Page 88 of The Heir
She’d berated herself several times today for not thinking of searching Sir John’s desk sooner. Of course a man’s secrets were kept in his desk, and Sir John’s desk was part of her daily life. He sat there, writing his letters and sending them off with a crisp precision that she assumed came from his days of writing military dispatches. When his work was finished, his papers vanished. They went into the hands of various aides and clerks or into these drawers, locked away until their master returned.
Victoria crossed to the cold hearth and put her hand up on the mantel. Her fingers touched metal, and she picked up the key. Phillips had kept his promise.
Sir John’s desk was as square and sturdy as a coffin. It stood in the corner, so Sir John’s back was always to the wall and nothing in the room could escape his searching eye. Victoria slipped between it and the stout wooden chair.
Each side of the desk had three drawers. There was another drawer in the center.
The center drawer would be for immediate business and tools—pens, blotters, fresh paper. She could ignore that. She sat in the chair and pictured Sir John. It was the end of the day. He was satisfied, humming slightly, shuffling his papers, opening . . .
She put the key into the lock of the lower right-hand drawer. The clock’s ticking sounded very loud. Someone might wake up at any moment. Dash might wake and miss her and bark and wake the whole room....
She flinched when the lock clicked, told herself not to be ridiculous, and pulled the drawer open.
Inside, she found files and folios, all neatly labeled. There were bound ledgers, bills of sale tied with ribbons and labeled according to the provider’s name. It was all very tidy, very efficient, entirely impersonal.
The upper right-hand drawer held more of the same. Victoria glanced at the door and at the clock. What was happening in the boudoir? Had Lehzen woken up and decided to check on her? Lehzen wanted her to stop her questioning but would never betray her. Not even now.
But Lady Charlotte would. So would Lady Flora.
Victoria opened the lower left-hand drawer. Here, at last, she found the letters. They were bundled together and tied with ribbons.
They were all from women.
Here were stacks of letters from Princess Lieven, and here was a stack from Lady Cowper, and another from Lady Palmerston, from half a dozen others whose names she did not know.
Why keep personal letters here?In the next heartbeat she had the answer.So Lady Conroy will not find them.
There were—one, two, three, four—stacks from Mama, tied in pink ribbons. Victoria felt the full stomach-roiling strength of temptation. She could take these, sit in the moonlight with them, read them all.
And why shouldn’t I? They don’t tell me the truth. Why shouldn’t I find it out for myself?
But what if they told each other something else? What if all those whispers and meaningful looks and pressed hands were explained in these letters? If she read confirmation of her worst suspicions, she’d never be able to forget it.
And what will I do then?
But something else caught her eye. A much smaller bundle lay at the bottom of the drawer, tied with a blue ribbon. She lifted it out and squinted at the little tag.
Pss. Sophia.
What is Sir John doing writing to Aunt Sophia?Then she remembered what Aunt Sophia had said after the concert about Mr. Rea. About Sir John.
He and Sir John between them have me on quite the short leash. Probably for the best, eh, brother?
It’s not just you, sister. Managing money has never been one of our family’s strong suits.
Sir John had told her as much when he spoke of handling “practical matters” for Aunt Sophia. But how was this possible? Aunt Sophia was cold, teasing, and deliberately obstreperous whenever Sir John was near. In return, he was condescending and unctuous. Mama hated her, and Sir John belittled her for Mama’s sake.
At least, that was what Victoria had always seen.
“I will be just as faithful to you as your secretary as I have been to the other women who have trusted me to be their champion,” Sir John said. “And you will be very glad to make me your man.”
Victoria looked at the stacks of letters from all those women, from Mama, from her aunt.
You will be very glad to make me your man.
Suddenly, all Victoria wanted to do was to run away to some corner where she could be violently ill.
The clock was ticking. She must set aside feeling. She could do that. She had had years of practice. She must decide what to do before someone woke to use the commode, before Dash got restless and noticed she was gone, before any of a thousand things happened that would cause somebody to wake up and find her here behind Sir John’s desk with a packet of his letters from Aunt Sophia in her hands.
