Free My Wicked Little Lies by Victoria Alexander Page B

married. But Richard had just died and Adrian was abruptly faced with unplanned responsibilities and the realization one had to take life more seriously when one’s duties changed. Now dull seemed more accurate than staid. He couldn’t blame Evie for wanting a bit of adventure. She’d lived a most adventurous life before their marriage. And he’d already acknowledged a certain restlessness in himself. Not that his eye had turned in search of amorous adventures. Evie was the only one he wanted now or ever.
    Not, he reminded himself, that she wanted someone else. She’d done nothing and he was little more than a jealous idiot. That, too, had surprised him. Nonetheless only a fool would fail to make absolutely certain his suspicions—absurd though they may be—were wrong.
    He made his way toward the door. After all, he, too, would like to see the new portrait. His progress was continually impeded by one person or another wishing to have a word with him, and his impatience grew. When one was faced with unfounded suspicions, one was eager to prove oneself wrong. At last he reached the entry. Across a wide foyer, steps led down to the ground floor. Corridors flanked either side of the ballroom doors. He paused and considered the options.
    “May I be of some assistance, my lord?” A footman stepped up to him. Dunwell’s servants were exceptionally well trained.
    “Yes, thank you.” The most successful fabrications tended to be those closest to the truth. “I seem to have misplaced my wife. I believe she went to look at Lady Dunwell’s portrait.”
    “The gallery is down the corridor to the right, my lord. The family’s private quarters are to the left,” the servant said. “All else including the gallery, the ladies’ receiving room, the conservatory, the billiards room, Lord Dunwell’s library, and assorted drawing rooms are to the right.”
    Adrian nodded his thanks and started down the hall.
    No, he could understand his wife’s succumbing to the lure of adventure, the temptation of the unknown. He could understand a certain restlessness after two years of proper living. Indeed, he was feeling much the same himself.
    What he wouldn’t do was allow it.
     
     
    Evelyn studied Lord Dunwell’s desk with a practiced eye. It was obviously expensive and beautifully aged if one liked fine wood insulted by an abundance of decorative bronze garlands and flourishes as well as corner fittings depicting some sort of mythical sea creature. A sea dragon perhaps. Carved wooden waves reached up from the legs to meet the beast. Evelyn wasn’t sure if it was the most amazing work of craftsmanship she had ever seen or simply the ugliest. Nonetheless, it would have been most mesmerizing and fascinating to study had she not had more pressing concerns.
    Four drawers on either side flanked a center drawer over the kneehole. Often desks of this nature had one lock on the top drawer of each column of drawers that locked all the drawers beneath it at the same time. Unfortunately, each of the nine drawers on this desk had its own separate keyhole. Lord Dunwell was certainly a cautious man or a man with a great deal to hide.
    She felt among the pins in her hair for the thin, flexible pick Celeste had given her. Amazing that something very nearly indistinguishable from a hairpin could be used to easily open locks. Evelyn had once had a similar tool of her own but had tossed it away with the rest of her past. Or so she’d thought. Amazing as well that a man who had a lock on every drawer wouldn’t go to some effort to make them a bit more complicated. She snorted with disdain. Unless she was sorely mistaken, this would be fairly easy.
    It was logical to assume that the file, if indeed it was here, would not be in the center drawer or the top two on either side as they were not as deep as the others. Still, one never knew. She knelt before the desk, inserted the pick into the center drawer keyhole, and maneuvered it until it caught on