“Yes.”
“Well, it won’t work.” Probably. What if her uncle should take it in his head to return early? Or what if they couldn’t hear Mr. Cunningham’s snores through the walls of the room and he woke without them realizing it? Or what if—?
She stopped and frowned outside Mr. Cunningham’s door. Whit was right, the snoring coming from the other side was prodigious. Worse than the noise her uncle made, something she had, until this moment, believed impossible.
“That doesn’t sound healthy,” she whispered as Whit opened the baron’s door.
“It doesn’t even sound natural.”
He ushered her inside and closed the door behind them. “At least we’ll have warning if he wakes. Start at that end.” He motioned to the bureau. “I’ll take the desk and armoire.”
While Mr. Cunningham gurgled and rasped on the other side of the wall, Mirabelle picked through her uncle’s personal effects. And came to the conclusion that she had been much too hasty in insisting that she participate in this part of the search. She hadn’t realized it would entail going through her uncle’s undergarments.
Grimacing, she used the handkerchief Whit had given her that first day in the attic to gingerly push aside the contents of the drawers. It took her only moments to find the large wooden box hidden under a pile of stockings. She hesitated briefly before reluctantly lifting the lid—the possibilities of what a man like the baron might hide under his stockings were varied, and distinctly unpleasant.
The box opened easily, and inside she found several large stacks of ten-pound bank notes.
Well…bloody, bloody, hell.
Perhaps they were real. Perhaps her uncle was simply a miser. Perhaps—
“Mirabelle.”
She turned to find Whit standing next to her, holding a small brown package, and with his face set in grim lines.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Proof,” was his answer.
Or more proof, she thought miserably, and pointed at the drawer.
He looked in, frowned, and took a stack of notes to put in his pocket. Then he had her by the arm and was leading her out and down the hall. He didn’t speak again until they reached her room.
“You found something else? What is it?” she asked again as he shut and locked the door behind them.
He handed her the package by way of answer.
She pulled out the contents, and swallowed hard. She didn’t have to ask what it was that she held. Its purpose was obvious enough. It was a metal plate, one side etched with ridges like a stamp. And those ridges formed the shape of a familiar looking ten-pound bank note.
So it was true. Her uncle was a counterfeiter. She wouldn’t have believed it for a moment if she hadn’t been holding the proof right there in her hands. She continued to stare at it, astonished, until Whit spoke.
“Mirabelle?”
She blinked, the spell broken, and handed the plate back to him. “What will you do with it?”
“I’ll deliver it to William, along with the notes and the receipt of delivery you found in the attic. What happens after that is up to him. I’m sorry, imp.”
She nodded. She had no respect for her uncle to lose, no trust that could be betrayed, and no pride that could turn to shame. But she was now in the exceedingly uncomfortable position of being related to not only a pathetic drunkard, but a criminal as well.
She’d never be anything more at Haldon now than a guest taken in out of charity, she realized, and had to fight back the sob she felt building in her throat.
Whit was too honorable to break his word, but giving shelter to the desolate niece of a felon was a far cry from…from what, exactly?
Taking her as a wife?
Her heart raced with longing, even as it broke.
The Earl of Thurston would not make an outcast his countess.
“Mirabelle?”
She swallowed back the tears and disappointment. He’d never given her any indication that he’d planned to offer for her, she reminded herself sternly. He’d made no promises. He’d said nothing of love. If she’d ever harbored a secret desire to become mistress of Haldon, that was her mistake.
Determined to salvage some pride, she put on a brave face and gestured at the plate. “Will this become public knowledge, do you think?”
“I very much doubt it.” Whit answered, carefully enough that she recognized his intent was to reassure. “William wouldn’t care to see you hurt by this, no one does. He might threaten exposure as a means to acquiring the names of any possible accomplices, but a messy trial wouldn’t be to anyone’s benefit.”
“There has to be someone else,” she insisted tiredly. “There has to be. He simply isn’t capable of doing this sort of thing on his own.”
“After a few days in his presence, I’m inclined to agree. William might have some ideas on that.”
“Will you wait to tell him, Whit? Just until to night? I’d like…I’d like to think through…I’d like to make some plans.”