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Adjacent to a fragile dented stopper, an exquisite silver flask lay on its side, a dried stain upon the rug looking to denote the last of its contents. And was that a musty scent of clove?
Rhys twisted his head and found himself staring directly into the recumbent Miss Beaujeu’s eyes, the candle flame flickering over her curled-up form on the bed. Still dressed in her day gown, her hair was loose and her expression…resigned, if he had to affix one word to it.
“The cologne has all gone,” she whispered simply.
“Whose was it?”
“My papa’s.”
Ah. He’d never asked what had befallen her family in France, had sensed her reticence when he’d mentioned the Revolution, for whatever side one had been on, of whatever class, the repercussions, the innocents caught within, the rights and wrongs, it had been a bloodbath.
Had she been the daughter of a gentleman or a merchant perhaps? Middle-class families – accountants, estate managers and their children – had also been trapped in the horrors, those who worked for the nobility considered just as culpable.
“May I lift it from the floor? It is an elegant piece. I will be careful.”
At her slightest of nods, he retrieved the flask, its noticeable weight indicating its value. With watchful tread, he crossed to the desk and placed it alongside the ripped book. His eyes flicked to a page…
Ai Cymro ydych chwi? – Are you a Welshman?
Her language manual. But why was it torn to pieces?
Moreover, why was there shattered glass on the floor?
“What happened here?”
The grey figure of Miss Beaujeu sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, head bowed. “I came… I came back from my walk to find the room…destroyed,” she replied flatly. “My gowns on the floor, the book ripped, a glass smashed. That flask was within a locked drawer, but someone had pulled it with such force that…that the lock had broken.” She shook her head, curls veiling her features. “The stopper has been…trodden on.”
Fury.
Unmitigated fury surged through Rhys but he fought to tamp it in the face of her unmitigated sorrow.
“Why did you not come to me? At once. I will not stand for this.”
She shrugged. “I had a pupil who once threw ink all over my dresses. Nothing was done. It is a part of my job to accept such matters, clear up the mess others make.”
“You think Mari–”
“No!” Her head shot up, eyes wide and seemingly not tinged with the oppressive pain of a megrim. “I do not think Mari, but…” She put a hand to her brow. “The point is… Nothing will return my papa’s cologne. The damage is done.”
Rhys could not bear to witness such dejection and yet stoic acceptance of this unforgivable act, but then he was a privileged duke. Could always seek restitution by fair means or foul. How could a lone woman in a stranger’s home, with no relations for support, accuse her employer, or her charge…or even his damn guests of anything?
With a curse, he stomped over to the bed, eyes running over Miss Beaujeu, her radiant mahogany hair trailing in tangled curls like an autumn weeping willow, and he so hated seeing her in such distress.
“Isabelle?” He placed a hand to her cheek.
She peered up, lids puffy, skin ashen, and as she shifted, a grimace rippled her features.
“You do have a megrim?”
She shook her head.
“Are you hurt then?” Silence. “Isabelle? Tell me.”
“My foot,” he thought she mumbled, so he seized the candlestick, stashed it on the bedside table and lowered to one knee.
“May I?”
A shrug, which he would interpret as permission granted, so he lifted her skirts and settled them on her knees, felt her gaze upon him.
