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“The master won’t find it,” the woman said dreamily. “I hid it well. I sent it to my sister in the country.”
“Good God,” Jasper said. “Where is your sister? She might be in danger.”
“He won’t look there,” the woman whispered. “My man never spoke her name. He only said who had told him to look through the papers in Mr. Horn’s desk.”
“Who?” Jasper whispered in dawning horror.
The woman looked up and smiled sweetly. “Mr. Pynch.”
“My lord, Mr. Horn knows I am your valet.” Pynch was white as a sheet. “If he knows that—”
Jasper was already scrambling to his feet, racing desperately for the door, but he still heard the rest of Pynch’s sentence.
“—then he will think that you have the letter.”
The letter. The letter he didn’t have. The letter Matthew would naturally think was in his house. His house where his darling wife had no doubt returned by this time. Alone and unprotected and thinking Matthew was his friend.
Dear God in heaven. Melisande.
“MY MOTHER IS an invalid,” Matthew Horn said to Melisande, and she nodded because she didn’t know what else to do. “She cannot be moved at all, let alone flee to France.”
Melisande swallowed and said carefully, “I’m sorry.”
But that was the wrong thing to say. Mr. Horn jerked the pistol he held against her side and Melisande flinched. She really couldn’t help it. She’d never liked guns—hated the loud explosion when they fired—and her flesh cringed at the thought of a ball tearing through her. It would hurt. A lot. She was a coward, she knew, but she simply couldn’t help it.
She was terrified.
Mr. Horn had been a little strange when he’d come to the door. He’d seemed agitated. When he’d been shown into her sitting room, she’d wondered whether he might’ve been drinking, even though it was still not noon.
Then he’d demanded to see Vale, and when she’d told him that her husband was not at home, he’d insisted on her showing him Vale’s study. She hadn’t liked that, but by then she’d begun to suspect something was wrong. When he’d rummaged in Jasper’s desk, she’d started for the door intending to summon Oaks and have Mr. Horn forcibly rem£rn eguoved. Which was when the man had pulled the pistol from his pocket. It was only then, while staring at the big pistol in his hand, that she’d seen the dark stain on his sleeve. As he moved more papers with that hand, she noticed that his sleeve left a dark red smear behind.
It was as if he’d dipped his coat sleeve in blood.
Melisande shuddered and tried to calm her wild thoughts. She didn’t know if the stain was blood, so it was no use becoming hysterical over what might be a misunderstanding on her part. Soon Vale would be home, and he would take care of things. Except he didn’t know Mr. Horn had a pistol. He might come in the door and be taken completely unawares. Mr. Horn’s mania seemed focused on Jasper. What if he intended to hurt him?
Melisande took a breath. “What is it you look for?”
Mr. Horn knocked all the papers from the desk. They fell in a scattered heap, some of the smaller papers fluttering like landing birds. “A letter. My letter. Vale stole it from me. Where is it?”
“I . . . I don’t—”
He pressed closer to her, the gun between them, and caught her face in his left hand, squeezing painfully. His eyes sparkled with tears. “He’s a thief and a blackmailer. I thought he was my friend. I thought . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them to glare at her and say fiercely, “I’ll not be ruined by him, do you hear? Tell me where the paper is, where he might’ve hid it, or I’ll feel no sorrow in killing you.”
Melisande trembled. He was going to kill her. She had no illusions that she would live through this. But if Jasper came home now, he might be killed as well. That realization marshaled her thoughts. The farther Mr. Horn was from the front door, the more time Vale would have to realize the danger when he returned home.
She licked her lips. “His bedroom. I . . . I think in his bedroom.”
Without a word, Mr. Horn grasped her by the back of the neck and shoved her into the hall ahead of him. The pistol was still pressed to her side. The hall seemed deserted, and Melisande gave a prayer of thanks. She didn’t know how Mr. Horn would react to a servant. He might very well shoot anyone he saw.
ly, the princess, who had been turning the ring over in her fingers, spoke up. “Who is it who chops the vegetables for my soup, good cook?”
The cook puffed out his chest. “Why, I do, Your Highness!”
“And who is it who sets the soup upon the fire to boil?”
“I do, Your Highness!”
“And who is it who stirs the soup while it boils?”
