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None of them fit that bill.
The lady was a collector. She obviously took great pride in her treasures. If any one of them disappeared, she'd realize it was gone.
No. It had to be something else.
He glanced into the modest sitting room beyond.
A sketchpad sat neatly on the desk, beside which lay a quill, some pencils, and a pile of papers.
She was a good artist, he mused, flipping through the book. The sketches were all of rooms, all in different stages of completion. A bedchamber, with a large, four-poster bed. An impressive walnut library whose shelves were lined with books. A sitting room. A nursery. Each page contained notes on recommendations for carpets, drapes, paintings, and other personal touches, bearing in mind “Stacie's” favorite colors and textures.
Obviously, these were Lady Breanna's ideas for the manor being built across the way.
He shook his head, flipped the pad shut, and replaced it. Instead, he reached for the loose pile of papers alongside it.
Ah. Other sketches, ones that were far less defined than the first set. Clearly, these were abstract doodlings, done during thoughtful moments, then torn away as extraneous. A bouquet of flowers. A ship sailing the ocean . Snow falling around a manor, blanket ing the grounds in white.
Lingering over the winter sketch, his eyes guttered triumphantly. The starkness. The long stretch of bare snow. Yes. This one would do quite nicely.
He folded the sketch, slipped it into his pocket. Swiftly, he rearranged the contents of the desk so they looked undisturbed.
Now for the intimate item.
For this, he needed something that would make her feel truly invaded. Invaded and, once he'd added his personal touch, terrified.
He didn't hesitate. Going over to the dresser, he eased open the drawers until he found what he sought.
A chemise. White. Unadorned and untainted. Untainted—for now.
He stuffed the undergarment beneath his coat, then mindfully shut every drawer.
His job done, he slipped out of the bedchamber and retraced his steps: through the hall, out the window, down the ladder.
He returned the ladder to the shed, where he gathered up some tools—tools he had no idea how to use but that seemed functional enough for one who was supposedly building a house. After all, he had to look the part of a workman, in the unlikely event someone stopped him.
Keeping his step loose-limbed, he made his way through the wooded portion of the estate. Cap pulled low, he threw continuous sidelong glances to his right and left, ensuring he was alone.
He was.
This might be the last time he'd be able to enter the manor via this route, he reflected. Once his gifts had been delivered—clearly divulging his unwelcome visit—guards would doubtless be swarming the estate, posted on this section and every section, rather than just at the front gates as they were now. That diligent butler would see to it.
Ah, well. He had other means of entry. More traditional means.
Means Lady Breanna herself had offered him.
He'd just eased onto the main path and was about to head toward his concealed carriage, when he heard the voice.
“Y
ou there! What are you doing?”
He froze, his hand immediately slipping into his pocket, closing around his pistol.
Slowly, he pivoted about, keeping his head down— low enough so his face remained hidden, but not so low that he couldn't see his potential adversary from beneath the cap's rim.
One glance told him that this stocky, uniformed person was not a workman
Fine. That meant he wouldn't know anyone on the crew—a fact that might just spare his life.
