Free Whispers from the Shadows by Roseanna M. White Page A

examine.
    Trouble. The intriguing kind.
    He scrubbed a hand over his face and then opened a drawer in the base of the secretaire. He withdrew a scrap of paper onto which he’d written in bold ink a verse from his grandfather’s book of prayers. The one he needed reminding of most often.
    Give me a deeper trust, O Lord, that I may lose myself to find myself in Thee.

Seven
    A s 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 .
    â€œAre 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 ina 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