A Most Dangerous Profession(58)

“I was never in harm’s way. And if I ever found myself there, I’d use my pistol.”

“I’m certain that you’re deadly with the blasted thing, but still . . . for Rowena’s sake, please be careful.”

Moira nodded.

Robert released her, his chest oddly tight. “By the way, we’re blessed with an inordinate number of footmen standing in the hallway.”

“How many?” she asked curiously.

“Twelve.”

“Good God, are we at Versailles?”

“You’d think so. I wonder if they’re here to serve . . . or guard.”

Moira’s brow lowered. “That will make searching the castle much more difficult.”

“I shall think of something.”

She sent him a crooked smile. “I’m sure you will. Are you ready to spend a few hours insulting Sir Lachlan?”

“Are you ready to spend a few hours shamelessly flattering him?”

“Indeed I am.”

“Then we are both ready.” He opened the door. “After you, Mrs. Hurst.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hurst.” She swept past him into the hallway.

The next morning, Robert flipped back his curtain, the sun pouring in as he surveyed the courtyard far below. Except for two horses held at wait by grooms, it was empty.

The evening had gone smoothly. Ross had been charmed by Moira, annoyed by Robert, and increasingly curious about their marital relationship. This morning, Moira had gone to breakfast with Ross while Robert stayed in his room, ostensibly too languid to face the sunrise.

If things were going according to plan, Moira was on her way to an energetic ride with her host, leaving the way clear for Robert. Except for those damn footmen. I shall have to do something about that.

The grooms below brought the horses to the front steps as the huge doors opened and Moira came out, her gloved hand upon Ross’s arm. Ross’s deep voice echoed through the yard, Moira’s head bent toward him as she listened.

Her habit was a masterly creation; though buttoned to the neck and showing not an inch of skin beyond her face, it molded to every curve. Ross was much closer to her than politeness dictated, his hand placed over hers in a possessive manner. A flare of red-hot jealousy caught Robert, and his hands clutched the windowsill until his knuckles were white.

How ridiculous. She was doing exactly what she was supposed to be, and doing it well, too. Ross was quickly becoming enslaved.

So why am I so angry? Robert could think of only one reason: he was beginning to have feelings for Moira. Damn it. That will not do.

Buffon’s knock sounded on the door as Moira and Ross mounted their steeds and trotted out of the courtyard. Robert turned from the window and called for the valet to enter.

Buffon carried a breakfast tray, a small note tucked on one corner. “You have dressed! If you’d told me you wished to do so, I would have come immediately and—”

“I didn’t want anyone to know I’m awake.”

“Ah. More intrigue, eh?” Buffon set down the tray and picked up the small note. “From madame.”

Robert opened the note.


Robert,



This morning went as planned. I told Ross you never rise before noon, and he took great delight in disparaging “lazy city ways.” He has quite a distaste for Edinburgh and especially London. Inside is a sketch of the castle from last night’s tour.



My maid let slip that Sir Lachlan is very fond of his study and spends much of his time there. It may be a good place to begin, if you can find a way to get around the footmen. There must be a hundred of them throughout the castle. On our tour, we were never out of sight of at least two.



Now we’re off on a ride. I expect we’ll return at noon or later, if I can arrange it. Best of luck in your hunt.



Moira


Robert glanced at the map, noting the location of the study, and then slipped it into his pocket. “Buffon, have you found out anything of use yet?”

“Oui, monsieur. I discovered that Ross brags of his collections to all of his visitors, and often brings out special items to win praise. He is a bit of a braggart.”

That could be useful. “Good. What else have you discovered?”

“Not much more, although I have made inroads in cultivating various personages below stairs, including”—Buffon made a face—“Ross’s valet. He might know something, which is why I make the sacrifice.”