Page 56 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
Patting her upswept hair, she slid a hair comb from her loosely pinned curls. A few quick manipulations of the three silver teeth, and the elegant accessory transformed into a master key.
The tool made short work of opening the lock. She slipped inside and secured the door behind her. Pulling in a steadying breath, she surveyed each room for any sign of Trask.
Satisfied she was alone, she stepped into his office.
Trask was a fraud, but no one could accuse him of slovenliness. His office could have served as a model of efficiency and order. The trait might well be a virtue, but it increased the odds he would notice if a document went missing.
His mahogany file cabinet occupied a shadowed corner of the room. Pity she did not have more time to explore the contents of his files. Logic dictated his client notes were the first priority. She’d observed him storing those documents in the second drawer from the top. Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she slid the device into the lock. A softclickand she tugged open the drawer. She removed one binder after another and thumbed through the documents. In the dim light, her eyes rebelled against the strain of deciphering Trask’s cramped, light script. She paused to give them a rub and kept going.
Trask had taken meticulous notes, documenting every sitting, every participant. Was this exacting attention to detail another reflection of his precise manner, or did he intend to use this information to his advantage? Could the information he’d gathered through the séances—revelations which were at times excruciatingly personal, perhaps even incriminating—provide fodder for blackmail?
She scanned the pages, searching for dates that would correspond to Eversleigh’s and Fenshaw’s attendance.Lady Valentina. Penned in Trask’s precise hand, the name caught her eye. The woman had served as the medium at several sittings attended by the men. What was the connection between their deaths and Valentina’s disappearance?
Three pages bore both Valentina’s name and the dates of séances. Sophie studied each entry. Unlike Trask’s other notations, he’d included little specific detail. At times, the notes were cryptic—abbreviations she did not recognize, symbols and numbers in what seemed a code. How very peculiar.
Folding the papers into a neat square, she tucked them within a pocket hidden along the seam of her petticoat. Brushing the fabric back in place, she glanced again at her timepiece. Ever a creature of habit, Trask would return within the quarter hour. She had to move quickly and take her exit before he caught her blithely perusing his documents.
There’d be no time to explore the contents of the other files. Perhaps she’d sneak in that night after Trask had retired to his town house and gain access to the remaining documents.
Taking great care to leave everything as she’d found it, Sophie replaced the binder in the cabinet and moved to his desk. She glanced over a neat stack of correspondence. Finding nothing of interest, Sophie shifted her attention to the top drawer.
A few shimmies of the master key in the lock, and the drawer opened. The space was empty, save for a pair of letters, each envelope addressed in the same bold hand.
She lifted one of the missives from the drawer and read its unsigned message.
You have been careless. A nonbeliever is in your midst.
Sophie’s pulse raced. Had she been discovered? Had the men been sent to silence her?
Taking the second envelope in her hands, she removed its contents.
She stared down at the newspaper clipping. Her hands trembled.
Gavin Stanwyck’s sullen face glared back at her. Younger by a few years or so in the picture, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a pleasant-faced man with an infectious grin.
Stanwyck heir returns triumphant from Cairo expedition.
She shifted from the image to the letter.
A nonbeliever…
A bitter taste filled her mouth. Stanwyck had believed she was in danger, had wanted to protect her. All the while, he had no inkling he’d put himself in a villain’s crosshairs.
With trembling hands, she placed each letter back in its envelope, folded them, and hid the incriminating correspondence within the folds of her petticoat. She drew in a calming draught of air, then another. She had to pull herself together. This show of nerves simply would not do.
With a twist of the tool, she relocked the drawer. From the front of the studio, a scratch against metal, a key inserted into a contrary lock, announced Trask’s return. Soundlessly closing the door behind her, she ducked into her small dressing area, lit a lamp, and smoothed her jacket to ensure no telltale creases drew attention.
Trask’s heavy footsteps marked his path to the closet-sized room. Standing in the doorway, he glanced from her face to the hairbrush in her hand. Was it her imagination, or was the man agitated, ill at ease? “I didn’t expect you so soon. You were caught in the storm?”
“I avoided the worst of it.”
“Where is Stanwyck? I assumed he’d return with you.”
“I do not know where the man is.”
He strolled to the window, tension marking his every stride. Turning away from her, he stared into the street. Behind her, the clock’s pendulum marked the moments.Swish. Swish. Swish.
“Am I to believe that you’ve alienated an exceedingly lucrative patron?” Anger simmered in his outwardly cool tones. “I warned you, Sophie.”
