He smiled sheepishly. “The woodcut depicting a noble couple’s wedding night. Several people standing around the marriage bed.”
“No!” Her eyes widened in horror. “The first time is awkward enough without witnesses! I’m exceedingly glad that custom fell out of favor.”
“So am I,” he replied. “The book wasn’t otherwise salacious, but, after he found Adrian and me sniggering over the picture, my father had the book moved to the vault.”
“Now it is missing?”
“Yes. And the manuscript was an original copy in French. Quite valuable, I think.” He returned his gaze to the vacant space. “But it’s gone.”
“Do you think your father moved the book back to the wider collection?”
“Possibly,” he replied.
“Well, then. There it must be,” she said, twining her fingers into his hair and becoming suddenly very interested in his lips.
“Yes,” he agreed. “A perfectly reasonable explanation.”
And then he gave himself up to her kiss.
Chapter Thirteen
Two weeks later,Harbury folded his hands behind his back as he leaned over his wife’s shoulder, casting a careful eye over several gold chains with various lockets, cameos, and crosses laid across Cassandra’s dressing table. Each had a strong point—one delicate, the next elegantly carved, another fit with deep red stones. None stood out.
“Any one of them will do,” he said.
She craned her neck, squinting back in a pointed manner. “Clearly, you are unsuited for this occupation.”
“You’re right.” He nodded. “You had better make the choice yourself.”
Perhapsthenthey might be on their way. The journey to Lord Wexford’s was over an hour by carriage. At this rate, they were running out of time to get there and back by nightfall.
At his feet, Mercy lifted himself up and stretched.
He scooped up the pup, carried him over to the bed, and settled himself on her side of the mattress, still holding the dog against his chest. Mercy gazed up at him with a purposeful, fixed study, as if he’d never seen anything more fascinating in the whole of his doggie life.
Harbury fanned his free arm behind his head then crossed his feet at the ankles. “At least someone appreciates my presence.”
“Your boots had better not be on my new coverlet,” she warned.
He moved his legs so that his feet were hanging just off the footboard. “They’re not.”
He was probably creasing his coat. No more so, however, than he would be once he they were traveling in the carriage. In any case, he rather needed a moment of respite.
This morning, he’d received a third anonymous letter.
He’d spent a fruitless hour questioning staff. The letters weren’t franked. And no one remembered seeing anyone out of the ordinary. Not only were they coming from somewhere on the estate, but they could also be coming from inside the house.
The frequency of the letters combined with uncertainty—who was the malignant force behind them, did they have a greater purpose than the obvious one—created enough pressure to force his hand. He’d sent word to Rose Cottage that he wanted to meet with Anderson on Friday.
Cassandra would want to be included…
Which gave him only two days to tell her everything he’d been withholding.
Absently, he stroked Mercy’s soft fur, quelling a sudden spike of fear. The weight against his chest was due to more than just the dog.
In the beginning, he had no intention of letting Cassie into his heart, into his interior world, therefore he had no reason to reveal his entire history. He’d only revealed that he’d been love with Lady Pennington and that every attempt to eradicate her from his heart had failed. He had not told her that Lady Pennington, too, had grown up on the estate.
But the significance of his omission had increased at the same pace as his growing devotion.
