Page 50 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
Odd that she would know precisely what it should look like, so perhaps she had been a housekeeper for some years. Well, not too many as she didn’t think she was that old. A housemaid perhaps who had been in training to become a housekeeper.
With a sigh, wondering where else she might look for her account book, she rose from the chair. In the kitchen perhaps. After taking two steps, she stopped. She couldn’t leave his things lying about. She returned to the desk, studied the box. It wasn’t very large, but perhaps it contained her ledger. Maybe her ledger was small. Glancing around cautiously, she knew she should simply put it back. He’d placed it in a bottom drawer for a reason. Something private, perhaps even personal. A good servant knew her boundaries, but as she had no memory of her duties, surely she had no memory of her boundaries. She released a little laugh. She could get away with things she might not otherwise.
Slowly, half inch by half inch, she lifted the hinged lid and peered inside. Nothing more than what appeared to be a yellowed-with-age clipping from a newspaper. Because it seemed brittle and fragile, she removed and unfolded it with care. It was an article concerning the hanging of a Robert Sykes. Why would he have this in his possession? Why would he keep it shut away, and yet within easy access?
“What the devil are you doing?”
She should have screeched, should have at least been startled, but she was becoming accustomed to that booming voice intruding when she was in the midst of contemplation. Besides, she was too enamored with what she’d discovered. She glanced to the mantel, but no clock rested there. Somewhere in her life was a mantel with a clock. A gold filigreed clock. A hideous thing that ticked far too loudly.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said.
After snatching the clipping from her fingers, he refolded and returned it to the box. “You have no right to go through my things.”
“I was looking for something and found that instead. Who is Robert Sykes?”
“A murderer.”
“Yes I rather gathered that from the newspaper account, but why would you keep it as though it were a treasured keepsake?”
“Perhaps I’m macabre.”
“No, I don’t think so. I believe it’s something personal, something with meaning.”
Slamming down the lid, he glared at her. “I do not explain my possessions. You are to leave them be.”
As he was avoiding her questions, she could only assume it was indeed most personal, but he wasn’t going to share it with her, no matter how many times she asked. She decided it was best to justify her actions, or at least those that could be justified. “I was searching for my account book.”
“Your what?”
“According to Mrs. Beeton, I’m supposed to keep a detailed record of things ordered, purchased, received. I don’t even know what my budget for the household is so I’m at quite a loss regarding what I can purchase.”
“I handle all the purchases.”
“But I’m the housekeeper.”
“You have enough duties without worrying about that.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“I am very particular about how my money is spent.”
He studied the desk for a moment, then walked over to the shelves, reached up, and placed the box on a shelf that she would be unable to reach without a stool. She didn’t bother to point out that it wasn’t safe there. If she wanted to look at it again, she could drag in a chair.
“I don’t understand our relationship,” she said instead. “I think you’re purposely keeping things from me in order to ensure I don’t regain my memories.”
He prowled toward her. An image flashed through her mind of his doing that while shadows closed in around them. She dropped down into the chair, pressed her back into it. Stopping, he hitched his hip onto the edge of the desk and leaned forward slightly. “What would I gain by such underhanded tactics?”
“You’ve come at me before like that.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You were—” She shook her head. “In formal attire. That makes no sense. I wouldn’t be at a formal affair ... unless I was serving, I suppose.”
His gaze roamed over her, taking in each detail. She remembered that action from another time as well. In the background had been music ... a waltz. But she didn’t fear this man. She trusted him. So why this sense of discomfiture? Especially after all he’d done for her, all she’d done for him.
Abruptly, he stood. “You’ll need your shoes. We’re going out.”
“Going out? Where?”
