A Most Dangerous Profession(71)

Something is going on; I can feel it. As Mam always says, “Gut is always right.”

A soft knock announced Buffon’s entrance, and Robert looked up from Moira’s map. “I’ve marked where I’ve searched and where you’ve gone, but the castle’s so large it would take two weeks to search it thoroughly. I want to leave in the morning, but—” He sighed. “Damn it. Where can that chamber be?”

“It would be delightful to have that information, wouldn’t it, monsieur?” Buffon smiled.

Robert did, too. “You know something.”

Buffon looked pleased. “Oui.”

“Out with it, then!”

“There is a room in the West Wing, a part of the castle rarely used, that Ross will not allow the maids to dust. He has been known to spend hours there by himself and when he returns he is much invigorated.”

“It must be there, then.”

“I think so, monsieur. May I see your map?”

Robert held it out.

The valet studied it and then pointed a thin finger to one of the lower reaches of the castle. “It is here, monsieur.”

Robert picked up his pen and marked the spot. “I shall slip out later tonight. Can you create another diversion?”

“As you wish, monsieur. Hmm. Perhaps a ghost is in order.”

“Good. It’s interesting that Ross doesn’t trust the servants.”

“Non. It appears Sir Ross leads a lonely life, as he deserves.”

“Indeed. I shall sleep for a few hours and get up at three. Can you do your haunting at that time?”

“But of course.” Buffon arched a brow. “But first, there is the matter of compensation. You indicated that I would be rewarded.”

“Of course. Fifty pounds? A hundred?”

“Your robe, monsieur.”

Robert blinked. “What?”

“Oui. The blue one. It pains me to see you wear it.”

Robert sighed.

Buffon waited.

“Very well. Take the damn robe. I shall have Triona make me another.”

“Thank you, monsieur! Until then, you will wear the red silk one?”

“Yes, yes.”

Buffon beamed and wasted no time in removing it from the wardrobe. “Here, monsieur.” He held it out.

Robert sighed but slipped it on. As he did so, a noise sounded at the window. Robert frowned at the closed curtains.

Buffon tilted his head. “Did you hear—”

“The wind, yes. You may go, Buffon. I will be ready at three.”

“Very good, monsieur.” With a stately nod and a satisfied look at the red robe, Buffon left, holding the blue robe before him like a moldy rag.

Robert hurried to the windows. One glance out told him all he needed to know; seconds later, he was pulling Moira inside.

She was shivering, her skin as cold as river stones. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed as he set her upon her feet, wrapping his arms about her to warm her.

Moira had never been so glad to see anyone in her life, even though Robert was pale with fury. “Y-you climbed across the ledge,” she pointed out through chattering teeth.

“Not in long skirts and slippers with smooth soles. Damn it, do you never think?”

“Y-yes, and I n-n-needed to visit you. Furthermore, these”—she showed him her sensible boots—“are not s-slippers.”

He cursed, swept her up, and carried her to his bed. “Take off those boots.”

She tried, but her fingers were too cold to undo the laces. He muttered a curse and did it for her, yanking them off and tossing them into the corner.

Robert supposed he should be grateful she’d at least worn good shoes, but he was too furious at the chance she’d taken. Her skirts could easily have wrapped around her legs, and he had an instant vision of her terrified expression as she plunged off the edge and into the—She could have died, damn it! Died and left me—

His heart aching in an unfamiliar way, his throat tight, he closed the window and tugged the curtains into place.

Her gaze locked on his red silk robe. “That’s very . . . bright.”

“Yes, it is. My blue one is gone.”

“Oh.” She looked about his room. “This is very cozy.”

“It’s a bit larger than a water closet, which our host is well aware of.”

At the mention of Ross, her expression closed.