Blast it to pieces. Even if he hurried, there was no way he could make his room again before Hughes gained the door. He could duck into another room down here, but his host was the type who would notice his lack of shoes and wonder about it. And tearing through the house wouldn’t escape the servants’ notice.
He had to try something, though. He moved but then froze again when Mrs. Hughes looked past her companion. To his house. At the very window Slade stood beside. Had his movement caught her eye? Was she even now readying to point him out to Hughes? Maybe she assumed it a servant. Please, Lord. Please.
Or maybe she hadn’t seen him at all, for she smiled up at Hughes and motioned toward her own house as she tugged on his arm.
Slade took a breath, aware only then that he had been holding it. Hughes was walking with her toward her front door.
Thank You, Lord. He replaced the book—a good thing he hadn’t darted out of the room with that still in his hand—and made for the door.
Two minutes later he was back in the relative safety of his own chamber. As close calls went, that hadn’t been too bad. There had been no weapons aimed at his head, no enemy a mere hair’s breadth away. But it had still been a close call.
And he still didn’t like them.
Fool man. Marietta stood at her bedroom window on Saturday morning and watched the carriage roll away from Dev’s house with him and Mr. Osborne inside. He wouldn’t work long today, but that just meant he would likely spend the afternoon here, and his guest with him.
The guest who would have gotten caught in Dev’s study last night if she hadn’t urged Dev back into her house.
Why had Mr. Osborne waited to search? He’d surely known Dev wouldn’t be long gone.
Though she had her doubts he had found anything there. If Dev were now the captain of the castle under her house, he had only assumed the role after Lucien’s death. Which meant that if there were any documentation pertaining to the group, it would have originated with Lucien. Would have been, if anywhere accessible, in his study.
Her fingers slid down the edge of the velvet drape. She hadn’t even ventured into that room since the funeral. It still shouted Lucien in its every appointment, and she hadn’t wanted the reminder of him while his brother secretly courted her. The household accounts were already in her small desk, and she had asked Norris, the aging butler, to fetch the bank ledgers for her. She knew there had been business records there too, which were obviously Dev’s domain now.
But he hadn’t moved them, at least not many of them. She had offered to have it all crated up and sent across the street, but he had just taken her hand and said he would rather have the excuse to visit.
No doubt he wanted to keep his roots firmly planted within these walls that meant so much to him.
If those were still here, though, what else was?
She turned when the door opened and Cora slipped in. Perfect. She would dress and do a little investigating of her own.
“Morning, Miss Mari.” Cora eased the door shut behind her and headed toward the boudoir, though she paused beside the bed.
Marietta frowned. The woman had been moving slower of late. Not just from her changing shape, but in a way that bespoke distress. “Are you well?”
Cora’s startled gaze flew her way and then darted back to where it had been—the Bible on her bedside table. “I’m fine, ma’am. You want the lavender or the gray this morning?”
“Gray.” And was it that unthinkable that she would have a Bible out? Granted, it had been on her shelf all these years. But she had still read it regularly, more or less. The pages had merely been in her mind rather than before her physical eyes.
She sighed and sank down onto the edge of her feather-filled mattress. Perhaps it was unthinkable. Which spoke to her need for it. Hence why she had fetched it last night. She had wanted the feel of leather. The weight of pages.
She had wanted it to be real. Not just memory. Not just words.
“Here we are.” Cora reemerged, her arms full of fabric. As she set the layers on the floor—hoop, petticoat, bum roll, more petticoats, and finally the dress itself—Marietta shrugged out of her dressing gown and positioned her corset over her chemise, hooking it up the front.
The laces remained well tied, so she slipped the corset cover overtop and turned back to Cora.
The woman still knelt on the floor straightening petticoats. Her hair hung in perfect midnight spirals, her complexion smooth and even. She was a pretty girl. A fact Marietta had noted upon joining the family, yes, but had then pushed from her mind. She hadn’t wanted to consider that her husband owned a beautiful young slave girl. The worry had been somewhat put to rest when Walker strode back into her world and married Cora within a fortnight, the first baby following directly.
Were they happy, her childhood friend and this woman who now straightened and rubbed a hand at the small of her back? She had never paused to wonder. Certainly never asked.