Page 11 of His Wife, the Spy
Kindness and friendship were difficult to come by these days. When offered, it shouldn’t be met by snide assumptions.
He was likely intelligent enough, but careless. That wasn’t a crime. Most members of thetonbelieved themselves above reproach or ill fortune.
That was why her family’s invitations had all but vanished, taking her sisters’ Seasons with them. No one wanted to be reminded that everything they valued could be lost with just one tick in a ledger sheet.
The library door closed. Annabel sat quietly, listening for footfalls against the rug or a creak of a chair, until the silence was a weight on her shoulders. She straightened her posture and looked over the top of the desk, then, finding no one, stood upright. After dusting off her skirt, she glanced at the shelves again, this time focusing on the ones nearest the ceiling. Wooden boxes separated groups of books with unlabeled spines. The size hinted they could be ledgers, possibly journals. The boxes might hold clues as well.
“It would be careless to write anything down,” she counseled herself. Still, she found the library ladder and pushed it to the proper shelf. Society men were particularly prone to carelessness, since they were blessed simply by being born.
Annabel climbed the ladder, careful to keep her eyes on the shelf and her boot heels clear of the rungs. Her ribs pressed against her stays in the same quick, shallow rhythm that occurred whenever her feet left the ground.
Father had been born to his title, but she’d never considered him careless. He knew his tenants by name and ensured the family frequented the village shops. They were well loved in Chilworth. But when the fortune dwindled, he’d ignored his man of business, his banker, and his solicitor and gambled everything on a quick solution.
And lost.
Now near the top of the ladder, Annabel kept a white-knuckled grip on the rung at eye level, and reached for thenearest burgundy, leather-clad ledger. It was larger and heavier than she’d expected. There was little hope of descending with it in her arms. That only left one option.
Heart in her throat, she forced her feet to move upward until she could grasp the last rung. She slid the ledger forward, balanced it against her chest, and used the shelf as a reading table.
It was indeed a ledger, which gave Annabel hope. She didn’t always write every detail in her journal. There was something unnerving about seeing her innermost thoughts in stark strokes on a white page, and there was always a chance that a nosy interloper, like one of her sisters, would scavenge through her room and find it.
But ledgers… No one ever kept numbers a secret. Even if they tried, the truth eventually emerged in the columns.
Opening the heavy cover and flipping the large pages required her to lean back on her perch. The ladder never wobbled, but Annabel gritted her teeth to help keep her nerves steady. Why on earth had she agreed to do this? She didn’t have the constitution required for skulking about.
This particular volume was from several years ago and, given the unsteady handwriting, had been kept by the previous marquess. Still, the rows and columns were neat and easy to follow. The man had been parsimonious when it came to his household and his staff, but it was clear he had weaknesses for three things: art, horses, and his grandson Jasper.
It was also clear that Jasper spent a great deal of money, given the number of payments made to him and the frequency of those payments. “Surely he’s not taking funds and putting them in the bank,” Annabel whispered as she scanned the rows.
She leaned back again, balancing with one hand while she flipped several pages at once, going further in the marquess’s records. The book shifted lower, resting under her breasts, itsweight threatening to topple her. It left her no alternative but to use her body to push it back into place. It was unladylike, but there was no one here to call her out or follow her example.
Annabel frowned at the date on the page. She hadn’t gone forward in time—she’d gone backward. She lifted the corners of a few other pages to confirm her suspicion and sighed. The old marquess had filled his ledgers from back to front, keeping the most recent accounts at the beginning. That meant going forward in time would require opening another volume.
Which meant moving the ladder and climbing again.
“Drat and damn,” Annabel huffed as she wrestled the ledger back into place. It had been easier to pull it out one-handed than it was to put it back.
It was also easier to climb the ladder than it was to descend. Taking a deep breath and keeping a tight grip on the rung above, Annabel lifted one foot and felt for the rung below.
“What the devil are you doing up there?”
Startled, Annabel looked down and into the stern stare of Kit Yarwood. Her head spun, and her boot slipped on the rung. She tightened her hold on her only lifeline and drew a shaky breath. “At the moment, trying not to fall.”
He didn’t budge from his spot near the door. “Then I suggest you come down. Quickly.”
The longer she stayed up here, staring at the floor, the sweatier her palms became. “I’ll come down at my own pace. Now stop talking and be patient.”
She wiped her palms on her skirt one at a time before stepping down, careful to put both feet on one rung before stepping down again. Yarwood didn’t say another word, but he heaved a great sigh with every other step.
Annabel put both feet on solid ground and, ignoring her trembling knees, faced Yarwood. “Lord Ramsbury instructed me to make myself comfortable in the library.” She wasn’t quitecertain of Yarwood’s place in the household, but invoking the marquess’s name was her best chance of putting him in it.
“And you took that to mean risking your neck on a ladder to see what was kept out of reach?” Yarwood arched an eyebrow.
The jibe was too close to the mark for comfort. “I was making myself familiar with the collection and wondered if the more intriguing works were kept out of reach of careless visitors.”
It wasn’t necessarily a lie, and Annabel hoped that the heat flushing her cheeks could be put down to irritation rather than embarrassment. His imperious glare was discouraging.
What’s the worst he can do, send me back to London in disgrace?It would further ruin her reputation, and it would tarnish Elizabeth’s chances. But it would serve Mr. Spencer right for concocting this foolish plot.
