The lock answered with a friendly little snick.
Devlin slid the drawer open, revealing a small portfolio bound in burgundy-colored Moroccan leather. Seizing it with both hands, he snapped open the cover and eagerly thumbed through the sheaf of papers.
All of which were blank.
Bloody Hell. Blowing out a disgusted sigh, he was about to drop it back in the drawer when he spotted a dog-eared corner of paper sticking up from beneath a pasteboard box of pencils and pen nibs.
He cautiously lifted it up and saw yet another pile of paper. The top sheet was covered with writing in a neat, feminine hand.
His hesitation lasted for only an instant. He would skim through the first few pages, and if it were a personal diary of girlish hopes and feelings, he would put the rest back unread. His unmerciless teasing to the contrary, he did have some scruples about violating a lady’s privacy.
Taking up the pile—ye gods, it felt more like a novel than a diary—Devlin carried it over to the diamond-paned window. The script was rather small. To make out the letters, he angled the first page into the light and then began to read.
After reaching the bottom, he made himself go over it again before turning to the next page.
Perhaps he needed spectacles, for the words weren’t making any sense. Unless…
No. Impossible.
Devlin made himself finish a few more pages, then took a random look at various sections throughout the manuscript, just to be sure he wasn’t mistaken.
“Bloody Hell.”
This time he said it aloud. Of all the things he had imagined that Anna was hiding, this was certainly not one of them.
And yet, the truth was undeniable. Even if the names “Emmalina” and “Count Alessandro” hadn’t been familiar, the prose style was immediately recognizable.
He wondered what the ton would say if they ever learned that one of the most popular gentlemen in all of London was not a “he” but a “she.”
On second thought, it was too gruesome to contemplate. Gossip was a blood sport in Town. The tabbies would tear her limb from literary limb.
Frowning, Devlin considered what he ought to do about his discovery. But as he contemplated the conundrum, his gaze couldn’t stop from straying back to the writing on the page…
Good Lord, where had she learned about a man doing that in the throes of amorous arousal. He quickly turned the page.
Or that?
His brows shot up. This would no doubt be Sir Sharpe Quill’s best-selling novel yet. Assuming the printed pages didn’t ignite in spontaneous combustion before they reached the bookshops.
And yet, despite all the heated passion, there were several little things that Anna did not seem to get quite right.
Which for some reason was rather pleasing.
Devlin was about to continue—in spite of its small flaws, the scene was becoming irresistibly interesting—when he heard the outer door open and shut.
Damnation. The chambermaids had no reason to be entering the rooms at this hour. Moving silently across the carpet, he peeked through the half-open connecting portal.
Improvise! He had a moment—maybe two—to decide on a strategy.
Chapter Fourteen
Stepping back to the center of the room, Devlin shot a quick look around and then squared his shoulders as he made up his mind to take the bull by the horns. Flight was not an option. And besides, the coming confrontation should prove extremely…
Explosive?
Anna shouldered open the door, her attention focused on the open notebook in her hands. “Drat,” she muttered, not looking up. “What a pity there are no wolves left in Scotland. Their howls would have added a nicely menacing touch to the midnight scene on the moors…”
She would have bumped into him if he hadn’t made a sudden noise.