After nearly being strangled, she could hardly argue. She would have to tell him all tomorrow. She would tell him about the hat-and then she would have to tell him about the rest, too.
But what of her promise to Mary Anne, her sworn oath that she'd say nothing to anyone about the letters?
What price an oath to a friend?
She'd never imagined facing such a decision. Finding the letters should have been so easy. Even now, if only she could search upstairs at the Manor. She'd been thinking of going one night, when the servants were abed. She knew which room to avoid, but the other rooms… Mary Anne's grandmother's traveling writing desk had to be in one of them. She doubted it had been put in the attic. No-it would be sitting on some chest somewhere, looking dainty and delicate, just waiting for her to retrieve the letters…
Lifting her head, she looked across her room. The moonlight was bright; she could see her dresser clearly, even make out the scrollwork around her mirror's rim.
She pushed up onto her elbows.
Before tomorrow morning dawned and brought Lucifer with it, she had at least four hours of deep night. Time enough to search the first floor rooms at the Manor, find the letters, and return home. And the window in the Manor's dining room still had a loose latch.
She flung aside the covers. If she didn't find the desk tonight, then tomorrow she'd tell Lucifer all and ask for his aid in finding the letters. Despite Mary Anne's and Robert's paranoia, she felt confident that if he bothered to read them at all, the contents of the letters would gain no more than a raised eyebrow from Lucifer; she couldn't imagine him giving the letters to Mr. Crabbs.
But for Mary Anne, and to honor her promise, she'd make one last attempt to find the letters.
Struggling into her clothes, she glanced out at the shifting shadows of the wood. She'd be safe. No one, not even the murderer, would imagine she'd be out tonight.
She was still repeating that thought when she reached the edge of the wood and looked across at the Manor. She'd worked her way farther around the house; across the lawns stood the dining room. To reach the corner window, she'd have to pick her way across the gravel drive.
Steeling herself, she started across, carefully placing each foot before transferring her weight to it. Luckily, her enforced sleep and the brisk walk through the wood had left her physically alert. She reached the beds before the dining room with barely a crunch.
The latch was certainly loose; just a jiggle and the window swung wide. She hauled herself up onto the wide sill, then sat and swung her legs in.
Easing down to the floor, she closed the window, then listened. The house was asleep-she could feel the silence like a heavy cloak hanging undisturbed all around her. Shadows draped the furniture, rendered deeper by the moonlight slanting through the uncurtained windows. Like all the ground-floor rooms, this room was lined with bookcases. Once her eyes had adjusted enough to pick out the books, she moved silently around the large table.
The door to the front hall stood wide; beyond was a sea of shadows. She paused before the doorway, gathering her courage.
Movement. Just by the foot of the stairs. She froze.
A foot above the floor, a disembodied plume came swaying through the shadows, then the cat lifted its head; its eyes gleamed.
She sagged with relief. The cat considered her, then, unperturbed, paced down the hall, tail raised, still swaying.
Phyllida dragged in a calming breath. It had to be a good sign-a cat would sense any evil intruder. Presumably she was the only intruder tonight. She hadn't expected the murderer to be here, yet…
Putting the nagging worry aside, she crossed the hall, treading lightly, then started up the stairs. She trod close to the banister to minimize the chance of any telltale creak. Reaching the landing, she paused and looked up.
The gallery above was dense with shadow. She took a moment to reorient herself. The last time she'd been upstairs at the Manor was before Horatio had bought it. She knew he'd remodeled and refurbished extensively, but the basic layout of the rooms remained unchanged.
On the way through the wood, she'd distracted herself by planning her search. Horatio had been ill for a week before his death. He'd written to Lucifer in that time, and he'd always had a deal of correspondence. He might have been using the desk himself.
The idea had given her heart. There was no point looking anywhere else before she searched Horatio's room, so she would search it first, even though it was separated from the room Lucifer occupied only by a narrow dressing room.
Reaching the head of the stairs, she stepped into the corridor. Hugging the wall, she slid along, tensing with each footstep, praying for no creaks. The door to the front corner room loomed out of the darkness; it was shut.
She halted, sparing a moment to take it in and breathe a little easier. The image of her nemesis sprawled on his stomach in the big bed at the Grange flashed into her mind. She'd survived the sight once. Even more to the point, tonight she wasn't going to open his door.
She swiveled her gaze to the opposite door, the one to Horatio's room. It stood open-another piece of luck. Mrs. Hemmings had told her that, other than tidying, they'd left the room as it was. Confidence welling, Phyllida resisted the urge to hurry; keeping to her careful glide, she covered the last yards to the door and moved inside.
Halting, she listened, senses straining for any sound, any hint she'd alerted anyone to her presence. Around her, the huge house remained silent, inanimate yet with a presence of its own. Nowhere in that presence could she sense any threat.
Drawing in a steadying breath, she looked around. The room was large, the curtains drawn. She could see enough to avoid the furniture, but not enough to be certain what it was. Grasping the doorknob, lifting to minimize any scrape, she eased the door into its frame. She didn't push it fully closed, didn't want to risk the sound of the bolt falling home. But it was shut enough for her purpose, wedged tight enough that it couldn't swing open.
She still needed to move quietly, but she no longer needed to skulk. Surveying the room, she blew out a breath. Searching thoroughly was going to take more than a few minutes.
The huge bed stood foursquare between twin windows overlooking the lake. A large blanket chest stood at its foot; another heavy chest stood back against one wall. There were two large tallboys, both with deep lower drawers, and three huge armoires. The traveling writing desk could be in any one of them.