‘Would he have anything in his possession that might aid us in locating this, er, friend of his?’ Uncle Lachlan’s cheeks darkened. He was clearly struggling to talk around the awkwardness of Lord Burrows’ blatant infidelity.
Shrugging, Cynthia lifted her teacup to her lips but didn’t sip. The tremor in her hand betrayed her nerves. This wasn’t as easy as she was pretending. ‘He has a safe in his room. We could start there.’
‘Do you have the key?’ Helena stood. Hamlet hopped down, waiting expectantly next to her.
Cynthia’s brittle laughter answered the question. ‘Hardly. But his valet will know where he kept it. I asked him to help pack Hubert’s things. Come.’ She stood and gracefully swept out of the room. Helena and Uncle Lachlan followed her into the hall, up the wide stairwell to the third floor, then down a long corridor with portraits lining the wall. The last painting was of Hubert and Cynthia. It must have been commissioned soon after their wedding. The artist was skilled at his craft. He captured the hope blazing in Cynthia’s hazel eyes. And the smug ownership in Hubert’s smile.
Helena’s hatred for the dead man grew.
Cynthia opened the door at the end of the hall and juddered to a halt. Helena ran into her, grabbing Cynthia’s hips to steady them both. It was an unconscious reaction, but acute awareness pulsed through Helena as their bodies collided.
Uncle Lachlan cursed low and foul.
A young man, bowler hat pulled low over his eyes, poorly fitting suit hiding his shape, froze. He was holding a painting he’d just removed from the wall. Behind the painting was the steel glint of Hubert’s safe. The valet sat on the floor. His hands were tied behind his back, and a gag was in his mouth. When he saw them standing in the doorway, he began making a concerted and frantic racket while writhing to escape.
‘Don’t move!’ Uncle Lachlan shouted.
Fucking hell! The Devil’s going to kill me for sure if I come back without it.
The thief’s thoughts were so loud, Helena flinched.
The man threw the painting at them. With admirable athleticism, he raced across the room to the open window and scuttled out.
Uncle Lachlan leapt over the broken painting and hurried to the window, Helena on his heels.
The young lad scaled down the brick wall with such speed, he was almost on the ground by the time Helena reached the window. She pooled her powers, throwing a blast of water that tumbled the boy across the manicured lawn, inadvertently aiding his escape. He recovered his feet and dove through the hedges before she could lobby a second attack.
‘Blasted hell!’ This felt like losing, and she didn’t like losing.
Uncle Lachlan turned and rushed into the hall, yelling for assistance as his footsteps pounded down the stairs.
Knowing Uncle Lachlan had a far better chance of catching the lad without Helena slowing him down, she turned from the window to assess whether the thief had managed to open the safe.
Cynthia crouched on the floor next to the valet and struggled with the rope binding his wrists together.
Hamlet sat next to her. He sniffed the valet’s ear as the poor man flinched away.
‘He won’t hurt you, Lawrence. He’s a lovely fox, aren’t you?’ Cynthia spared Hamlet a sweet smile. The fox curled his lip in a snarl. ‘Ah. Right. Sorry. He’s a wild and fearsome creature who won’t hurt you because of his impressive self-control.’
Helena refused to be charmed by Cynthia.
Joining the woman, she crouched down and worked on the gag, which appeared to be a pillowcase twisted and forced between his teeth, then tied around his head.
‘You poor man! What happened?’ Cynthia asked.
Helena untied the knot in the pillowcase just as Cynthia was able to loosen the rope around his wrists.
The valet helped pull the gag away and rubbed his raw wrists.
‘I was in his lordship’s closet when I heard scuffling. I came out to investigate and that bastard – pardon my language, Lady Burrows – but that bastard was standing there, a pistol pointing at my chest. He made me get the key to the safe and tied me up, telling me he’d shoot me if I made a sound. Thank God he put his pistol away to take down the painting. He could have killed you both.’ The valet’s eyes grew wide, his face paling.
Cynthia looked over the valet’s head to Helena. Her eyes were all the colours of the forest. Green leaves with veins of brown. Golden streaks blending with grey. Helena could spend eternity categorising their exact shade.
‘Your uncle is chasing the culprit! We must warn him that the man is armed.’
Helena shook her head. ‘Uncle Lachlan can handle himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s fought an armed man. I don’t know if he’ll catch him, at any rate. The blackguard was faster than a steam train.’ And terrified for failing in his mission. But what had he been looking for in Lord Burrows’ safe?
‘Did he take the key with him?’
