Th
e silver-capped crystal did not echo her satisfaction.
“You have no idea how much mental effort is required to create a story,” she added. “It is very hard work.”
Her stomach growled in agreement. It had been several hours since the midday meal.
Deciding to reward her diligence with a break for some tea and pastries, Anna set off for the main parlor, where a collation of light refreshments were laid out for the guests throughout the day. After nuncheon, most of the ladies—including Caro, who had decided to visit the local bookshop—had gone on the shopping expedition with Lady Dunbar. And with all but a few of the men off tramping the moors, the house felt eerily empty.
It was silly, she knew, but the silence seemed to be whispering to her as she made her way through the corridor.
She was simply faint with hunger, Anna told herself. And her mind was half-lingering in its own inner world of imagination.
The suggestion was too brash—even for one of the Hellions of High Street.
She tried to ignore it, but the rustle of her skirts kept repeating the message.
A lady ought to be a little dangerous.
Exhaling an oath, Anna hurried across the landing instead of turning for the stairs and darted into the corridor housing Devlin’s rooms. At the midday meal, she had confirmed that he and the two other single gentlemen quartered here had elected to be part of the hunting party. So there was hardly any danger of being caught.
She promised herself that she wouldn’t spend long.
Just a quick look around.
For what? A horde of stolen jewels hidden in a waistcoat pocket? Priceless paintings rolled up and stuffed in a boot?
Shutting her ears to the voice of reason, she carefully counted her way down the doors. A peek at the housekeeper’s chart had revealed which room was his.
Holding her breath, Anna pressed the latch…
Only to find it locked.
Pulling a hairpin from her chignon, she offered up silent prayer of thanks to her late father. His expeditions had often taken him to wild places, and he had thought it important to teach his daughters basic survival skills so that they could fend for themselves if need be. Opening locks was one of them.
A deft jiggle released the catch.
Hoping her luck would hold, Anna slipped inside.
Considering Devlin’s dissolute reputation, the sitting room was surprisingly tidy. The furniture was free of rumpled clothing, the decanters appeared untouched, the desk was neat, with papers and books arranged in orderly piles.
Though she was curious as to what he was reading, Anna forced herself to head into the bedchamber. Averting her eyes from the large canopied bed, she opened the massive armoire and hurriedly checked through the clothing and bandboxes for anything suspicious.
Finding nothing, she looked around a little guiltily. It appeared she had let her imagination run wild. There was really nothing out of the ordinary about the marquess’s personal effects. Granted, a bejeweled ring—assuming it had actually been stolen—was small enough to hide anywhere. But suddenly it felt absurd to have fantasized that the man was a thief.
After taking a half-hearted look inside the chest of drawers, Anna was about to leave when she remembered the adjoining dressing room. It was unlikely that there would be anything other than an assortment of sporting boots and oilskin cloaks within the small space, but since she was here…
“How odd,” she murmured, giving the door latch another jiggle.
It, too, was locked. Which made no sense at all.
Once again, the hairpin made quick work of manipulating the levers. With a soft click, the door swung open several inches.
Pressing her hand to the waxed wood, Anna felt her pulse kick up a notch.
The thump, thump, thump began to hammer in her ears as she tentatively gave it a small push.
“Oh, stop acting like a peagoose,” she muttered. “There is likely a perfectly plausible reason for locking…”