workroom stood open a couple of inches, wide enough for anyone walking past to glance in and see exactly what he was doing.
Striding across, he opened the door, half-expecting to find one of the servants in the hallway. But the corridor stood empty—or at least empty of human beings—only the broom, bucket and dust cloths Mrs. Greenway had used for her cleaning expedition taking up space where they had been propped against the wall.
Curious she hadn’t taken them with her, he mused. But then, he supposed that was one of the upstairs maids’ jobs, his housekeeper only troubling herself to clean his workroom today because he wouldn’t let anyone of the others inside.
He’d lost a week’s work the last time one of them had touched his things. Another man would have dismissed Cobbs for the error, but she’d cried and said she was ever so sorry and it would never happen again. Knowing Cobbs was a well-meaning sort and generally performed her duties with skill, he hadn’t had the heart to do anything but give her a reprimand and send her on her way, vowing never to let any of them clean his domain again.
Until today.
Until Mrs. Greenway, who, he begrudgingly admitted, seemed to have managed the task without causing any damage. Everything was basically where he’d left it—only a little neater now—and more importantly, intact. The room smelled sweet too, the floors and woodwork tidy and gleaming with a fresh coat of lemon polish, the window glass sparkling and clearer than he could recall its being in ages.
Odd how she’d guessed that his mathematical proof dealt with astronomy. Then again, as she’d said, her conclusion was only logical, he supposed, considering all the books and papers on the subject that he kept strewn around the room. Reasonable, as well, that the noise he’d heard was nothing more than that—a noise. Old houses creaked and squeaked and groaned sometimes—his own being no exception.
Giving a shrug, he shut the door, making sure the lock clicked tightly this time. Returning to the safe, he tucked the money pouch back inside. As he did, he shifted some of the contents around inside. Among them, within a leather sheath, was the secret code he’d developed for the War Office. And just recently he’d improved the code, adding a number of even more complex equations to the mix.
The War Office had a copy for safekeeping, as did his brother Edward, but he preferred to keep the originals in his own hands. In his own safe, which he’d taken great pains to make sure was the best and strongest available. He knew the French would love to get their hands on the code since apparently even their finest minds couldn’t replicate his work, or so Edward had heard it secretly rumored.
Of course there had been the attempted burglary here at the town house last fall, but he’d put excellent precautions in place and wasn’t concerned. His staff had keen eyes as well and were unfailingly attentive and loyal, which they’d amply proven on that occasion.
On the evening in question, Morton and Harvey had been up late caring for a sick horse when they’d seen a faint light in the house and noticed the window to Drake’s workroom braced open. Aware that Drake was away at Braebourne, Edward’s principal estate in Gloucestershire, they knew something was amiss. They investigated and discovered a strange man going through their master’s belongings. With surprise on their sides, they’d subdued the intruder with only a minor scuffle, then called in the authorities.
Nothing had been taken, it was found, and the man had none of Drake’s possessions concealed on his person even though he claimed he’d broken in to steal valuables. But why, Drake had wondered afterward, had the thief chosen his town house when there were others nearby with items of far greater worth to steal? And why pick this particular room, when any burglar with sense would have gone straight for the dining and drawing rooms in search
Striding across, he opened the door, half-expecting to find one of the servants in the hallway. But the corridor stood empty—or at least empty of human beings—only the broom, bucket and dust cloths Mrs. Greenway had used for her cleaning expedition taking up space where they had been propped against the wall.
Curious she hadn’t taken them with her, he mused. But then, he supposed that was one of the upstairs maids’ jobs, his housekeeper only troubling herself to clean his workroom today because he wouldn’t let anyone of the others inside.
He’d lost a week’s work the last time one of them had touched his things. Another man would have dismissed Cobbs for the error, but she’d cried and said she was ever so sorry and it would never happen again. Knowing Cobbs was a well-meaning sort and generally performed her duties with skill, he hadn’t had the heart to do anything but give her a reprimand and send her on her way, vowing never to let any of them clean his domain again.
Until today.
Until Mrs. Greenway, who, he begrudgingly admitted, seemed to have managed the task without causing any damage. Everything was basically where he’d left it—only a little neater now—and more importantly, intact. The room smelled sweet too, the floors and woodwork tidy and gleaming with a fresh coat of lemon polish, the window glass sparkling and clearer than he could recall its being in ages.
Odd how she’d guessed that his mathematical proof dealt with astronomy. Then again, as she’d said, her conclusion was only logical, he supposed, considering all the books and papers on the subject that he kept strewn around the room. Reasonable, as well, that the noise he’d heard was nothing more than that—a noise. Old houses creaked and squeaked and groaned sometimes—his own being no exception.
Giving a shrug, he shut the door, making sure the lock clicked tightly this time. Returning to the safe, he tucked the money pouch back inside. As he did, he shifted some of the contents around inside. Among them, within a leather sheath, was the secret code he’d developed for the War Office. And just recently he’d improved the code, adding a number of even more complex equations to the mix.
The War Office had a copy for safekeeping, as did his brother Edward, but he preferred to keep the originals in his own hands. In his own safe, which he’d taken great pains to make sure was the best and strongest available. He knew the French would love to get their hands on the code since apparently even their finest minds couldn’t replicate his work, or so Edward had heard it secretly rumored.
Of course there had been the attempted burglary here at the town house last fall, but he’d put excellent precautions in place and wasn’t concerned. His staff had keen eyes as well and were unfailingly attentive and loyal, which they’d amply proven on that occasion.
On the evening in question, Morton and Harvey had been up late caring for a sick horse when they’d seen a faint light in the house and noticed the window to Drake’s workroom braced open. Aware that Drake was away at Braebourne, Edward’s principal estate in Gloucestershire, they knew something was amiss. They investigated and discovered a strange man going through their master’s belongings. With surprise on their sides, they’d subdued the intruder with only a minor scuffle, then called in the authorities.
Nothing had been taken, it was found, and the man had none of Drake’s possessions concealed on his person even though he claimed he’d broken in to steal valuables. But why, Drake had wondered afterward, had the thief chosen his town house when there were others nearby with items of far greater worth to steal? And why pick this particular room, when any burglar with sense would have gone straight for the dining and drawing rooms in search
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