and friendship and, more, they helped to fill the dark, lonely place inside her.
And they would be the perfect scapegoat if the folio were discovered. So she would ensure that none of them were taken up for treason by finding the traitor who was using her friends.
Turning back to the ledgers, she finished the count of goods in the smuggling shipment. When she left the cave, she called out to the men as she departed and wished them luck on the water. A moment later, she was in the darkened mouth of the tunnel.
She tested for rain before exiting the cave. The unpleasant drizzle had ceased, leaving the air cool and moist. She picked her way up the slope to the cliff top above.
A shift in the shadows at the edge of the cliffs caught her attention. She waited, watching the jagged rocks, heart pounding. The shadow shifted again and the figure of a man rose up from the cliff edge.
The shadow was well above her, and if it were not for the sliver of moon attempting to shine through the clouds, she wouldn’t have noticed him against the horizon. Then the man slipped away from the cliff edge into the surrounding darkness. She continued to wait, eyes straining against the dark, but she didn’t see him again.
Who was it? The traitor?
Digging into her coat, she drew out her pistol. The pearl handle was smooth, cool and comforting in her hand. Gripping it tight, she continued her ascent. Reaching the cliff top she crouched, alert, and scanned the horizon for the shadowy form.
When she was certain there was no shadow that did not belong, she turned away from the cliffs and toward the building at the edge of the wood that housed Demon. Once she reached her uncle’s estate and ensured Demon was settled for the evening she entered her stillroom, carrying a short candle.
Surveying the shelves, she contemplated whether to hide the second folio in the same barrel of rose petals. It would be better to separate the folios in case of discovery. She looked around for a suitable hiding place, mentally evaluating and discarding various drawers, pots and barrels, until she saw a small trunk in the corner.
Grace strode to the trunk and flipped the lid. Squares of linen and muslin lay inside, ready to be sewed into sachets. Kneeling, she placed the candle on the floor. Digging beneath the fabric, she cleared a space for the folio on the floor of the trunk. After carefully replacing the fabric, she closed the lid and stood. It was as good as any other hiding place.
She strode to the door of the stillroom and put her hand on the latch, ready for her bed, but her eyes strayed to the barrel of roses. To reassure herself that the folio had not been stolen or discovered, Grace went to the barrel, plunged her arm in and felt around. When her fingertips touched the cool, smooth leather she wilted in relief. It was still there, hidden from prying eyes and traitorous minds.
__________
“M ISS H ANNAH IS involved in treason up to her pretty neck.”
“Hmm.” Sir Charles Flint did not look up from the documents spread across his desk. They were free of their leather bindings, which remained hidden among sweet-smelling rose petals and soft linen.
Julian nodded toward the papers. “I’m not privy to Wellington’s plans, so I don’t know the accuracy of that information.” From his vantage point the scrawling script looked like foreign symbols. But he’d read the damning information repeatedly during the hasty trip to London and knew every word.
“It’s accurate enough,” Sir Charles said. “Are you certain Miss Hannah is involved?”
“I watched her hide this information in her stillroom,” he said flatly. “She’s involved.”
Sir Charles said nothing, but his fingers skimmed the pages as though following the path of his eyes.
Julian waited. Or tried to. Something hot and edgy seethed inside him. The documents were not enough to let him back in. They were important, but they were not enough.
“Give me your report.”
It was as
And they would be the perfect scapegoat if the folio were discovered. So she would ensure that none of them were taken up for treason by finding the traitor who was using her friends.
Turning back to the ledgers, she finished the count of goods in the smuggling shipment. When she left the cave, she called out to the men as she departed and wished them luck on the water. A moment later, she was in the darkened mouth of the tunnel.
She tested for rain before exiting the cave. The unpleasant drizzle had ceased, leaving the air cool and moist. She picked her way up the slope to the cliff top above.
A shift in the shadows at the edge of the cliffs caught her attention. She waited, watching the jagged rocks, heart pounding. The shadow shifted again and the figure of a man rose up from the cliff edge.
The shadow was well above her, and if it were not for the sliver of moon attempting to shine through the clouds, she wouldn’t have noticed him against the horizon. Then the man slipped away from the cliff edge into the surrounding darkness. She continued to wait, eyes straining against the dark, but she didn’t see him again.
Who was it? The traitor?
Digging into her coat, she drew out her pistol. The pearl handle was smooth, cool and comforting in her hand. Gripping it tight, she continued her ascent. Reaching the cliff top she crouched, alert, and scanned the horizon for the shadowy form.
When she was certain there was no shadow that did not belong, she turned away from the cliffs and toward the building at the edge of the wood that housed Demon. Once she reached her uncle’s estate and ensured Demon was settled for the evening she entered her stillroom, carrying a short candle.
Surveying the shelves, she contemplated whether to hide the second folio in the same barrel of rose petals. It would be better to separate the folios in case of discovery. She looked around for a suitable hiding place, mentally evaluating and discarding various drawers, pots and barrels, until she saw a small trunk in the corner.
Grace strode to the trunk and flipped the lid. Squares of linen and muslin lay inside, ready to be sewed into sachets. Kneeling, she placed the candle on the floor. Digging beneath the fabric, she cleared a space for the folio on the floor of the trunk. After carefully replacing the fabric, she closed the lid and stood. It was as good as any other hiding place.
She strode to the door of the stillroom and put her hand on the latch, ready for her bed, but her eyes strayed to the barrel of roses. To reassure herself that the folio had not been stolen or discovered, Grace went to the barrel, plunged her arm in and felt around. When her fingertips touched the cool, smooth leather she wilted in relief. It was still there, hidden from prying eyes and traitorous minds.
__________
“M ISS H ANNAH IS involved in treason up to her pretty neck.”
“Hmm.” Sir Charles Flint did not look up from the documents spread across his desk. They were free of their leather bindings, which remained hidden among sweet-smelling rose petals and soft linen.
Julian nodded toward the papers. “I’m not privy to Wellington’s plans, so I don’t know the accuracy of that information.” From his vantage point the scrawling script looked like foreign symbols. But he’d read the damning information repeatedly during the hasty trip to London and knew every word.
“It’s accurate enough,” Sir Charles said. “Are you certain Miss Hannah is involved?”
“I watched her hide this information in her stillroom,” he said flatly. “She’s involved.”
Sir Charles said nothing, but his fingers skimmed the pages as though following the path of his eyes.
Julian waited. Or tried to. Something hot and edgy seethed inside him. The documents were not enough to let him back in. They were important, but they were not enough.
“Give me your report.”
It was as
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