As Arthur followed Gates through the doorway, he felt as though he were treading upon a grave. His companion headed for a shelf on the far wall, but Arthur drew in a long breath and clenched his teeth.
Emotions had their place, to be sure, but war had taught him well that sometimes, in order to stand tall, one must stand hollow. Let everything drain away and simply focus on facts. Mere, simple facts.
One—the room smelled musty after being shut up for eight weeks. It begged for the heavy drapes to be pulled back, the window opened.
Two—the floor was empty where the rug had lain.
Three—blood must have soaked through it, for the wood by the massive desk was stained.
Arthur turned on his heel and put his back to that particular fact. Better to face the man who was peeking behind picture frames. “How may I assist you, Mr. Gates?”
Gates didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder. “Anywhere you think a strongbox might be hidden, Sir Arthur, look. I cannot believe I forgot so long that my brother-in-law had one fabricated.”
The younger man cleared his throat and cast his gaze around the room. The chair was no longer overturned and glass fragments were no longer scattered about the floor, but the chamber still felt the way it had when he stepped into it two months prior. The same way he felt now to be poking about it. Wrong.
“Are you certain this is necessary?”
Gates lowered a frame back into place and sent him a patronizing look. “I suppose we could shrug our shoulders and admit Gwyneth has been lost to us.”
A year ago, when this feeling came upon him, his hand would have settled of its own will upon the hilt of his sword. Now, his belt empty of both blade and pistol, he had to merely clench his hand and wait for the pulse of insult to fade.
Once it had, Arthur headed toward the opposite side of the room. The desk and the bookcase behind it. Though he refused to look down, his feet nonetheless took the liberty of avoiding that telltale stain.
Blood had become a common sight in war, one they had all learned to ignore. On the battlefield it was expected. Accepted. But in a man’s own study? What was the purpose of fighting if not to ensure that one could come home and live without fear?
He crouched beside the desk and ran his hands down the sides, comparing the dimensions from the outside with the space available in the drawers. No unexpected compartments, so far as he could tell. He leaned into the space underneath and checked the floorboards. Tight and varnished.
Giving up on that idea, he faced the shelves and began moving the books out a few inches to look behind them. Pull three out, check, push them back. Pull three out, check, push them back.
On the bottom shelf, he found a piece of paper crumpled behind a volume of Montesquieu. There was nothing upon it but a few notes on the text. On the second shelf, a letter from some chap from the Colonies was tucked within the pages of Lavoisier’s Méthode de Nomenclature Chimique. He found nothing else until he moved over to the next bookcase. On the third shelf down, in a collection of French poetry, rested another letter. The scent of rose water still clung to it, the elegant script on the outside matching the fragrance.
Mon amour.
French? He glanced over his shoulder to be sure Gates was still occupied with his own shelves, and then he unfolded the paper. General Fairchild certainly wouldn’t be the first army officer to find a paramour from among the French while on campaign, but he had to admit that the thought shocked him. Though he hadn’t served directly under him, Arthur knew Fairchild’s reputation.
But if he had secrets like this, it could be tied to his murder. Arthur studied out the French text.
My dearest Isaac, how I yearn for you. How much longer until you return to me? This dreadful weakness is seeping more and more through my limbs. I fear, my love. I fear I will not live to see your homecoming. I fear leaving Gwyneth alone.
Gwyneth. Arthur’s gaze went to the end of the letter, where Julienne was written. Mrs. Fairchild, not some secret mistress. He had forgotten she was half French. This would not help him determine who could have killed the man or why. It could not lead him to Gwyneth. He set the letter on top of the row of books.
“Ah!”
Gates’s exclamation brought Arthur around. The older man knelt by the window seat, the lower paneling of which had been removed. He maneuvered a strongbox from within the hidden cubbyhole.
Though a skitter of unease swept up his spine, as Arthur hurried to his companion he told himself that if it would save Gwyneth it was not prying. “How will we open it?”
From within a pocket Gates produced a large metal key. “I procured it from the Bow Street runners. ’Twas in the general’s boot.” He set it at the lock but then paused to shoot Arthur one of his serious looks. “Do be aware, sir, that you are not to poke into any military-related articles that may be within.”
Again his hand flexed, craving the surety that came with his trusted sidearms. “Mr. Gates, I was a military man for a decade, sent home because of injury and for no other reason. You need not lecture me on such things.”
This time Gates offered no apology. He turned back to the box, inserted the key, and gave it a hard quarter turn.
Clank.
Another quarter turn.
Clank.
Once more.
Clank.
And a final twist, a final release, a final metal-on-metal clank. Arthur strained forward, leaned in, and frowned.
Gates withdrew the single sheet of paper and held it so they could both read it.
You are too late. The game, as they say, is up. You have lost.
Pushing to his feet, Gates tossed the paper to the window seat. “It seems our hunch was correct, Sir Arthur. Fairchild’s death could not be a result of a random burglary, given this.”
