Before she opened the door, shouting reverberated from downstairs.
Levi ran toward the staircase with Mansfield close behind. They raced down the steps and careened around the corner, the pounding of their shoes echoing down the corridor. Locking their gazes on the doorway, they rushed toward the library.
“If it’s another dead man,” Mansfield huffed, “I’m never inviting you to my home again.”
“Agreed,” Levi replied as they exploded into the room.
The downstairs group, save Warwick, who lounged in an armchair nearest the fireplace, gathered in the corner of the library. Roxburghe and Beaufort crouched on the floor, their heads together, and Miss Webb and her sister stood beside them, holding a portion of the cream-colored drapes.
“What did you find?” Levi asked, striding toward them.
“It appears,” Roxburghe said, flicking his gaze to Miss Rowe as she entered, “someone broke the window latch and entered the house while we were sleeping.”
The color drained from Miss Rowe’s face, and she froze, glancing behind her. “Do you think he’s still inside?”
“She.” Beaufort moved aside, revealing a slushy stain on the rug. “There’s a footprint beneath the window, one much too small to have been made by a man.”
Miss Rowe edged closer, tucking her trembling hands into her chest, and inspected the footprint.
“Did anyone see the culprit?” she asked, her voice barely carrying across the room.
Roxburghe gestured toward the fireplace. “Warwick had the opportunity. He spent most of his morning in the library.”
She spun around and approached Warwick, twisting her fingers together into a jumbled knot as she walked toward him.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “I apologize the chamber was not to your liking.”
“It was.” Warwick frowned. “Why would you think otherwise?”
“You slept here.” Miss Rowe gestured at the bookshelves.
A tiny smile fluttered across his face. “I didn’t. I woke hungry and didn’t want to disturb the house. Therefore, I made something to eat,”—Beaufort snorted, earning a glower from Warwick— “and brought the plate in here to read.”
Roxburghe growled.
“I know what you think about combining books and food,” Warwick said, shifting his eyes to Roxburghe. “However, no tomes were damaged in my early morning escapade.”
“And,” Miss Rowe pressed, her wispy voice concerning Lennox, “you truly didn’t encounter another person?”
Rising, Roxburghe indicated the torn drape. “We surmised Warwick startled the intruder when he exited his chamber. The woman waited until he entered the kitchen and escaped through the library window to avoid capture.”
“What should we do?” Miss Rowe asked, her gaze sliding from Roxburghe to Levi.
Fighting the urge to wrap a comforting arm around Miss Rowe, Levi inched closer.
“Send Mrs. Hawkins for the parish constable.”
“And,” Beaufort said as he stood, “we can search Mrs. Hawkins’ bedchamber while she’s attending to that errand.”
Miss Rowe nodded and left the library, declining Miss Webb’s offer to accompany her to Mrs. Hawkins’ chamber. Several minutes later, a dreadful screech rippled down the corridor. Mrs. Hawkins, strands of black hair sticking out from her misshapen braid, appeared in the doorway, chest heaving. Her critical gaze slid across the room.
“Your Graces,” she said, performing a deep curtsey. “I’m ever so grateful for your presence. Without you here, tonight might have resulted in a worse tragedy than burglary.” Reaching behind her, she grabbed Miss Rowe’s hand, dragging her forward. “This is the reason you should hire a man.”
“The Duke of Beaufort believes the culprit was female,” Miss Rowe replied, nodding toward Beaufort.
Mrs. Hawkins’ eyebrows shot up, and she nodded once. “I’ll return with the parish constable.”
“Wait a moment, Mrs. Hawkins.” Roxburghe stopped her. “Before you leave, would you place your foot beside the print? We’d like to compare the size.”
