Secrets of the Heart

by Candace Camp

Miranda looked instantly contrite. “Oh! I am so sorry, Michael! I did not think. It was so wonderful to have someone to talk to who was interested in such things that I quite forgot you must be tired.”

  “I was far too intrigued by what you were saying,” Michael assured her, smiling. “However, I imagine that you probably need your sleep.”

  “I am never tired,” Miranda protested, then cast a smile at her husband and added, “However, Dev worries—far more than is necessary, but I try to indulge him.”

  She rose as she spoke, and as abruptly as that, the evening was over. The others began to rise, smiling and saying their good-nights to one another. Rachel’s pulse skittered wildly, though she managed, she hoped, to keep her face perfectly calm.

  Michael came over to where she stood and extended his arm to her. Rachel curled her hand around his arm, hoping that he could not feel the trembling of her fingers, and walked with him out of the room. Behind them came Dev and Miranda, talking happily to each other and now and then chuckling. Rachel searched her mind for something to say to break the silence between her and Michael, but she could think of nothing that did not pertain to the fact that they were climbing the stairs to the bedroom that they would share. The more she tried to think of something else, the more it occupied her mind. The silence between them grew until it seemed solid and huge. Rachel was certain that the others must notice, and that thought made her feel even more uncomfortable.

  Michael stepped aside politely at their door for her to enter first, then came inside and closed the door behind him. Rachel turned to face him; her hands felt like ice.

  Michael walked over to the door of the dressing room and glanced inside. “Good,” he said, his voice far calmer and more matter-of-fact than Rachel felt. “They have set up the camp bed for me.” He turned back to face her. “You can ring for your maid if you wish. I will go down to the library and find a book to read, so you can have your privacy.”

  “Oh. Of course. Thank you.” Rachel wondered why she had not thought of the solution herself. It was quite simple, really, and removed much of the awkwardness from their situation.

  Michael nodded and walked to the door. He paused, not looking at her, his hand on the knob, and said, “Good night.”

  “Good night.” Rachel watched him as he opened the door and left the room.

  It was a great relief, she thought, to have the situation solved so easily. She could always count on Michael. And the odd feeling inside her was not regret, of course, but simply leftover agitation from the long evening of worrying over the matter.

  With a sigh, Rachel pulled the bellpull for the maid.

  * * *

  Michael walked quietly down the stairs toward the library. It had been one of the hardest things he had ever done to walk so calmly out of Rachel’s room. All evening he had been thinking about the night that lay before him—the long hours of lying only a few yards from where Rachel slept alone in her bed. He knew it would be a miracle if he got any sleep tonight; he would be thinking of nothing but Rachel’s soft warmth so close to him and how simple it would be to walk over to her bed and slide beneath the sheets.

  He had every right; he was her husband. No one would think the worse of him; no one would even know. Except Rachel, of course…But then, she was all that mattered.

  He would never do it, he knew. He had promised Rachel long ago that he would not, and the passage of time did not make his promise any less valid. He had hoped, of course, that she would change, that she would warm to him and welcome his touch, but that had never happened. He felt sure that she would be appalled if he came to her bed tonight.

  He could not take advantage of the situation, which meant that he would spend a long, tiring and deeply unsatisfying night plagued by thoughts of her nearness. He was already thrumming with lust, knowing that as he walked to the library and looked for a book, she was upstairs getting undressed and brushing out her hair. This whole evening, he had been thinking of just how much he would like to send her maid packing and do the job himself. He had imagined unhooking the back of her gown and pushing the sides apart, touching the skin of her back, softer than even the satin of her dress. He had thought what it would be like to press his lips to that back, to slide his hands around to her front and up….

  He had, quite frankly, heard almost none of the music the girls played and even less of what Miranda had said. His mind had been incapable of concentrating on anything except what he was firmly resolved not to do.

  Inside the library, he turned the wick of his lamp higher and carried it with him to the far wall of the library, where books rose in shelves far above the top of his head. Michael meandered along, scanning the spines for something that would interest him enough to keep his mind off Rachel. He was finding it difficult to find such a book.

  “Well, Michael…” A man’s voice spoke behind him, and Michael whirled around, startled.

  The Duke of Cleybourne stood in the doorway of the library, arms crossed and a sardonic smile on his face.

  “Cleybourne,” Michael said a trifle warily. “You startled me. I am surprised to see you here.”

  “So am I,” Richard agreed, strolling farther into the room and closing the door behind him. “Frankly, I prefer to be with my wife at bedtime.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  The Duke grimaced. “Because I want to know what in the devil is going on. What have you gotten yourself into? Who was that fellow that stopped Rachel’s carriage?” As Michael opened his mouth to speak, Richard added, “And don’t try that ‘jest’ business with me. Obviously Dev and Rachel are in the dark, but I know about your secret life.”

  Michael looked at him for a long moment. “All right,” he said finally. “The truth is, I’m not sure, but Rachel said he called himself Red Geordie, and he is a highwayman who has sold me information in the past. But I cannot imagine what he’s talking about. I presume he was hoping that I would give him some payment for that bit of useless knowledge.” He scowled, adding, “Something that I can assure you won’t happen again after I’ve tracked him down and let him know what I think of his stopping Rachel’s carriage and frightening her.”

