An escritoire filled one corner; a comfortable armchair sat before the hearth. The long bay window overlooking the kitchen garden was fitted with a window seat.
Moving past the bed, Phyllida parted the curtains at one side window. The moon was high; silver light streamed in. She looked up-the curtains hung from large wooden rings; both rings and rod were polished from frequent use.
Holding her breath, she drew the curtains evenly back. The rings didn't rattle. Exhaling, she circled the bed and did the same with the other side window, then, for good measure, with the bay window as well.
The result was good-not daylight, but sufficient to search without worrying that she would knock something she hadn't seen to the floor. Fate was on her side ton
ight. Confidence brimming, she knuckled down to her task.
The desk was nowhere in open sight, but both Mrs. Hemmings and Covey had tidied-they might have tidied it away. Phyllida started with an armoire. The deep shelf at the top looked promising; she fetched the chair from the escritoire and checked, but the shelf held only boxes. The chest by the wall held only clothes. She spent minutes wrestling out the bottom drawers of the tallboys, all without making a sound; they were filled with books. The other two armoires were similarly disappointing. By the time she reached the blanket chest, her spirits were sinking. The chest was filled with blankets and linen.
Closing the chest, she sank down on it. The confidence that had fired her thus far-the conviction that tonight she had to find the letters and would-had faded. Yet as she glanced around the room, she couldn't quite believe that the desk wasn't here. She'd felt so sure it would be.
Her scan of the room had her swiveling around; she ended staring at the bed. She rose and looked under it.
Nothing. Heaving a dejected sigh, she clambered to her feet. One boot toe scraped on the polished boards; the sound wasn't loud, but she warned herself to be careful. She still had to search the rest of the rooms on this floor.
She headed for the door, then halted. What about the curtains-would anyone notice if she didn't close them? She frowned at the wide bay window and decided those curtains, at least, she would have to close.
Only fear of detection kept her from trudging dejectedly across the floor. Rounding the window seat, she reached up to the curtains bunched at that end. Her gaze fell on the window seat. Her hand froze on the curtain.
The window seat was a chest in disguise. The padded, chintz-covered top was hinged. Hope flared anew. Phyllida left the curtains wide and moved to the center of the window seat. Sliding her fingers under its edge, she gripped, then lifted. The long seat lifted up.
It was a weight, but she eased it over-at the very last, her fingers slipped and she lost her grip. The padded edge hit the windowsill with a muted thud. Muted enough to ignore. Phyllida looked down at the length of dark chest and prayed: Please, let it be here.
The interior of the chest was deeply shadowed. The lid shaded it and the side windows were too far away to throw much light inside. She would have to search by feel.
She started at one end. The chest was divided into three compartments. Finishing one, she stood and massaged her back, taking a few steps before bending to the compartment at the other end. That, too, proved disappointing.
Standing before the middle section-the last place in this room left to search-she stared into the shadowed chest. Then she sighed, bent, and reached into it.
Her fingers touched polished wood. Her heart leaped. Instantly, she quelled it, reminding herself of the need for care. If she shifted wooden objects around, there'd be bumps and knocks-just the sort of sounds to wake people she didn't want to wake. Like one blind, she felt with her hands, fingers outlining the shapes for her mind.
Walking sticks. A shooting stick. Wooden boxes-could this be it? No-too small. She reached further, easing her fingers between the boxes, trying to ascertain if there was a bigger boxlike object underneath.
Her fingers touched the planks at the bottom of the chest.
At the same instant, a light breeze wafted past her cheek, stirring her hair. Phyllida froze.
No window was open. The only door was the one to the corridor-the one she'd wedged shut.
That door, behind her, was now open.
Slowly, she straightened. Her wildly flickering senses screamed the information that there was someone in the doorway, blocking it. The murderer?
She felt him step forward and whirled-
"Well, well. Why am I not surprised?"
Her breath came out in a rush. Her mind all but wilted with relief. Thank God, thank God-the refrain filled her head, then abruptly died.
Her eyes flared wide, then wider; her wits tripped over themselves, then seized. Her lungs already had; they squeezed tight. She stood and simply stared.
Lucifer was standing just inside the room. His broad shoulders did indeed block the doorway. The moonlight washed over him, lovingly illuminating every muscle, every angle, every plane.
He was naked.
One part of her mind wanted to ask where his nightshirt was; the rest considered the point irrelevant. Wherever it was, it wasn't on him, and that was all that mattered.