Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

Luckily, there were only four missives and she was fairly fluent in the language. Still, she would have to work fast.

They were all penned in the same bold script—a man’s hand, decided Anna, taking a quick peek at the signature on the first one she unfolded. It didn’t confirm her guess—it was simply a large “V”—but she was sure she was right. Just as she was sure that “V” would turn out to be Verdemont. There was, after all, an old saying that lightning never struck the same place twice.

Her surmise on the letter writer’s identity was soon confirmed as she read over the contents. It was indeed Verdemont, and his words left no doubt that he and the comtesse were engaged in a passionate affair. Anna felt a momentary twinge of guilt for prying into the other lady’s personal secrets, but then quelled her misgivings and moved on to the next letter.

Anyone willing to deceive her own sister in such an ugly way might very well be capable of even worse acts of betrayal.

The second and third letters were less overt in their meaning. The mood was more agitated, the innuendos more puzzling. Anna found herself struggling a little with the language.

Eight minutes left.

Did she dare read the last one? It took only a split second to judge it worth the risk.

This one had a slightly ominous tone…assuming her imagination wasn’t running away with her. She needed to reread it several times, for there was a phrase that seemed to make no sense at all, even though she knew the meanings of the French words. A code, perhaps? Frowning, she committed it to memory, thinking that Devlin might have some ideas.

Four minutes.

Praying that Devlin’s charm was holding strong, Anna hastily refolded the letters and placed them back in the secret compartment. After replacing the false bottom, she carefully lifted the necklaces…

Only to freeze at the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

“Don’t panic,” she whispered aloud as the gold began to chatter in her trembling hands. Willing herself to remain calm, Anna arranged the jewelry into the right configuration, then slipped the top tray into its slot.

Shutting the lid, she managed to work the locks into place and then slid the case into its original place.

A key rattled the front latch, the metallic scrape sounding loud as cannon fire.

Thirty seconds. Maybe less.

Anna spun around to the window. If Devlin could manage the ledge, so could she. Her feet were smaller, and dancing with any number of clumsy men had taught her agility and balance. She cracked open the tall leaded glass frame and slipped out—ye gods, it was cold—taking care to pull it firmly shut behind. A piercing gust of damp air cut through her thin stockings and suddenly the ledge felt narrow as razor’s blade.

She quickly edged out of view, just as a flash of candlelight illuminated the panes. Flattening her back against the rough stone, she drew in a gulp of air and held it in her lungs.

A grumbled mutter, the thump of a water jug, the scuff of shoes on the carpet coming close to the casement…

Anna bit her lip and offered up a prayer to the Celtic wind gods that the window wouldn’t fly open.

All at once, the light disappeared as the heavy damask draperies were yanked closed. The steps receded and all she could hea

r was the keening of the wind through the turreted tower and the rustling of leaves below. Anna glanced down—and then wished she hadn’t. The drop looked far greater than it had from inside the room.

Several deep breaths helped to steady her quaking knees. There was no going back. Which meant she had no choice but to swallow her fear and make herself start to move.

Devlin tossed down his cheroot and ground out the glowing coal beneath his boot. Still no signal, though it felt as if a century had passed since his parting with Lady de Blois. Anna should be back in her room by now, a single candle blazing bright in her bedchamber window to say that all was well.

“Damnation.” He glanced up again. “Damn, damn, damn.”

A fresh gust blew across the terrace, further tangling his wind-snarled hair. Too impatient to remain in the niche by the corner wall, he turned up his collar and began to pace along the stone railing.

Only a bloody fool—or an idiot besotted by a beguiling beauty—would have agreed to such a dangerous plan. Her oh-so-clever mind made it hard to remember that Anna had no experience in flesh and blood intrigue. It was all very well to pen swashbuckling feats of daring. Ink and paper did not bleed, imaginary heroines did not die from real life bullets or blades.

A growl welled up in his throat.

Bracing his palms on the stone, Devlin stared out at the mist-shrouded moors and slowly counted to ten. He was allowing his mind to exaggerate the risks. In all likelihood, there was nothing more nefarious going on at Dunbar castle than some illicit trysts.

Turning, he shot another glance up at the looming wall.

Then where was the bloody candle?