of the silver? Drake had no proof, but he was convinced the man had been there searching for the code.
Well, if they tried again, they would be just as unsuccessful. Not only had he installed the sophisticated wall safe that lay behind the landscape painting, but he’d taken to wearing the key that opened it. No one but he and his valet knew he wore the key around his neck, and he had complete faith in Waxman, who’d served in the Army before he’d been mustered out with a bad knee and gone into service.
There was Vanessa, he conceded, but she had no curiosity about such things and even less interest in his work. They never spoke of the key, and he never mentioned either the code or the reason he’d taken to wearing the key. In deference to her wishes, he usually removed it while they were in bed together, but it was always back around his neck again when he dressed to leave.
Speaking of which, he thought, as he closed the safe door and locked it, he supposed he ought to pay her a visit. She’d sent him a note a couple of days ago—instantly identifiable by its pink stationery and gardenia fragrance—which urged him to put aside his work and pay her a call. Instead, he’d put the note aside, far too immersed in his theoretical constructs to be interested in conducting any midnight trysts. But with his work concluded, for the time being at least, he was free to do as he liked. Yet even as he considered the idea of spending the night in his mistress’s bed, he rejected it.
For one, he was scheduled to attend the theater tonight with the family and would likely find himself invited for a late supper afterward at Clybourne House. He could always excuse himself, he was sure, but strangely enough he wasn’t certain he wished to be excused. Part of him would much rather watch the play, talk and relax with his family, then return home.
Then again, if Anne Greenway were the one waiting for him . . . ruefully he knew he’d dash off his excuses for both the theater and the supper and unhesitatingly spend those hours in bed with her.
Ignoring the arousal that was suddenly plaguing him, he lifted the painting from where it sat on the floor and hung it back in its place. Taking his time making certain the canvas was straight, he focused on ridding his mind of thoughts of his housekeeper and how lovely he imagined she would look lying naked against his sheets, her magnificent hair flowing around her like scattered autumn leaves.
And here he’d spent the past week assuring himself he was doing better on the wanting-Anne-Greenway front. So much for effective self-delusion.
Well, the inclination to bed her would pass soon enough, and what better way to put her out of his mind than to surround himself with family. Within the hour, she’d be the last person in his thoughts.
D rake traced his pencil over a page in the small notepad he always kept tucked in his coat pocket. Usually he used it to jot down ideas and random equations. Instead, as he sat in the Clybourne box, waiting for the curtain to rise on a performance of Macbeth, it wasn’t mathematics on his mind.
“Who is that?” murmured the dulcet voice of his sister, Mallory, from the seat to his right.
Imperceptibly, he jumped, having failed to notice her as she’d slipped into the seat a few moments ago. Her husband, Adam, was still across the small aisle talking to Cade and Meg about harvesting methods of all things.
“She’s no one,” he lied.
Putting a halt to his sketching, he flipped the leather cover closed over the drawing he’d been doing of Anne Greenway, then slid the notepad into the inner silk-lined pocket of his evening coat.
Mallory angled her head and gave him a clearly disbelieving look. “For no one, she’s awfully pretty. Someone you’re pursuing? And don’t worry, now that I’m married I can admit to knowing all about the amorous liaisons in which men engage. Adam tells me such tales of things he hears at the club. You wouldn’t
Well, if they tried again, they would be just as unsuccessful. Not only had he installed the sophisticated wall safe that lay behind the landscape painting, but he’d taken to wearing the key that opened it. No one but he and his valet knew he wore the key around his neck, and he had complete faith in Waxman, who’d served in the Army before he’d been mustered out with a bad knee and gone into service.
There was Vanessa, he conceded, but she had no curiosity about such things and even less interest in his work. They never spoke of the key, and he never mentioned either the code or the reason he’d taken to wearing the key. In deference to her wishes, he usually removed it while they were in bed together, but it was always back around his neck again when he dressed to leave.
Speaking of which, he thought, as he closed the safe door and locked it, he supposed he ought to pay her a visit. She’d sent him a note a couple of days ago—instantly identifiable by its pink stationery and gardenia fragrance—which urged him to put aside his work and pay her a call. Instead, he’d put the note aside, far too immersed in his theoretical constructs to be interested in conducting any midnight trysts. But with his work concluded, for the time being at least, he was free to do as he liked. Yet even as he considered the idea of spending the night in his mistress’s bed, he rejected it.
For one, he was scheduled to attend the theater tonight with the family and would likely find himself invited for a late supper afterward at Clybourne House. He could always excuse himself, he was sure, but strangely enough he wasn’t certain he wished to be excused. Part of him would much rather watch the play, talk and relax with his family, then return home.
Then again, if Anne Greenway were the one waiting for him . . . ruefully he knew he’d dash off his excuses for both the theater and the supper and unhesitatingly spend those hours in bed with her.
Ignoring the arousal that was suddenly plaguing him, he lifted the painting from where it sat on the floor and hung it back in its place. Taking his time making certain the canvas was straight, he focused on ridding his mind of thoughts of his housekeeper and how lovely he imagined she would look lying naked against his sheets, her magnificent hair flowing around her like scattered autumn leaves.
And here he’d spent the past week assuring himself he was doing better on the wanting-Anne-Greenway front. So much for effective self-delusion.
Well, the inclination to bed her would pass soon enough, and what better way to put her out of his mind than to surround himself with family. Within the hour, she’d be the last person in his thoughts.
D rake traced his pencil over a page in the small notepad he always kept tucked in his coat pocket. Usually he used it to jot down ideas and random equations. Instead, as he sat in the Clybourne box, waiting for the curtain to rise on a performance of Macbeth, it wasn’t mathematics on his mind.
“Who is that?” murmured the dulcet voice of his sister, Mallory, from the seat to his right.
Imperceptibly, he jumped, having failed to notice her as she’d slipped into the seat a few moments ago. Her husband, Adam, was still across the small aisle talking to Cade and Meg about harvesting methods of all things.
“She’s no one,” he lied.
Putting a halt to his sketching, he flipped the leather cover closed over the drawing he’d been doing of Anne Greenway, then slid the notepad into the inner silk-lined pocket of his evening coat.
Mallory angled her head and gave him a clearly disbelieving look. “For no one, she’s awfully pretty. Someone you’re pursuing? And don’t worry, now that I’m married I can admit to knowing all about the amorous liaisons in which men engage. Adam tells me such tales of things he hears at the club. You wouldn’t
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