Her mother sat perched on a desk amid the wreckage. She still wore the gown she’d had on last night, now wrinkled and dusty. Belinda narrowed her eyes in puzzled concern and studied her mother impatiently picking up a book. She flipped through the pages, then grabbed the offending volume by its spine and shook it viciously. Belinda couldn’t quite catch the words her mother mumbled in obvious frustration before she tossed the volume behind her and selected another.
“Mother, what has happened here? What are you doing?”
Her mother’s gaze flew to her offspring, surprise scrawled across her dust-smudged face. She wrinkled her nose in a habitual gesture that had broken more than one man but made no impact on her daughter.
“Spring cleaning?” she said.
Belinda sighed in annoyance. She was one of the few people who knew of her mother’s rather unique sense of humor and way of looking at the world around her. Usually it was a quality Belinda appreciated even if she found it somewhat puzzling. But not today.
“Mother, I want to know what you are doing. Why have you ripped apart two rooms?” She eyed her mother sharply. “It is just two, isn’t it?”
Her mother arched a brow, an amused smile on her lips. She hopped off the desk and brushed an errant cobweb from her ravaged gown. “Yes, my darling, it is just two. However, I cannot guarantee there will not be more.”
“Why?” Belinda wailed and asked for the third time, “What are you doing?”
“Looking for something that is apparently misplaced.” Mother gestured vaguely at the room around her. “Or well hidden,” she added under her breath.
“Well, I certainly hope you find it before you pull the entire house down around our ears.”
Mother’s gaze shot to hers, and a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach warned Belinda she had just stepped over the boundary of mother-daughter behavior.
Her mother spoke in a voice quiet and controlled, and the knot in Belinda’s stomach tightened. “First of all, my dear girl, this is my home, and if I wish to pull it down around our ears, I shall do just that. Secondly, I am the parent here, not you, and I do not wish to be addressed as if the positions were reversed.”
“Oh, Mother, I know and I’m truly sorry.” Belinda’s eyes filled with contrite tears. “It’s just that when I saw the room upstairs and now this, and you hadn’t slept in your bed and—”
“Everything is fine, darling.” Mother crossed the room and put her arm around her child. Gently she steered Belinda toward the door. “And nothing to be concerned about. However, I think you should know I may have to leave London for a while.”
Belinda’s mouth dropped open in shocked alarm. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“Oh, here and there. Visiting, seeing the sights, attending to a minor matter,” Mother said, her manner vague and elusive, all the while continuing to edge Belinda to the door. “It really is nothing to worry about. In spite of appearances, your mother is quite capable of taking care of herself.”
Mother and daughter stood toe-to-toe in the doorway. “You run along and don’t let my activities concern you. You just concentrate on that charming young man and what a wonderful life you will have together.” Her mother drew back and gave Belinda the tiniest shove into the hall. “I am not quite finished here, so we shall continue this discussion later. Good morning.”
The door shut gently but firmly, leaving Belinda gaping at its paneled face. For a moment she could do nothing but stare. Bewildered, she considered her mother’s words. They simply didn’t make sense.
Why would she leave London so abruptly, so mysteriously? It was not at all like her to be impulsive and secretive. Belinda knew her mother better than anyone, and while Belinda realized there was far more to her than she revealed to most people, her mother had never done anything like this before, tearing the house apart and announcing an unplanned departure. What had come over her?
No, something was definitely amiss. Belinda glared at the library door, then turned and headed back upstairs for paper and pen. She had no intention of letting her mother take off for God knew where. Not if she could help it.
She snatched a delicate leaf of stationery from the lady’s desk in her room and quickly penned a note. Belinda certainly could not stop her mother on her own. So she did the only thing she could under the circumstances.
She sent for Erick.
Sabrina rested her back on the closed door and pushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. She simply could not tell Belinda what she searched for or what she planned to do when she found it.
In the first place, the child had no inkling of their financial difficulties. And secondly, Sabrina had done an excellent job of raising Belinda to take her place in society, to assume her birthright as the daughter of a marquess. Brought up in the proper surroundings, given the proper education and training, with the expectation of assuming the proper position in life, Belinda would never understand how her mother could even consider searching for something as ludicrous as lost treasure.
Perhaps she had done too good a job. The child was beautiful and charming with all the social graces, but she didn’t seem to have much of an imagination. The reckless streak inherent in both her mother and her father appeared to have bypassed Belinda completely. Realistically, as a concerned and loving parent, she knew that was all for the better, but occasionally it would have been nice to have a daughter one could share one’s more outrageous, even scandalous, dreams with. However, there was little she could do about it now.
Sabrina stepped away from the door and surveyed the library. Even when Jack was alive, it had been her own private place. He had thought of it simply as the kind of room a man of his position ought to have. But from the first, Sabrina had loved it. Loved the dark wood shelves reaching heavenward, flanking the floor-to-ceiling bowed window. Loved the gray marble mantelpiece and the deep red of the walls. Loved the snug warmth and comfort that seemed to surround and soothe her whenever she stood amid its confines. Even the scent of books and leather and wisdom called to her.
