Free A Poisoned Season by TASHA ALEXANDER Page B

he’s engaged to a friend of mine.”
    The maids, wide-eyed, watched me closely.
    “There once, long ago, had been an attachment between us, and I only called on him to say good-bye. But if my friend were to discover that I’d seen him alone, she would be dreadfully upset.”
    “Who is the gentleman?” one of the maids asked.
    “Mr. Charles Berry. He’s in room 423,” I replied. “Can you help me?”
    “I don’t see what we could possibly do,” said the oldest of the three girls, who appeared to have taken on the role of spokesman.
    “Couldn’t you let me into the room? No one’s there now. It would only take me a moment to find my bracelet.”

    “We could lose our jobs,” the maid said.
    “He’s unlikely to return soon. No one will ever know.”
    One of the other girls laughed. She had pretty eyes and a pert smile. “From what I can tell, the gentleman in that room wouldn’t object to finding you there anyway.”
    “Gabby!” the spokesman exclaimed.
    “Oh, hush up, Bridget. We all know what sort of gentleman he is. I say we let her in and hope she steals something.”
    “Let me assure you that I would do no such thing,” I said.
    “I’ll let you in,” Gabby said. Bridget glared at her.
    “I promise there will be no trouble for you.”
    At this, the third girl broke her silence. “I wish you could cause trouble for him,” she said, bursting into tears.
    “Has he hurt you?” I asked. She cried harder, and I found it not difficult in the least to believe the worst about Mr. Berry. “Did you tell anyone?”
    “Who could she tell?” Bridget asked. “No one would believe her. And even if someone did, it wouldn’t matter. He’s practically the king of France, you know.”
    “Well, I believe you,” I said, taking her hand. “For what little that’s worth. I give you my word that I shall try to find a way to help you.”
    “Come with me, milady,” Gabby said. “Let’s get you into that room.” Once upstairs, the girl unlocked the door. I thanked her and sent her back downstairs. “Promise you won’t forget Molly,” she said as she left.
    I closed and locked the door, looking at the space before me. There was a sitting room and a bedroom, neither of which was particularly neat. Mr. Berry had left gloves, letters, and discarded papers scattered on every surface. I began to methodically sift through everything, careful to return each object to its place in the mess. The number of bills I found was staggering, and it was clear from the careless way they had been tossed about that paying them was of little concernto Mr. Berry. Most likely that would fall to Lady Elinor’s solicitor as wedding plans with Isabelle were solidified.
    I went into the bedroom, feeling more than a little uneasy to enter the space where this odious man slept. The wardrobe was full of clothing, all of it Savile Row’s best and certainly acquired on credit. I begrudgingly admitted that the man’s taste, at least in clothes, was excellent. The pockets of his coats contained nothing but cigarettes and still more bills. I was about to close the cabinet door when I noticed something leaning against the back wall of the armoire behind a row of shoes. It was an oversized book containing reproductions of paintings by Fragonard. If memory served, the artist was a favorite of Louis XIV’s. It was the only book in Mr. Berry’s suite. I opened it and flipped through the pages, hoping to uncover something between them. Luck was with me. Partway through the book I found a piece of paper folded in half. On it was a list of objects that had been owned by Marie Antoinette, each item followed by the name and address of the person to whom it currently belonged. Everything that had been stolen was marked with a small star. The last two entries were the pink diamond and something described as Personal Correspondence . Both were listed as being in the Francis house. There was no mention of the silver snuffbox.
    I jumped at the