His paints and brushes were also in neat order on a table near the draped canvas, rather too near the window for searching by lamplight. A travel trunk lay on the floor near the bed. They would start there.
Perry took the trunk and had Jenny look through the mattress and bedding.
“What are we looking for?” Jenny asked.
“Something hidden. Careful. His neatness perhaps has a purpose.”
“Ah. Of course.” Jenny patted the pillow back into place.
Perry went through the clothing, looking for filled pockets and finding nothing. She sat back on her heels and studied the trunk. She’d seen similar ones in the attic at Cransdall. She ran her hand over the leatherwork, feeling for notches or latches. Nothing. She tapped the bottom—quite solid.
“Under the lid?” Jenny knelt next to her. “That’s a great deal of padding.”
Perry slid her fingers along the seams and picked at the corners until she found a button buried there. The lining peeled away, revealing a notebook of superfine paper.
“Numbers. Letters. What do they say?”
She looked at the girl. “You can’t read?”
“Yes, some.” Jenny frowned trying to puzzle out the text.
“This is a code book. It says nothing on its own. And you must learn to read more than ‘some’.”
The girl’s frown deepened. “Mr. Fox is a spy.”
“So it seems. And don’t ignore me about the business of reading. You are far too bright to be ignorant. Let’s put this back.”
“Who does he spy for?”
Perry ran her fingers over the pages. Likely, he’d been spying for the Americans during the most recent war. Except, that war had started the year after his visit to Cransdall, and by that time, he’d disappeared.
There was no war now, but he claimed to be here at her father’s behest, and MacEwen backed up the story.
“I think it’s true that he’s working for my father. Beyond that I cannot say.” She flattened the book back into its hiding spot.
“You don’t want to take it?”
“No. I’ll know where to find it.”
“Unless he moves it,” Jenny said.
They shared a wry glance. Perry tucked the book in, secured the lining, and closed the trunk. “He’ll know we were here, I suppose.” She might as well try to keep a secret from Fox as travel to the moon. He’d see right into her heart and do his best to confound her. As a young artist newly arrived at Cransdall, he’d gone right to the business of punching holes in her puppy love. Because she was too young, too high in station above him, and too much the ugly duckling.
No one had told her that—she’d just known.
She’d stepped down from her high station for good, and she wasn’t too young any more, nor did she have any illusions she’d transformed into loveliness. Let him come after her for searching his room.
“I might as well have a look at what he’s working on.”
“The light—”
“Be damned.” She got to her feet and lifted the drape on the painting.
“Oh.” Jenny breathed out the word.
A roomful of butterflies broke loose in her heart.
“It’s you.”
