Page 31 of Better Off Wed

Thornton snapped shut his jaw and scrambled to rescue his papers from the spreading pool. Dora’s efforts to help only made matters worse by shuffling together the letters he had separated. Coffee creeped across the polished mahogany, following the edges of the leather blotter, until it reached a blank sheet of foolscap. As the dark liquid soaked into the paper, words began to appear.

Jeremy had learned that trick in his school days, long before Scott’s service. Words written in lemon juice, white wine—“even piss, in a pinch,” Robby Firth had sworn—made the page look empty, until heat or some other substance was applied to reveal the print. Then, it had been the means of playing boyish pranks, but in more recent years, he had seen the method put to far more nefarious uses.

Why in God’s name was Thornton getting letters written in invisible ink?

The answer to that question could be just the sort of damning information Laura sought.

Jeremy had the sense to look away as Thornton tossed aside the other papers he had gathered and snatched up the mysterious letter. Dora was sobbing. “Out,” Thornton roared, and she fled without a backward glance.

With studied calm, Jeremy finished wiping up the spilled liquid. “Not such a disaster,” he said, tossing his ruined handkerchief onto the tray, then pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to Thornton. “The letters will dry if you spread them out.”

Thornton grunted and began to lay them out face down in a line. Most were only dampened along the edges. As far as Jeremy could tell, the letter written in invisible ink was no longer among them. Thornton must have tucked it into his coat when Jeremy’s head was turned.

It might have been anything, of course. But the sort of men who encrypted their secrets were no secret to Jeremy.

“I ought to turn that wench over my knee,” the earl declared, sinking into his chair.

Jeremy’s pulse pounded, his ears ringing with Laura’s insistence that he must earn Thornton’s trust. He poured a second cup for himself, knowing there was but one reply to make to such a man. Fortifying himself with a sip of the bitter brew, he mustered a sly, knowing smile and said, “Be honest, Thornton. You wanted to do that before she dropped the tray.”

Thornton’s answering chuckle was not the slightest bit sheepish. “Who wouldn’t want to see those pretty cheeks blushing?”

Was this the sort of life field agents lived? Pretending to share some despicable vice in order to gain the confidence of a target?

Unable to meet Thornton’s eye, Jeremy sent a pointed glance around the room instead. “My own tastes run to…less arcane pleasures.”

Thornton shrugged and took a noisy slurp. “To each his own.”

Not a thought spared for her—the lady’s maid, the cook, poor Dora. Jeremy was not so naïve as to imagine Thornton couldn’t find a willing partner who shared his proclivities. No, the man seemed to be indifferent to, perhaps even spurred on, by a woman’s unwillingness.

Disgust choked Jeremy, the hot coffee insufficient to burn it away. “You will dismiss her?” He struggled for a tone of apathy, hoping for Dora’s sake that Thornton’s answer would be yes.

“Not yet.” Thornton settled the cup in its saucer, then laid the saucer on his desk. “How long until Lady Sterling is on her feet again? I have friends coming in a few days for some shooting, and other…amusements. You are welcome to stay. You might find you enjoy”—one brow arced—“arcane pleasures, after all.”

Jeremy forced a thin smile. “A generous offer, I’m sure. But I think Lady Sterling would protest.”

“Ah. I forget what it is to be a newly married man. But the last time you gave her her head, she ran away. She must learn that you are in charge.”

Do whatever it takes to encourage him to tell you any secrets he might be keeping.

“Excellent advice, Thornton.” Standing, Jeremy placed his cup and saucer on the tray, hoping the rattle did not betray his true emotion. “You can bet she will.”

With a bow, he left the library and returned to the blue bedchamber, where he found Laura sitting once more on the little sofa, a book open on her lap, her gaze directed to the window, though from her position, he doubted she could see anything but cloudy skies.

She started when the door shut and the latch clicked. “Oh, there you are. At long last.”

There was no mistaking the reproving note in her voice. He lingered by the door. “Believe me when I say I would have preferred to spend the day in pleasanter company.”

He expected defiance or self-pity or perhaps the assumption that he had been hinting at a desire to spend the time with her. Instead, she visibly deflated, which was somehow far worse. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s only…”

“Is your ankle giving you much pain? Where’s that bottle Phelps left with you yesterday?”

She gave a half-hearted wave of one hand, indicating the far end of the room. He spied the tonic on the bedside table. “But it isn’t that,” she insisted. “I am not accustomed to sitting and waiting and doing nothing.”

“I wouldn’t call it nothing. Healing is something,” he said, crossing the room and seating himself on the chair closest to her. “Plotting is something. But from what I know of masterminds, it does involve an unfortunate amount of waiting.”

That earned him a dubious smile. “Do you know many masterminds?”

“A few.”