“Indeed.” Still frowning, he looked from the safe to the page. Speculation flew through his mind, but he focused again upon the facts.
One—Fairchild had expected someone to look in this strongbox.
Two—he therefore knew he had an enemy closing in upon him.
Three—if Fairchild expected someone to look in here, then he expected them to have the key. The key which he wore in his boot. It therefore stood to reason that he suspected his enemy capable of murder.
He had taken steps to counteract this enemy, though, clearly. Likely with the removal of whatever had been in the safe at one point. Just as likely with the removal of his daughter from harm’s way.
“Where does that leave us?”
A muscle in Gates’s jaw pulsed, as if he clenched his teeth too tightly. “I know not. I have already canvassed every stop along the post roads from London, the shipyard, everything. No one recalled seeing her, and if they did not recall it two months ago, they will not now.”
“She can’t have disappeared.” Yet she seemed to have. Arthur walked over to the window, pushed aside the drapes, and looked out into the garden. Heavy with blooms and lustrous with life, but empty. So very empty. “I asked after her in all the likely places too during that first week. I even followed several false leads. The only one I could not track down was at the shipping office.”
“What?” Gates had been turning away but halted. “I checked there. No one saw any young ladies the days in question.”
“None of the officials, but a young lad searching for odd jobs thought he’d seen her.”
“Interesting.”
Arthur shook his head. “It could not have been Gwyneth. She would not have been boarding a ship bound for America.”
“America.” A spark ignited in Gates’s eyes, blazed, and then went cool. Controlled. “What ship? To where was it headed?”
Did he really think any potential chance of finding her lay in that direction? “Somewhere in Maryland, I believe. I cannot recall its name.”
A smile curled the corners of Gates’s mouth, though his eyes remained devoid of feeling. “I thought to check my sister’s distant relatives on the Continent, the friends we have abroad. That is where most of the general’s contacts still are.”
“Which would make sense, especially given that Napoleon has been defeated. But General Fairchild would never have sent his daughter into the escalating war in America.”
Something snapped to life in Gates’s eyes, quickly rising and quickly gone. “Exactly. No one would expect it, which would make it safe.”
For lack of anything useful to do with his hands, Arthur clasped them behind his back. He shook his head again. “Safe? Nay. Not with those blasted American privateers on the loose, even in British waters—and he would not send his daughter into a war without a protector.”
Gates’s face was stoic once more. “Ah, but what if he was sending her to a protector? To trusted friends?”
“Trusted friends in America?”
“He was stationed in the City of New York during much of the Revolution. He made friends among the Colonists, who have since moved to Maryland, if I recall correctly.”
“But that is…” Realization sent Arthur back to the bookcase behind the desk. He lifted out the tome of Lavoisier, extracted the letter, and looked at the address. “Bennet Lane of Annapolis?”
Gates snapped his fingers. “That is he. I know they were in regular correspondence.”
“Perhaps. But still, I cannot fathom the general sending her there.”
The laugh that shuffled its way past Gates’s lips sounded more resigned than amused. “You did not know him.”
Arthur’s shoulders snapped back, his spine in perfect alignment. “I know he was a noble man, sir, and an admirable one. I know he achieved his rank through honor and bravery. And I know that he loved his country. He would not send his daughter to England’s enemy.”
“He defined that last word differently than we do, Sir Arthur.” He bent over and lifted the strongbox enough to wiggle it back into place. “Perhaps it is this friendship that blinded him, I cannot say. But he failed to see that America is our enemy. And I fear—I truly fear—that his inability to identify them as such may have been what allowed one close enough to kill him.”
Arthur’s throat tightened, wanted to close off, but he swallowed and lifted his chin a notch. Was Gates seriously implying that General Fairchild was the victim of espionage?
His fingers fisted around the letter from the American. His uncle, Viscount Hart, was a difficult man to please, one who had given only begrudging approval of Arthur’s choice of bride. Gwyneth’s blood was beyond reproach, but the viscount had wanted his nephew to choose a nobleman’s daughter. Or at least a gentlewoman of resounding wealth that could be added to the viscountcy when Arthur inherited. If he got a whiff of anything as unsavory as espionage surrounding the Fairchilds…
There was only one thing to do. He must find Gwyneth and marry her as soon as he did before anything could besmirch the Fairchild name.
He smoothed out the missive, tucked it into his pocket in case it contained any information that would aid him in his search, and then reached for the one from Mrs. Fairchild too. When he found his lady, she would appreciate the connection to her parents.
He pivoted to face Gates, who was raising the paneling back into its place under the seat. “It seems we have a voyage for which to pack. I trust with your connections that you can attain us passage to Maryland?”
The older man straightened and smoothed his great coat back into place. “There is a supply ship sailing to the Chesapeake with tomorrow’s tide. Meet me at the Black Cauldron Inn at dawn.”