  “So Rachel knows nothing about your helping Bow Street?”

  “No. Of course not,” Michael retorted. “She doesn’t even know about what I did in the war, let alone about Rob asking me to help on the Bow Street cases. Almost no one knows about it—only you and Rob and one or two friends from during the war. The fewer people who know the better—and, frankly, right at this moment I am regretting telling you.”

  “Yes, but, good God, man, we’re talking about your wife! How can you hide something like that from her?”

  Michael shrugged. “It isn’t that hard. Most of the time we are not together. She is in London and I am at Westhampton.”

  “Or off haring about in one of your disguises.”

  Michael shrugged. “At any rate, we are not together. It isn’t as if she sees me leaving the house and not coming back for a week or two.”

  Richard eyed him doubtfully. “Yes, but hiding something like that from her—Well, I can’t think she would like it.”

  “Yes, well, that’s why I don’t intend to tell her. Look, it isn’t as if I sat down and decided not to tell Rachel. But by the time she and I married, the war was long over. There was no reason to tell her about my helping Rob catch a few spies.”

  “A few!” Richard snorted and shook his head. “You know, most men would have found impressing their new bride with their derring-do during the war reason enough to tell her.”

  “Really, Richard…” Michael looked embarrassed. “It was hardly derring-do. More brainwork, actually. I would have felt a fool puffing it up.”

  “Yes,” Richard agreed with a rueful smile. “I am sure you would have.”

  Cleybourne knew Michael well enough to know what lay beneath his friend’s gentlemanly reluctance to reveal his heroism. Michael hated the idea that he was anything like his father, who had alw
ays been one to rush into the face of danger. The former Lord Westhampton had loved excitement—the thrill of the hunt, the rush of adrenaline at soaring over a fence on horseback, the challenge of facing an opponent at swords or fisticuffs. Michael had told Richard once in an unguarded moment that he feared it was his father coming out in him that made him choose to go into espionage during the war.

  “All right, so you were embarrassed to let on that you were a hero during the war, saving us all from Bonaparte’s spies,” Richard conceded with a degree of sarcasm. “But why didn’t you tell her when Rob came to you and asked you to help him with the Bow Street case?”

  Michael grimaced. “Well, I would have had to explain about how Rob and I had worked together during the war, and then no doubt Rachel would have wanted to know why I hadn’t told her. And everything I could think of to explain it made me sound like a fool. Besides, I thought it was going to be only the one case. It was merely a favor for a friend of Rob’s who was a Bow Street magistrate. I didn’t know that the Bow Street Runner himself would come back the next year wanting my help. Anyway, Rachel was in London and I was at Westhampton, and I couldn’t very well write it in a letter. It was over by the time she came home for Christmas, and then it just seemed like…I don’t know, braggadocio.”

  Richard shook his head exasperatedly. “Of course.”

  “Besides, it is scarcely a fit subject for a lady,” Michael pointed out. When Richard looked doubtful, Michael added, “Would you have told Caroline that you were investigating murders and such?”

  “Well, no,” Richard admitted. “But I have learned a great deal since then. Jessica would have my head on a platter if I kept something like that from her. And given the way she and Miranda reacted to the dangers they have faced the last year…”

  “It is an entirely different matter,” Michael argued. “Rachel is not a soldier’s daughter like your wife. Nor did some American trapper teach her how to shoot a gun when she was eight years old, like Miranda. Rachel is a gently reared Englishwoman, and she is quite unused to tales of murder and robbery. Good God, Richard, she has no idea what the underbelly of London is like—the poverty and crime, the appalling dirt and disease. She would be horrified to hear about my forays into that world. It would only worry and upset her.”

  There had been times when Michael had wanted quite badly to tell Rachel about his cases. It would have been pleasant to have been able to confide in her, to discuss his thoughts on the mysteries that confronted him and to hear what insight Rachel might provide in the matter. But he had always stopped himself. It would have been grossly unfair to relieve himself of his burdens at Rachel’s expense.

  “Perhaps…” Richard said, looking less than convinced. “But I have learned the past few months that women are far stronger than we think. You might be surprised to find that Rachel would take it all in her stride.”

  Richard did not add his other thought, that one could scarcely have a full relationship with one’s wife if she knew so little about one’s life. He knew that Michael’s marriage bore little resemblance to his own intense, close and sometimes tempestuous relationship with Jessica. Michael had never told him about Rachel’s last-minute elopement with another man, but his first wife, Rachel’s sister Caroline, had not been so reticent. It was easy to see, watching the two of them together, that the deep rift had never been healed.

  Richard was deeply fond of both of them. Michael had been one of his best friends for almost fifteen years, for they had met when they were first young gentlemen on the town in London. And Rachel had been a rock of support for him during the long, dark years after her sister’s death. He would have given almost anything to help the two of them overcome their past and have a happy marriage, but he was also certain that Michael would not have welcomed his interference.

  “I see no reason to worry her with it,” Michael replied.

