“We are nearly there,” he murmured. “Last chance to turn back, Little Blossom. I can have you returned to your sister’s door before anyone realizes you were gone.”
She thought of Camelia’s worried eyes, her father’s gentle hand on hers, and Margaret’s encouraging words. They had been tiptoeing around her ever since she left Hentley. How cautious they were. She remembered the quiet ache that opened in her when Mrs. Henkings said Blaise was dead and the furious rush of relief she felt when she read his handwriting.
“You said I was the only one you could trust. You cannot rescind that now, Blaise. I shall hold you to it, and I will come with you.”
Blaise smiled as the carriage rolled to a stop.
CHAPTER 31
Daniel’s house rose out of the darkness like something sulking. It was a tall, narrow building with a gray stone façade that looked almost sullen in the muffled glow of the single streetlamp. Most of the windows were dark, and only one glimmered faintly on the upper floor; it was a weak, wavering light of some neglected guest room or uneasy servant.
Blaise paid the hackney and motioned Iris back, letting the vehicle rattle away into the night. He could admire her all night long, but they had no time.
“Remember,” Blaise whispered in her ear quietly. Iris shivered under his touch. “To anyone who sees us, I am Alistair’s man of business. You are under my protection. You say nothing unless I bid you. And if I bid you to run?—”
“I run,” she finished. “Yes, I know.”
He shot her a quick, sharp look but said nothing. He could only pray that she would actually run and not try to save him, too. They moved up the steps without hurrying, as if they had every right to be there. Blaise used a key that slid from some hidden pocket; the tumblers answered with a soft, traitorous click.
“You have a key,” Iris whispered. “You broke into his lockbox as well, I suppose?”
“I bought it from his butler,” Blaise muttered back. “Men who serve Daniel are rarely loyal to anyone but themselves.”
He pushed the door open, and the house exhaled cold.
The entry hall smelled of unused polish and old coal smoke. The silence felt different compared to the Brentmere townhouse, less vigilant than neglected. A thin layer of dust dulled the mahogany side table. A hatstand leaned slightly, as if bored.
Iris shivered and took off his cloak and draped it over her.
“Thank you. Where are the servants?” she mouthed.
“Sent home.” Blaise was close to her ear and could almost taste her. “For ‘economy’s sake.’ Only the night porter remains, and he spends his nights in the tavern across the square. We have time.”
“Then why the dramatics about running?”
“Because prudent men prepare for the unlikely,” he said in a serious tone. “And because the unlikely happens to me often enough for it not to feel particularly unlikely anymore.”
Iris smiled, and Blaise did not realize how much he missed her until then.
They moved like shadows. Blaise lit no lamps; he navigated the halls by memory, pulling Iris along with him. His hand briefly and firmly grasped her elbow when she stumbled, and it hurt when he released her.
On the landing, he froze.
“Daniel is a creature of habit,” he murmured. “He keeps his important papers where he believes no one would dare look.”
“That is not very imaginative,” Iris murmured.
“Villains rarely are,” Blaise said. “He thinks himself clever, but he has never had to outwit anyone but rather distracted footmen.”
“Villains usually hide their darkest secrets in a hollow under the hearthstone,” Iris said. “Or in the frame of a family portrait.”
“Then we shall check the hearthstones and the portraits as well,” Blaise replied. “Come.”
The study was first. It smelled of ink and stale triumph. Heavy velvet curtains hung closed over the windows, suffocating what moonlight might have crept in. Books lined the walls in tidy rows that looked barely touched; the desk dominated the room, a hulking globe of a thing with drawers on every side and a scattering of papers arranged with that particular brand of disarray that wishes to be mistaken for genius.
“I shall begin with the desk,” Blaise said, already striding toward it. “You take the shelves. Look for any volume that seems unread. Or too recently moved.”
“And if I knock something over?”
