Before Angelica or Rosemary could argue, she closed the shattered carriage door and strode toward the horse, hoping she wasn’t making a mistake.
Chapter Six
Acrash wokeLeo from a fitful sleep. He threw aside the sweat-soaked sheets and ran out into the hallway without bothering to don a robe. He knew, instinctually, that the sound had come from his studio.
Had the thief or thieves attempted to break in? Or had a canvas jostled free and fallen to the floor?
Shouting followed him, but the residual fear from his dream propelled him forward, as if he were running from the past. The lamps along the walls were cold, and moonlight filtered through the windows. The air was stale, and the carpet beneath his feet was thin and slippery.
He reached the closed doors of his studio and tugged the handles. They stuck firm. His butler skidded to a stop and put a hand on the door. In his other, he clutched a long, white robe, which he thrust at Leo.
“For God’s sake, cover up, my lord,” Sinclair said, between gasping breaths. “Think of the maids!”
Leo shrugged on the robe, then grasped the handle again. The doors rattled but stayed firm.
Sinclair held up a ring of keys. “Locked, as it is every night, my lord.”
Leo snatched the keys and splayed them in his open palm. In the darkness, they were identical. “I need more light.”
A footman rushed forward with a lantern and Leo held the keys to it, selecting the correct one and inserting it into the latch. He turned the key, and it unlocked with a dull click. He threw open the doors to the studio as a flash of lightning illuminated the room. At first glance, nothing seemed disturbed. The large windows showed the dark night sky beyond, and a gentle breeze flirted with the end of his robe.
“What did that noise sound like to you?” he asked Sinclair. Servants rushed around him, carefully maneuvering canvases to light the lamps in the walls.
“It sounded like glass breaking, my lord,” Sinclair said.
Leo stepped over a paint-splattered carpet to inspect the easternmost window, which had a corner smashed out. On the floor, a broken branch the size of his forearm lay in a bed of shattered glass.
He held his hand out the gap and the wind sprayed a fine mist over his skin. The boughs of the nearest tree thrashed against the side of the building.
His butler lifted the branch. “Our perpetrator. Straight to the lumber pit for this one for having caused so much trouble.”
“Maybe not,” Leo murmured as he touched some black flakes on the window frame. He rubbed his fingers together and held them to his nose, then stuck his head through the hole. A trail of footprints retreated into the brush.
He pulled his head inside, slicking back his wet hair with a hand. A footman hovering nearby offered him a towel, and he accepted it, ruffling his hair, then draping it around his shoulders.
“Let me see the branch,” he said, holding out his hand. Sinclair passed it over, and Leo examined the broken end, finding it smooth. The intruder had been clever, but not careful enough.
“Send for the constable,” he said. “This branch was cut, not broken. This was more than an act of nature.”
Sinclair bowed. “As you wish, my lord. Now please, return to your chambers. I will ensure the window is boarded up.”
Leo stepped away from the window, then paused. The room was full of paintings. Hanging on the walls, stacked on the ground, balanced on canvas stands. What if the intruder had taken off with one or more? How would he know? Each painting held a piece of his heart, and he would feel their loss keenly. The few he had selected for the auction were ones his father had purchased before his death, and even those, he’d struggled to release.
“We will perform an inventory, my lord,” Sinclair said. “Please, return to your bedchamber.”
Setting the branch on the ground, Leo left his studio, trusting his staff to take care of the damage. But as he walked through the chilly hallways and into his chambers, he abandoned any idea of sleep. He hastily pulled on trousers, then summoned Sinclair by pulling the thick, braided rope in the corner of the room. The man arrived in moments. “Yes, my lord?”
“Have someone guard the studio,” Leo said, pacing the room. “In case our uninvited guest returns.”
Sinclair quirked an eyebrow. “I’ve already taken care of it. Two footmen will take shifts. The thief will not catch us off guard again.”
Leo rubbed his face with his hand. Of course, he should have expected Sinclair to handle the situation. It had been months since he’d actively managed the affairs of his estate. His butler and the housekeeper oversaw the day-to-day needs of the household. Only through their weekly reports did he learn the stairs were rotting, the kitchen understaffed, the servants’ quarters drafty. Dozens of trivial household concerns that wouldotherwise have kept him from pursuing the one activity that gave him a semblance of peace—painting.
And now someone is trying to take that away from you, too.
“Tomorrow, move the paintings in my studio to a different wing,” Leo said. “Somewhere that is not accessible from the outdoors. Perhaps on the third floor. We do not want to give our intruder another chance.”
“And your… supplies?”
