Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

Frowning, he crossed his arms and considered the conflicting evidence. On one hand, the clumsiness of the search betrayed an inexperience in spying. On the other, the lock-picking skills said otherwise.

“Damn.” Uttering the oath aloud, Devlin lit the lamp and angled the beam of light into every nook and cranny of the far wall. He worked his way back methodically around the rest of the room’s perimeter, then concentrated his efforts on the area beneath his work table.

There, between a narrow joint of the floor planks was a colored thread caught on a splinter. He picked it out and carefully folded it in his handkerchief, though the chances were slim that it meant anything. Tucking it backing his pocket, he redoubled his efforts. But after a thorough search turned up no other clue that might help him identify the intruder, he finally gave up and returned to his sitting room.

Picking up his whisky, Devlin set the amber liquid to swirling in a slow, spinning, vortex. He disliked being at a disadvantage. However, for the moment there was nothing to do but wait for his unknown adversary to make the next move.

Or was there?

After a meditative sip, he returned to his temporary workroom and took out his most powerful magnifying glass from a wooden case beneath his paintbox. Fishing his handkerchief from his coat, he smoothed out the snowy white square of cambric and arranged the thread in its center.

Light winked off the highly polished lens.

“Well, well, well.”

It was, perhaps, a flimsy scrap of evidence to go on. However he had a keen eye for color and could only recall having seen this exact hue once before.

Chapter Nine

Dust motes danced in the shaft of morning sunlight, the free-spirited swirl of the tiny gold sparkles at odds with her own conflicted mood. Perching a hip on the carved oak windowsill of the deserted picture gallery, Anna took a moment to try to sort out her thoughts.

The previous evening had been a subdued occasion. Both the ladies and the gentlemen had appeared tired from their sojourns into the inclement weather, and after supper, no one had lingered long over tea or cards. Even the marquess had been unnaturally quiet. That he seemed too preoccupied with his own thoughts to torment her with his teasings stirred yet more questions to tangle around the conundrum.

What the Devil was he up to? Was his brooding the sign of a guilty conscience? Or something else altogether?

Try as she might, she couldn’t make any sense of it.

“My own heroine is far more clever than I am,” murmured Anna. “Emmalina can solve all manner of convoluted mysteries, while I find myself doing naught but spinning in mental circles.”

As the day had dawned clear and bright, all the men had set off early for a day-long trek through the moors. Several carts would carry a noontime picnic to a spot near the loch, so they wouldn’t be returning until dusk. As for the ladies, a scenic walk to the nearby abbey ruins had been arranged, with an outdoor nuncheon overlooking the seaside cliffs.

Anna had once again begged off from the excursion—Lady Dunbar must think her more fragile than the most delicate Meissen porcelain figurine. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth.

I am hardier than a horse. But clearly my brain is weaker than that of a fly.

While the others were strolling along the gentle meadow footpaths, she had found her way to a remote part of the castle, where the ancient picture galleries looked as if they hadn’t been visited in years. Walking within their stretches of solitude, watched by only the dour stares of long-departed Dunbar ancestors, afforded a chance to mull over the situation in some much needed privacy.

It wasn’t easy to find any solitude at a house party. Even in her own rooms, there were frequent interruptions as her own maid and the castle tweenies went about their daily tasks.

“Alone at long last,” said Anna, exhaling a sigh.

The whisper of air echoed softly off the age-dark paneling, only to give way to a louder sound,

“Not quite.”

Anna whirled around from the window, dislodging a fresh cloud of dust from the faded velvet drapery. She couldn’t yet spot him in the gloom, but her whole body was suddenly prickling with the awareness of his closeness. “I—I thought you were out stalking birds with the others.”

Devlin stepped out of the shifting shadows. “I decided to do my hunting in here today.”

“I—I am not a grouse.”

“Nor a pigeon,” he agreed. “If anything, you are a finely feathered predator, a sharp-eyed hawk or eagle who is no less lethal for all its lithe, lovely lines and aerial grace.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” said Anna, yet even to her own ears, the assertion rang hollow.

He came a step closer and held up his hand. “I’m talking about this.”

In the hazy half light, it appeared that the only thing grasped between his fingers was thin air.