Free Skylark by Jo Beverley Page B

this search, but she might have to at least glance at them all.
    She picked up the top one and unfolded it, the rustle of paper sounding loud in the quiet house. A quick glance showed it was about a purchase of a bull. She couldn’t see how that could be a cause for alarm.
    The next was about a case before the courts in London, but nothing dangerous or controversial. Then a letter from France from an old friend. She read it all the way through, but saw nothing strange.
    She continued opening and glancing at letters, trying not to read any more than she had to. Then she picked up one that was clearly on cheaper paper—thinner and less white. She tensed with excitement. Unlike the others, it had been sealed with a wafer rather than with sealing wax. It was addressed to Lord Caldfort, and the only indication of sender was the place of origin.
    Draycombe in Dorset.
    That startled her. She came from Dorset. Draycombe was on the coast near the western edge of the county and she’d never been there, but could this alarm have something to do with her?

Chapter 10
    She unfolded the paper with unsteady hands, terrified of tearing it or doing anything else to show that it had been disturbed.
    She expected uneducated writing to match the paper, but the contents were neatly written, though there was something a little strange about the handwriting. An angularity, perhaps. A weight in the use of the pen.
    She looked first to the bottom, seeking the sender’s name.
    Azir Al Farouk.
    What sort of name was that?
    Great Lord,
    I have information of interest to you about a certain HG, connected to Mary Woodside. Having been for some years a guest of Oscar Ris, HG has now changed course and might trouble you. You will find enclosed an item of relevance.
    I would be happy to assist you in the avoidance of this trouble for payment of ten thousand guineas.
    I can be reached through Captain Egan Dyer, care of the Compass Inn, Draycombe, Dorset. I am in hopes of being your most humble servant, great lord,
    Azir Al Farouk
    Ten thousand guineas! That was certainly enough to give Lord Caldfort a nasty shock, but apart from the figure, the letter mystified her. This had to be the letter she was looking for, however.
    HG. Henry Gardeyne?
    Her Harry? Surely not. He’d not been anywhere for “some years” and certainly not with Oscar Ris, whomever that might be. The Gardeyne family tree was full of Henrys, however, in one form of the name or another.
    She started to run through the recent ones in her mind, but stopped herself. She could think in a safer place. Fearing that she would forget some detail, she took out a sheet of paper, dipped the pen, and made a precise copy. When she was sure it was exact, she refolded and replaced the original.
    She looked around the desk for the item of relevance. There was nothing there except letters, and she was sure there was nothing unusual in the central drawer.
    She couldn’t search further now. She had no idea what she might be looking for. A scrap of fabric, a button, a lock of hair, a picture. She might not know it even if she saw it. She was sure she’d found the troubling letter, but she glanced at the remaining three, just in case. They were all ordinary correspondence.
    After checking that the pile of letters looked as it had before, she locked the drawer and replaced the key. Once she was sure that the center drawer was in order, she closed it with sweating hands, picked up her candle—and froze.
    Was that a sound?
    She stopped breathing to listen, but the house seemed dead around her. She was tempted to race up to the safety of her room, but she must appear innocent to the end.
    She went to the shelf of road guides, found the one that included the road to Merrymead, and slipped her copy of the letter inside it. With her excuse in hand, she left the room feeling as if guilt were stamped on her forehead.
    If it was, there was no one to see it. The house slept except for the ticking of clocks. Even her