A Most Dangerous Profession(60)
It was the most obvious place to hide something, and he wasn’t convinced of Ross’s ability to think like a thief. That would take some intelligence beyond the norm, and thus far, Ross hadn’t exhibited such.
Robert sat down at the desk and examined every drawer, every nook and cranny, finding no sign that it held anything of value. Too bad. I was hoping this would be simple.
He leaned back in the chair and surveyed the room again. The wall shelves were filled with an impressive assortment of books. He rose and scanned a few titles of the closest. Ross kept a decent collection of research tomes about ancient Greek civilizations, but they were unused-looking. I’d wager my last groat Ross hasn’t read any of these.
He went to the largest, most ornate shelves, which were deeper and held larger books, many of them ancient maps held in binders. It was difficult not to succumb to temptation and get lost in examining them, but Ross and Moira would only be gone another hour, two at the most.
Is that blasted secret chamber here? It certainly looks like the sort of room to have one. The shelves seemed the best place to begin. Could one be hiding a secret doorway?
He felt along the edges, noting any dip or impression along the way. He moved from bottom to top, using the wheeled ladder to reach the higher shelves. On and on he searched, finding nothing.
Frowning, he examined where the final set of shelves met the wall beside two windows. The shelves were flushly mounted, bolted solidly against the wall. Not the shelves, then. Where else? The exposed walls near the windows? A door could be hidden there.
He couldn’t knock along the panels, listening for a hollow spot, due to the footmen in the hallway. So he rolled some thick blotter paper from the desk into a heavy tube, lit it, then held it to the bottom of the baseboards, looking for a waver in the flame to show there was an opening. He had no fear that the smell of smoke might alert the footman because, thanks to Buffon, the entire castle now carried the scent.
Twenty minutes and another rolled tube of blotter paper later, he blew out the flame and sighed. It has to be here. The shelves and walls weren’t the answer . . . what about the floor? A trapdoor could be concealed beneath the polished wood.
He went to one corner and slowly examined each plank, each opening. After he’d walked the exposed portions, he began to work on the clusterings of furniture, all placed on thick rugs. He rolled up first one corner, and then the other, running his hand over the smooth wooden planks. Still, nothing.
Frustrated, he stepped back and surveyed the room again. Where could that blasted thing be? Am I missing something?
The sound of activity outside made him cross to the window and flick back the edge of the curtain. Footmen were scurrying down the front steps, and when a shout went up, Robert followed the direction the men all turned. Moira trotted her bay around the final curve of the drive, patting the horse’s neck. She was alone, having apparently outdistanced Sir Lachlan.
“He couldn’t catch you, could he?” Robert murmured, smiling as Moira pulled her magnificent steed to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. Her red hair drew the eye as did her sapphire blue habit, but she would have commanded attention in sackcloth and ashes. She had presence, that indefinable something that made the eye follow her every move.
Most women had to rely upon artifice or displaying themselves improperly, or drawing attention by adorning themselves with baubles. Moira needed no augmentation. She was a rare woman; one who carried her beauty rather than wearing it.
Ross came galloping around the bend in the drive, his mount foam flecked as he struggled to catch up.
Robert’s smile disappeared. There was no excuse to use a horse in such a way.
Ross paid the horse no heed. He was off his mount as soon as he drew it to an abrupt halt. He then tossed the reins to the nearest footman and pushed two more out of the way so that he, and he alone, was there to help Moira down from her mount.
Robert saw Moira’s cool gaze travel past Ross to his horse, which now stood with its head down, foam running down its neck and dripping from its mouth. Her lips pressed into a straight line before she murmured something to Ross that made him flush a fiery red.
He bowed stiffly, then snapped an order to a footman, who immediately went to talk to one of the waiting grooms. Within moments, the heated horse was being walked up and down the drive, a blanket over his heaving shoulders.
Robert regarded Moira curiously. It was risky to reprimand their host at this early stage, yet that hadn’t stopped her.
She was a woman of great emotion. Robert thought of the pain he’d seen in her eyes when she’d talked about Rowena, and to his surprise, his own throat tightened. He’d reassured Moira for the past few days that Aniston would keep the child safe—physically safe. What Robert hadn’t shared was his fear of the damage being done to the child by being locked away, and the traumatic experience of being separated from her mother for so long. Since Rowena had only one parent, the separation from her mother would be that much more traumatic.