  Richard shrugged. “Then you had best do a bang-up job of hiding it from her, for if she finds out, you will rue the day you didn’t tell her. Women hate secrets—if they aren’t their own.” He paused, watching Michael, then added, “Who wants you dead?”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “No one that I know of. I can’t imagine why anyone would. I’ve made absolutely no progress on the last case Cooper brought me. I’m no danger to anyone; I have no idea whatever who stole the manuscript.”

  Richard frowned. “Manuscript?”

  “Yes. It was an illuminated manuscript from the eleventh century. Quite rare and valuable. Belonged to the Earl of Setworth.”

  “The stuttering chap?”

  Michael nodded. “The same. He came to me because Sir William Godfrey told him about how I helped Cooper solve the theft of his wife’s necklace. He already had a Runner on it, not Cooper, but they had had no luck. The manuscript was Setworth’s prize possession, and he kept it in a secret room in his study. Well, obviously, my first thought—and Bow Street’s, too—was that it could not have been a thief off the street. It had to be someone with inside knowledge.”

  “One of the servants?”

  Michael shrugged. “Setworth swore that none of them knew the mechanism that opened the door to the room. He doesn’t even believe that any of them knew that there was a secret room in his study at all. The Runner he hired had investigated them—none of them had left Setworth’s employ in the months after the theft, and none of them had shown signs of sudden wealth. And there had been no one let go for over year prior to that, and that time it was only a scullery maid who would have never gone into the study. I had one of the chaps I use sometimes pose as a servant and get hired there. He never heard a whisper of anyone knowing anything about the theft. Setworth swore that no one but his two sons knew how to operate the mechanism, and, of course, he was adamant that neither of them would have stolen the manuscript.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “I rarely trust anyone as much as the victims seem to, but I could not find any reason to believe either one of them had stolen it. They seemed to live within their allowances, no large debts or questionable friends. When I questioned the earl closely, he did admit that at a house party a few weeks before the theft, he had shown the manuscript to some of his guests. However, he did not believe that any of them had been able to see what trick he used to open the door. I thought they were the most likely suspects, but when I looked into their finances, none of them had come into any windfall lately. Well, actually one of them had, a chap whose uncle had died and he had inherited, but that had occurred several months prior to the party. They were not all wealthy, of course, but again, there were no large debts or shady acquaintances.”

  “Then do you think it was a random thief—an outsider?”

  “It wasn’t random. Whoever went in had to know about the manuscript and where it was kept—it was the only thing taken. There were no signs of a break-in—Setworth didn’t even know it was gone until one morning when he went in to spend a few minutes admiring it and discovered it was gone. It could have been taken any time during the two weeks before that. That was the last time he saw it.”

  “Word could easily have gotten around about Setworth’s manuscript. Obviously he showed it to people, and people talk. Perhaps some thief heard about it, even heard that it was in a secret room, and he went in and found the room and the mechanism. Perhaps it wasn’t as difficult as Lord Setworth thought.”

  “Perhaps. But if so, he is a smarter man than I. I visited Setworth House and went to the study and spent the better part of a day trying to find the secret room and figure out how it worked. I finally worked out where it had to be because of the thickness of the walls joining the library with the study. However, I still was completely unable to open it. Setworth had to come in and open it for me. The only thing I learned was that he was not as stealthy in opening it as he thought. I managed to see enough of what he did that later I could have opened it. But, still, that narrows it down to maybe fifty or a hundred guests whom Setworth probably showed it to over the course o
f the years—and there’s no telling how many of them might have told someone else about the clever mechanism.”

  “Well, supposing it was the most recent guests, the ones to whom you know he showed it…”

  Michael grimaced. “Difficult to establish whether any of them could have done it. There was a two-week period during which it could have happened. It’s hard to have an alibi for two weeks running—although one fellow was apparently in bed sick for nearly all that time, plus another week convalescing. And another was sworn to have been in London by his wife and four children, as well as all the servants.”

  “Are you saying you have given up, then?”

  “I was ready to,” Michael admitted. “Until this happened. Now I’m wondering if I am close to the answer and just don’t realize it. Even if I’m not, I have to go back and try again. I can’t let it go if Rachel is going to get dragged into it. If someone really wishes me harm, it would be easiest to do it through her. She will be in London, unprotected….”

  “Do you plan to stay with her all Season, then?”

  Michael shook his head. It was a tempting, tormenting idea, one he had been considering all day on the ride to Darkwater. “No. I have sent a note to Cooper to hire someone to keep watch on Rachel and the house. But the best thing I can do to protect her is to solve this riddle and get the miscreant behind bars. Besides, she would know something was wrong if I remained the whole Season in London. I will assume one of my disguises.”

  “You’ll go to Lilith’s, then?”

  Michael nodded. “Yes. And see if I can get any help from Rob, though he is out of the business now.”

  Cleybourne looked at his friend consideringly. “It’s a risky thing you’re playing at. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Michael knew Richard was talking about more than the physical danger about which Red Geordie had warned Michael. Richard was worried about the health of Westhampton’s marriage. Michael did not tell him what he thought—that there was little point worrying about a marriage that was long since moribund.