Page 23 of Scoundrel for Sale
She hastily set the contract on the desk. “Yes. My apologies, gentlemen. I was just… woolgathering.” She stood. “Thank you both for your time today.”
Outside, Abbie hurried down High Street to the local posting inn, The Angel. Inside, she begged the barmaid, Maggie, for pen and ink, and scrawled a quick postscript on Gabe’s letter, advising him about the box of documents and her suspicions that Carlotta’s marriage contract had been falsified. Then she gave it to Maggie to be posted.
She made her way home in a trance, turning the facts over again and again.
She was so lost in thought that she almost plowed into the saddle horse tied to her front gate.
Immediately she felt queasy because she recognized that horse.
It belonged to Nigel.
Some strange impulse had her ducking behind a tree, folding Carlotta’s marriage contract into quarters, and tucking the sheets inside her stays, rather than leaving them in her reticule. Once she was satisfied that the folded paper was not discernible, she emerged from behind the tree and strode through her front door.
She heard raised voices from the parlor where Abbie had taken the box. Peering around the doorframe, she saw her housekeeper, Mrs. Brownlee, wringing her hands. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord. But I think ye should wait until Lady Dulson returns.”
Nigel’s voice held a note of exasperation. He was already leafing through the papers in the box. “Lady Dulson will not mind. Now leave.”
Abbie stepped into the room, striving to keep her voice from shaking. “Nigel, what on earth are you doing?”
He spun around, his expression holding more annoyance than guilt. “I have come to inspect the papers you mentioned last night. Any legal papers relating to Carlotta de Noronha are the business of the estate and would have been placed here by accident.”
Abbie crossed her arms. “Carlotta de Noronha had a life, and business dealings, both before and after her tenure as Lady Dulson. So what you say is not necessarily the case. But this is my home, and I do not appreciate you inviting yourself inside to sift through my belongings. You have overstepped. Badly.”
Abbie saw something flicker in his eyes, something dark and angry. He stalked across the room toward her. “You speak as if you have something to hide.”
Abbie had to stop herself from taking a step back. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He stopped just in front of her. “Let’s see, shall we?”
To Abbie’s shock, he reached out and seized her reticule.
“Nigel!” She pursued him across the room to the table where the box of documents rested and watched him unceremoniously dump the contents of her reticule across the glossy cherrywood surface. “This is outrageous!”
Finding nothing more interesting than some hair pins, a handkerchief, and Hart’s battered pocket watch, Nigel scowled.
“Are you satisfied?” Abbie snapped, snatching her fan, which was teetering on the edge of the table. “What a disgraceful thing to have done!”
Nigel showed no sign of remorse. “Well, I had to be sure, now, didn’t I?”
Abbie drew herself up with every ounce of dignity she possessed. When she spoke, her voice shook not with fear, but with ire. “I must insist that you leave. Immediately.”
The corners of Nigel’s lips tipped up, but not in a nice way. “Certainly. But”—he seized the box of papers—“I’ll be taking this with me.”
“You most certainly will not!” Abbie chased after him as he strode toward the door. Spying her lone footman lingering by the front door, she cried, “Brett, stop him!”
Brett was a strapping young man, four inches taller than Nigel and sufficiently broad of shoulder that he was normally well up to the task of deterring potential intruders. But he allowed Nigel to pass.
He turned to Abbie, his eyes miserable. “I’m sorry, my lady. But I can’t lay hands upon the baron.”
Abbie sighed. Brett was right, of course. Nigel might be entirely in the wrong, but no doubt he could make life a misery for a mere servant who dared to manhandle him.
“It’s all right,” Abbie said. “It doesn’t much matter that he took that box. He’ll quickly come to discover that all it contains are old shopping lists and recipes for roast octopus.”
“Still,” Mrs. Brownlee huffed, coming to stand behind Abbie and glaring at Nigel’s back as he rode away, “it’s the principle of the matter.”
“Precisely,” Abbie said, shutting the front door and turning the key.
She spent the rest of the day putting on a good show for her household staff.
