins. “Good idea. I’ll endure the folly on my own. Who knows?” He arched a brow at her as he held the door of the Pelican wide. “I might even catch up on some sleep.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, elevated her nose, and swept past.
And hoped, in the dimmer light inside, that he wouldn’t see her blush.
That blush hadn’t owed its genesis to any prudish start but to her realization of how reluctant she was to forgo an afternoon in the folly with him.
But reason had to prevail.
When she rode into the Wallingham Hall stables at five o’clock—and not a minute earlier, as he’d instructed—he was waiting. Together they walked up to the house.
“Did anything occur this afternoon?”
“No. Nicholas is sitting tight.” Charles looked toward the wing that housed the library. “I’m inclining to the notion that he doesn’t know who to contact any more than he did when he first came here looking for Granville’s friends. If that’s so, it’ll be pointless to arrange to give him something worth another pillbox to sell. However, I think he’s very much afraid someone knows to contact him, and he doesn’t know what to do.”
“So he’s being extracareful.”
“Indeed. I’m going to try to rattle him this evening.”
Reaching the garden door they entered, and once again went their separate ways. She repaired to her room, bathed and changed for dinner; given Norris was in Charles’s confidence, she expected he was doing the same. Certainly, when she walked into the drawing room fifteen minutes before the dinner hour, he appeared immaculately groomed.
He was standing with Nicholas by the fireplace, dwarfing Nicholas more by vitality than size, and appeared to be in expansive good humor—a fact Nicholas, it seemed, had learned to view with suspicion, as well he might.
She did her best to provide the right foil for Charles’s machinations; it didn’t truly matter which of them Nicholas decided to trust. If he ever did; despite Charles’s best efforts—not overtly intimidating but in a vein any scion of Eton or Harrow would instantly recognize and correctly interpret, such as a largely one-sided discussion of the type of secrets that Gimby might have assisted in ferrying across the Channel—Nicholas remained tight-lipped.
Indeed, his resistance seemed to have hardened. The antipathy between the two that Charles had originally remarked seemed to be resurfacing.
When, hours later, she went into the front hall to farewell Charles, much to Nicholas’s transparent relief, she murmured, “He’s more…dogged, don’t you think?”
Charles nodded, the line of his lips tending grim. “We’re going backward with him. He’s come out of his funk and realized we have no evidence whatever. If he just sits tight, he’ll escape any net.”
“I wonder,” she said, walking toward the front door left open to the pleasant night, “if something in those papers he received might account for his change of heart. Perhaps we could look at them later?”
“He’s keeping them in his room, but there’s nothing there other than what he suggested—memos he needs to approve.”
When she turned to stare at him, he smiled. “Norris has missed his calling. He looked, and remembered enough for me to be sure.”
She sighed. “In that case…” Raising her head, she met his eyes and gave him her hand. “I’ll bid you…au revoir.”
His smile deepened. “Indeed.” Lifting her hand, he pressed a kiss to her fingertips, paused, his gaze on hers, then turned her hand and pressed a much more intimate kiss—one she felt to her marrow—to her palm, then gracefully bowed, released her, and went out and down the steps.
Leaning against the doorframe, a smile curving her lips, she listened to the scrunch of his boots as he headed around the house toward the stables. Outside, the night was peaceful, serene but dark; the moon had yet to rise. She drank in the silence, let the aura of home wrap her about. And thought of how long it would take Charles to circle the house and slip upstairs.
Her smile deepening, she straightened and turned inside. As she crossed the front hall, Nicholas came out of the drawing room. He halted; a faint frown shadowed his face.
Drawing near, she raised her brows in easy query.
“How does Lostwithiel come and go? I haven’t heard wheels on the gravel when he leaves.”
She smiled in understanding. “He’s most at home in a saddle. Knowing him, he rides over the fields—he never was one to stick to any straight and narrow.”
“Indeed?”