upstairs to the main floor. A ghostly saloon of adequate size, sparsely furnished, loomed on the left. We peered in and continued upstairs. "I wonder which rooms are Grindley's," I whispered.
Dalton spoke in a normal voice. "I shall recognize Harelson's things."
The first two chambers were obviously unoccupied. The beds were not made up, and the dresser tops were bare. The third door we tried was Grindley's. I knew instinctively that Lord Harelson was not so slovenly as to leave his dirty linen in a heap on the floor, and one boot on his bed. I lit another lamp, and while Dalton searched the clothes closet, I went to the desk. It was empty, save for a welter of bills (unpaid), and a receipt for fifty pounds, signed by Lord Harelson. That would be for Grindley's summer's rent. Not cheap either, for one room, but perhaps Grindley had the use of the saloon as well.
Next I went to the dresser, where a handsome leather-bound jewelry box held two pennies, a broken clasp knife, and a brass button from a man's jacket. There was a sound from below, muffled by distance, but certainly in the house, not outside.
"These old houses—squeaking rafters," he said vaguely.
I returned to work, quickly rifling the drawers, but found nothing incriminating.
"Nothing here," he said, turning from the clothespress.
"Perhaps under the mattress, or—"
We froze in place, as the sounds of footfalls coming up the stairs reached our ears. That "squeaking rafter" had been the front door opening. We knew Lord Harelson was at the concert, so it had to be Stewart Grindley, about to catch us red-handed searching his bedchamber.
I did not want to swoon in front of Dalton, after my proud boast of grace under pressure. As cool as cream cheese, I blew out the lamp and nipped over to the clothespress. "In here," I said, and climbed in, pushing Grindley's jackets aside.
Dalton grabbed the bedroom lamp from my hand and set it on the dresser, extinguished his own kitchen lamp, and wiggled in beside me, still holding the lamp. He drew the door to behind him. The smell of dying wick was powerful in that small, enclosed space.
If Grindley had his wits about him, he would catch the same scent in the bedroom. I waited with my heart in my mouth for the door to open. What possible excuse could we give if we were discovered? Perhaps I trembled, or perhaps Mr. Dalton just wanted some physical comfort, or perhaps his arm was cramped in the confined space. In any case, he put his arm around my waist and pulled me more closely against him.
I tensed up like a coiled spring, but as I was prevented by circumstances from objecting either verbally or physically, I soon relaxed and enjoyed the unexpected intimacy. His breaths fanned the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine. His fingers tightened their grip on my waist. I hardly dared think what liberty might come next—but whatever it was, I would have to submit to it in silence.
Chapter Eleven
Through a crack in the clothespress door I could see that Grindley was carrying a lighted candle. He wore evening clothes, but still managed to look common. He sniffed the air a couple of times and looked around, but was apparently satisfied that there was nothing amiss. He strode purposefully toward the bed, lifted the mattress, and picked up something. Between the dim light and the small size of the article, I could not tell what it was, but I caught the wink of metal. He shook the object a moment in the palm of his hand, frowning, then slid it into his pocket and left.
We soon heard his footsteps running back downstairs, heard the front door close, and our hearts returned to our chests. I pushed open the closet door and stepped into a pitch-black room. I felt a little restraint from Dalton's arm, but that may be because I bolted forward unexpectedly. In any case, he did not try to detain me, nor did he turn flirtatious.
"Let us see what is under the mattress, then leave," I said at once. "This spree has
Dalton spoke in a normal voice. "I shall recognize Harelson's things."
The first two chambers were obviously unoccupied. The beds were not made up, and the dresser tops were bare. The third door we tried was Grindley's. I knew instinctively that Lord Harelson was not so slovenly as to leave his dirty linen in a heap on the floor, and one boot on his bed. I lit another lamp, and while Dalton searched the clothes closet, I went to the desk. It was empty, save for a welter of bills (unpaid), and a receipt for fifty pounds, signed by Lord Harelson. That would be for Grindley's summer's rent. Not cheap either, for one room, but perhaps Grindley had the use of the saloon as well.
Next I went to the dresser, where a handsome leather-bound jewelry box held two pennies, a broken clasp knife, and a brass button from a man's jacket. There was a sound from below, muffled by distance, but certainly in the house, not outside.
"These old houses—squeaking rafters," he said vaguely.
I returned to work, quickly rifling the drawers, but found nothing incriminating.
"Nothing here," he said, turning from the clothespress.
"Perhaps under the mattress, or—"
We froze in place, as the sounds of footfalls coming up the stairs reached our ears. That "squeaking rafter" had been the front door opening. We knew Lord Harelson was at the concert, so it had to be Stewart Grindley, about to catch us red-handed searching his bedchamber.
I did not want to swoon in front of Dalton, after my proud boast of grace under pressure. As cool as cream cheese, I blew out the lamp and nipped over to the clothespress. "In here," I said, and climbed in, pushing Grindley's jackets aside.
Dalton grabbed the bedroom lamp from my hand and set it on the dresser, extinguished his own kitchen lamp, and wiggled in beside me, still holding the lamp. He drew the door to behind him. The smell of dying wick was powerful in that small, enclosed space.
If Grindley had his wits about him, he would catch the same scent in the bedroom. I waited with my heart in my mouth for the door to open. What possible excuse could we give if we were discovered? Perhaps I trembled, or perhaps Mr. Dalton just wanted some physical comfort, or perhaps his arm was cramped in the confined space. In any case, he put his arm around my waist and pulled me more closely against him.
I tensed up like a coiled spring, but as I was prevented by circumstances from objecting either verbally or physically, I soon relaxed and enjoyed the unexpected intimacy. His breaths fanned the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine. His fingers tightened their grip on my waist. I hardly dared think what liberty might come next—but whatever it was, I would have to submit to it in silence.
Chapter Eleven
Through a crack in the clothespress door I could see that Grindley was carrying a lighted candle. He wore evening clothes, but still managed to look common. He sniffed the air a couple of times and looked around, but was apparently satisfied that there was nothing amiss. He strode purposefully toward the bed, lifted the mattress, and picked up something. Between the dim light and the small size of the article, I could not tell what it was, but I caught the wink of metal. He shook the object a moment in the palm of his hand, frowning, then slid it into his pocket and left.
We soon heard his footsteps running back downstairs, heard the front door close, and our hearts returned to our chests. I pushed open the closet door and stepped into a pitch-black room. I felt a little restraint from Dalton's arm, but that may be because I bolted forward unexpectedly. In any case, he did not try to detain me, nor did he turn flirtatious.
"Let us see what is under the mattress, then leave," I said at once. "This spree has
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