And Sabrina was grateful to have it. Jack had inherited the town house years before their marriage, and on his death she had discovered it was virtually the only thing he owned free and clear.
The letter had to be here, if indeed he had saved and hidden it. This, and Jack’s bedchamber, were the only rooms that had not been redecorated in the last decade. The letter would have been found years ago if it were secreted anywhere else in the house.
If it isn’t all a joke, an annoying voice in the back of her mind chimed rudely. Sabrina ignored the thought. Jack had never quite grown up, never quite accepted the responsibilities of adulthood, and, real or a hoax, the mere idea of a lost treasure would have appealed to him. She was certain he would have kept the letter, if only for the spirit of the quest.
But where? She clenched her hands in frustration. This willy-nilly search would get her nowhere. She had to take this logically, rationally, and methodically. Assess the possibilities and proceed one step at a time.
Sabrina drew a calming breath and turned toward the wall to her left. Paintings covered the crimson surface, Winfield family portraits, landscapes, still lifes, most of them with only sentimental value. Could the letter be hidden behind one of them? Not a far-fetched possibility but probably not quite clever enough to suit Jack’s sense of humor. And none of the paintings touched on the theme of treasure or gold or even Egypt.
She turned to face the bookshelves, now half empty, their contents lying scattered on the floor. So far, her search here had been futile. Was there a volume still untouched that held his secret? Was a clue concealed in the gold-scripted title on an unsuspecting book’s spine?
The fireplace dominated the third wall, its simple, classic lines revealing no obvious hiding place. Her gaze strayed upward to the portrait of Jack centered over the mantel. His bright blue eyes danced in his strong face, the unruly quality of his golden blond hair captured by the artist. The slight, amused smil
e playing forever on his lips.
“Jack.” She sighed. “Why couldn’t you have made this easy for me? God knows nothing else was easy after you died.”
Sabrina shook her head and smiled back at the painting. There was a time when she couldn’t smile at the thought of her husband. When she had raged and screamed until her voice grew hoarse at his lack of foresight in leaving her practically penniless. Sabrina had come to grips with those feelings years ago, and if she had never quite forgiven him, with the passage of time she had at least come to understand him a little better. She gazed at the portrait. Could the letter be hidden behind his painting? Concealed behind his cocky smile, his laughing eyes?
So far she had Jack’s portrait, the other paintings, and the remainder of the books left to search. And there was still the furniture. Her cozy library held only the desk and its chair, plus a worn wing chair near the fireplace and her chaise longue. She studied the pieces with a critical eye. All looked their age and should have been replaced years ago. But they were as much a part of this room as the bookshelves and mantel.
Her gaze lingered on the couch, and it beckoned seductively. Weariness slammed into her. It wouldn’t hurt to lie down for a few moments. She’d been up all night, and if her head wasn’t clear, she’d never find that damn letter.
Sabrina sank into the tufted comfort. Through the years, her form had left its impression in the worn, scarlet upholstery, and the chaise conformed to her curves like a velvet caress. Her eyes drifted closed.
She’d thought about Jack more in the last few hours than she had in a long time. Now she remembered how he had bought her this piece. The couch was one of the few gifts from him she hadn’t had to sell after his death. Even his gifts of jewelry had had to go.
Sabrina hovered somewhere between awareness and oblivion and the years rolled away. She remembered how Jack had presented her with the couch and ceremoniously declared the library her own personal kingdom. She snuggled deeper. Memories wafted through her mind. He had said, when she reclined on it, she reminded him of Cleopatra. She smiled to herself, and coherent thought drifted farther away.
Jack had always said, on the chaise she looked like a queen … like the Queen of the Nile…
The Queen of the Nile.
She bolted off the chaise, immediately alert, exhaustion forgotten. Sabrina stared at the unsuspecting couch. Could it be? Was it possible?
Swiftly she ran her hands along the serpentine lines and the curled head, down its velvet length, around to the carved feet. She poked in each seam, every tufted crevice. She prodded and probed every point where clawed, wooden feet joined the frame. She perused every surface, examined every inch.
Nothing.
Sabrina stepped back and narrowed her eyes in concentration, studying the puzzle. So far there was no indication of any disturbance, no mended tears in the fabric, nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps if she turned it over and examined the underside…
The couch proved far heavier than Sabrina had expected. Several minutes of pushing, lifting, and tugging left her breathless, but finally the chaise flipped over on its side. One more shove and it toppled onto its back, looking for all the world like a wounded beast begging for mercy.
Sabrina laughed aloud in triumph. Quickly she examined the underside. A coarse fabric tacked securely at the frame covered the bottom. Thoroughly she studied every stitched section and every point where wood met material. Just as on the other side, here too nothing appeared touched. Jack was no upholsterer, no seamstress. Surely if he had hidden something here, it would be apparent. Her momentary sense of triumph vanished, replaced by a surge of disappointment.
“Bloody hell.” She gazed with disgust at the innocent chaise. Like a spark amid dry tinder, anger flared in her veins. She glared at the portrait over the fireplace.
“It isn’t fair, Jack. I really need that gold. I need it for your daughter and I need it for myself. Damn you, Jack, why does it all have to be so bloody hard?”
