Page 60 of A Queen's Match
“You’re too kind,” Emanuele replied. Hélène could picture him bowing with a little flourish, causing Mrs.Endicott to swoon. “I’m in town from Italy, and still don’t know my way around London very well.”
“Agnes!Come down!” the woman bellowed up the stairs.Never shout in company,Hélène’s mother would have said.You sound as coarse and loud as a fishmonger’s wife.Poor Mrs.Endicott didn’t know that the appropriate course of action would have been to send a footman to fetch Agnes.
Hélène kept moving down the hall, briskly opening each door in succession: a linen closet; an empty bedroom, probably meant for guests; another closet, this one full of cleaning supplies—
A door swung violently open down the hall. A young woman stormed out, green eyes flashing.
Hélène shuffled to one side and bowed her head, but she needn’t have worried. Agnes didn’t notice Hélène. She was too busy tugging the neckline of her dress lower over her breasts until she showed a healthy amount of cleavage.
Of course. The type of person capable of such cruel blackmail was also the type to look past domestic servants as if they were furniture.
Hélène waited until Agnes’s footsteps clattered down the staircase. She glanced in both directions, then darted through the door Agnes had emerged from.
The bedroom inside was all rococo gilding and swirls, with mirrors on every wall, as if Agnes needed to constantly look at herself from every possible angle. The bed was hung with tasseled silk curtains, and the footboard was carved withAIE, presumably Agnes’s initials. It was all a bit ostentatious for a bed that was supposedly not visited by any gentlemen.
Just as she’d done with May’s room at Osborne, Hélène began searching as quickly as she could, starting with the most obvious hiding places: drawers in the side tables, the space underneath the mattress, the liner of the cushioned window seat. Nothing.
When she opened the armoire, her eyes were immediately drawn to a locked wooden box bolted to the shelf. It could, of course, be Agnes’s jewelry. Yet something told her that it was more.
“What are you doing, Violette?”
Hélène whirled around to see Annie in the doorway.
“Please, let me explain. This isn’t what it looks like,” Hélène hurried to say.
Annie hesitated, which Hélène took as a good sign. At least she wasn’t shoutingThief!
“Really? Because it looks like you snuck into this house, disguised as a maidservant, in order to steal.”
“Well, yes,” Hélène admitted. “But the thing I’m stealing ismine! Your mistress took something from me, and I need it back!”
Annie stepped farther into the room, pulling the door shut behind her. “You’re not a maid, are you.” She didn’t phrase it like a question.
“Please, Annie,” Hélène’s words were rushed, frantic. “Haveyou ever been in love? The thing Agnes stole—it’s not jewelry, or money. It’s a love letter. If I don’t get it back, I will lose the man I love forever.”
Hélène’s heart pounded. Then, to her relief, the maidservant nodded.
“We have a few minutes. Miss Endicott is busy with a Spanish duke downstairs.”
“An Italian duke, actually,” Hélène told her. “He’s my friend.”
Annie’s eyes widened at that. She turned and gestured to the locked box. “Your instincts were good; this is probably where Miss Endicott keeps your letter. But she has the key on her person at all times.”
Disappointment flooded Hélène. She had come so close. Was there any way to steal the entire box—but it was bolted into the armoire itself, and even if she managed to pry it free, someone would see her absconding with it. Could she attempt to steal the key from Agnes’s pocket? Or did she wear it on a ribbon around her neck?
She blinked, realizing that Annie had reached beneath her bonnet to withdraw two hairpins.
“Are you—”
“Shh!” Annie hissed.
Hélène held her breath, watching as the maidservant stuck the pins into the lock, tugging them back and forth, periodically ducking closer and listening. Finally she gave the lock one last turn, and it sprang open.
“American machine-made locks,” Annie said dismissively. “They’re so easy to pick. Our old handmade British locks are much better.”
They both peered eagerly into the dark interior.
There were a few jewelry boxes, but mostly the box contained a disorganized sheaf of papers: scribbled notes, newspaper clippings, old invitations. And there, crisply folded on top, was Laurent’s letter.
