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“Humph.” Melisande folded her arms. “How well do you know Mr. Munroe?”
She’d already spent the previous two days trying to find out what Vale needed to speak to the man about. He merely changed the subject when she asked him questions. Now she tried a different tack.
“Sir Alistair Munroe,” he murmured.
He must’ve felt her exasperated look, because although his eyes never opened, he smiled. “Knighted for service to the crown. He wrote a book describing the plants and animals of the New World. More than plants and animals, actually. Fishes and birds and insects as well. It’s a massive, portfolio-sized thing, but the engravings are quite lovely. Hand-colored and based on his own sketches. It impressed King George enough that he had Munroe to tea—or so I’ve heard.”
Melisande thought about this naturalist who’d been to tea with the king. “He must’ve spent many years in the Colonies to have enough material to write a book. Was he with your regiment the entire time?”
“No. He moved around from regiment to regiment, according to where they were marching. He was only with the 28th three months or so,” Vale said. “He joined us just before we marched to Quebec.”
He sounded sleepy, which made Melisande suspicious. Twice now he’d conveniently fallen asleep when she was questioning him.
“Did you talk to him when he was with your regiment? What is he like?”
Vale switched his crossed legs without opening his eyes. “Oh, very Scots. Taciturn and not much for long speeches. He had a wicked sense of humor, though. I do remember that. Very dry.”
o;I suppose so.” She frowned a little, thinking of wild highland Scotsmen with beards that covered their faces.
“Lass.” Mr. Pynch had stretched out his arm and tapped her hand with one large, blunt-nailed finger. “There won’t be anything to fear in Scotland. But if there is, I’ll keep you safe.”
And Sally could only stare dumbly into Mr. Pynch’s steady green eyes, the thought of him keeping her safe warming her belly.
WHEN HE STILL hadn’t come to her rooms by midnight, Melisande went looking for Vale. Perhaps he’d simply gone to his own bed, not deigning to visit her that night, but she didn’t think so. She hadn’t heard any voices from his room next door. How the man got enough sleep when he stayed up until all hours and then left the house before she rose was a curiosity. Perhaps he didn’t need sleep at all.
In any case, she was tired of waiting for him to come to her. So she left her room—still in a shambles from Suchlike’s hurried packing—and went out in the hall to search for Jasper. He wasn’t in the library or any of the sitting rooms, and finally she was forced to inquire of Oaks if he knew where her husband was. Then she hoped that her cheeks didn’t flame in embarrassment when she learned that he’d gone out without a word to her.
She felt like kicking something, but since gentlewomen did no such thing, she merely thanked Oaks and ascended the stairs again. Why was he doing this? Asking her to accompany him to Scotland, then avoiding her? Had he even thought about a days-long carriage ride with her? Or would he spend the journey atop the carriage with the luggage? It was so strange. First he would pursue her for days, and then he would suddenly disappear, just when she thought they were drawing closer.
Melisande exhaled heavily as she came to her own bedroom door, but then she hesitated. Vale’s door was right next to hers. Really, the temptation was too great. She strode to her husband’s door and opened it. The room was empty, although Mr. Pynch’s work was obvious: Rows of shirts, waistcoats, and neck clothes were laid out on the bed in preparation for packing. Melisande shut the door gently behind her.
She wandered to the bed and touched a fingertip to the dark red coverlet. He would sprawl here at night, his long limbs spread wide. Did he sleep on his back, or on his belly, his tousled head half shoved beneath a pillow? Somehow she imagined him sleeping in the nude, although for all she knew, he had a drawerful of nightshirts. It was such an intimate thing, sleeping with another person. One’s shields were all thrown down in sleep, leaving one vulnerable, almost childlike. She wished desperately that he would share her bed. Stay the night and let himself be at his most vulnerable with her.
She sighed and turned from the bed. On his dresser he had a framed miniature portrait of his mother. A few brown hairs were caught in the bristles of his brush. One was almost red. She took her handkerchief from her sleeve and carefully folded the hairs inside before tucking it away again.
She went to the bedside table and glanced at the book sitting there—a history of the English kings—then went to the window and looked out. His view was nearly the same as hers: the back of the garden. She glanced around the room, frustrated. There were far more things lying about—clothing, books, odd bits of string, a pinecone, broken pens, a penknife, and ink—but nothing that told her very much about her husband. How silly to sneak in here, thinking she might find out more about Jasper. She shook her head at her own folly, and then her gaze fell on the dressing room door. A dressing room would hardly hold more intimate stuff than what she’d seen, but she’d already come this far.
Melisande turned the handle of the door. Inside was another dresser, various racks for holding clothes, a narrow cot, and in the corner, against the wall, a thin pallet and blanket. Melisande cocked her head. Odd. Why both a cot and a pallet? Mr. Pynch needed only one, surely. And why a pallet? Vale struck her as a generous employer. Why such a mean bed for his faithful valet?
She stepped into the narrow room, went around the cot, and bent to look at the pallet. A single candle stood nearby in a holder very much covered in old, burnt wax, and a book lay half under the carelessly tossed blanket. She looked from the pallet t cm t veo the cot. Actually, the cot didn’t look as if anyone slept there at all—the mattress was bare. Melisande pulled the blanket back from the pallet to read the title of the book. It was a book of poems by John Donne. She stared at it a moment, thinking what an odd choice of reading matter for a valet, when she noticed the hair on the pillow. It was dark brown, almost red.
Behind her, someone cleared his throat.
Melisande whirled and saw Mr. Pynch, his eyebrows raised. “May I help you find something, my lady?”
“No.” Melisande hid trembling hands in her skirts, very glad that it wasn’t Vale who’d discovered her. Although being caught by the valet rummaging through her husband’s things was embarrassing enough. She tilted her chin and sailed to the door of the bedroom.
But then she hesitated and looked back at the valet. “You’ve served my husband for many years, haven’t you, Mr. Pynch?”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Has he always slept so little?”
The big bald man picked up one of the neck cloths from the bed and carefully refolded it. “Aye, since I’ve known him, my lady.”
“Do you know why?”
“Some men don’t need as much sleep,” the valet said.