The smile on his lips lingered unchanged. Frustrated and furious, Sabrina drew back a slippered foot and let it fly. Flesh and bone connected with wood. Pain speared up her leg.
“Yow!” She clutched her throbbing foot, plopped down on the floor, and massaged the aching appendage. “This is really quite absurd.”
She scowled at the offending couch leg, gasped, and stared in stunned disbelief.
Her kick had dislodged the leg from the frame, and it tilted at a slight angle. She leaped up, ignoring the pain in her foot. Gripping the carved wood in both hands, and throwing all her weight behind it, she pushed with every ounce of her strength.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then abruptly the leg gave way. Sabrina sprawled forward on the back of the couch, claw foot clutched in her hand.
She tumbled to the floor. Apprehension and excitement battled within her. Carefully she turned the leg over in her hands to view the hollow end where it had been affixed to the frame. Cautiously she slid two fingers in the narrow space. The inside did not have the rough feel of wood. Rather it was smooth. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she forced herself to remain calm. She gently withdrew her fingers and gingerly inched out a rolled leaf of vellum.
Sabrina tossed the leg aside and set the page on the floor. Her hands trembled with the anticipation raging through her. Slowly she smoothed the curled sheet open. She could scarcely believe her eyes. It was definitely a letter. Definitely old, yellowed with age.
And it was in French.
Chapter 3
“She is not acting at all like herself. She spent all night tearing half the house apart looking for God knows what and now she says she’s leaving London. Erick, I’m extremely worried.”
Belinda paced back and forth in her mother’s front salon. Erick’s gaze appreciatively followed her every move. She was indeed a diamond of the first water, a reigning beauty of the current season. And she was his.
“Have you tried talking to her?” he said, his mind far busier contemplating the graceful way her hips swayed and the ivory bosom discreetly hidden beneath the day gown than her words.
“Of course I have.” Belinda turned sapphire eyes clouded with concern toward him. “I have no idea what she is up to, and she simply refuses to talk to me.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Mother treats me like a child still in the schoolroom.”
“But what a lovely child,” he said under his breath. His gaze lingered on her seductive curves, full and luscious and ripe.
Erick dreamed of the moment when he had the right to explore those curves in detail, to caress the pouting breasts and allow his lips to linger amid the recesses of her delectable body. To claim her and teach her and make her in every way his own. So far they had shared but a few kisses, each less chaste than the last, each giving a promise of growing passion hidden beneath her well-guarded innocence. Even now the warm scent of her, an intoxicating blend of perfume and femininity, wafted around him, arousing and tantalizing.
“Erick!” Impatience rang in her voice. “Are you listening to me?” Her eyes flashed blue fire, and he wondered what they would flash in the throes of passion.
“Of course.” He shepherded his wandering thoughts. “Yes, of course I’m listening. Where is your mother now?”
“In her room. I believe she finally went to sleep late this morning. When she retired to her chamber, I think”—Belinda’s eyes were wide with disbelief—“she was singing!”
He pulled his brows together in a thoughtful frown. “Singing? And from what you’ve said, I gather that is not her normal behavior?” She nodded. “Could she be ill, do you think?”
Belinda scoffed. “I doubt it. Neither is she insane nor is she stupid. I know her far better than anyone. She has always been something of a private person. But she has never acted especially impulsive or heedless of propriety before.” She gazed up into Erick’s eyes and instinctively his arms curled around her, drawing her close. A cry caught in her voice. “Oh, Erick, what am I to do?”
”If she will not talk to you, perhaps she would speak to someone closer her own age.” He smiled into her worried gaze. “If you wish, I could ask my father to have a chat with her. He is well versed in diplomacy. Surely he can determine what is amiss.”
She returned his smile with a sigh of relief. “That would be wonderful.”
He bent his head and his lips met hers in a gentle kiss, meant, quite honorably, only to provide comfort. Her breath teased his and spurred his unquenched need. Her lips opened beneath his increasing pressure and his tongue tentatively traced the full, pouting curve of her mouth. She sighed and her body melted against his. Erick knew he would withdraw momentarily, stifling his desire, marshaling his control, but for now he lost himself in the still forbidden taste of her and the equally intoxicating realization that this bewitching woman wanted to know what he thought. She turned to him to solve her problem. Erick believed that was as it should be, but even so, his chest swelled with masculine pride. He would take care of it for her. He would show her he could handle anything. Today and for the rest of their lives.
Sabrina tugged on the bellpull by her bed and impatiently awaited the arrival of her butler. She’d slept soundly after translating the letter and was now eager to set her plans in motion. The directions to the gold were both concise and clever. It was no wonder the treasure had never been located. It did bother her that she had only the second page of the missive, and she wondered if there was anything of importance on the first page, anything that would bear on her search. She waved the thought away. This was all she had, and it would have to do.
Right now, though, she faced a more immediate challenge. Simply getting to Egypt would cost a frightful amount of money. She was by no means destitute, but neither did she have the extra funds such an expedition would require. As much as she hated to do it, as much as the thought distressed her, she would have to sell her jewels.
The Perfect Wife Page 3