Chapter 3
Sam halted, pushing the door to the servants’ stairwell open an inch, and listened. No footsteps sounded. No sound of movement nearby. All the guests were busily playing parlor games in the salon—allowing their meal to settle and taking time to visit before everyone retired for the evening.
It had been simple to make her escape once the men joined the women after they’d imbibed their drinks and enjoyed their cigars.
Her ruse of feeling chilled ever since being caught by the storm was believable and partly true.
Even after changing into a fresh gown and donning a shawl, she still found a shiver traveling through her, and her voice was raspier than normal.
Peeking down the hall in both directions, Sam verified that no one lingered within sight.
She stepped from the stairwell and silently closed the door behind her.
She and Jude had spent years sneaking about their home, Craven House, undetected by Marce, their eldest sister.
Hollybrooke was far larger, and therefore affording more opportunities to scurry about unnoticed.
Her slippered feet made a soft pattering noise as she quickly slinked into Lord Cummings’ study.
She left the door as she’d found it—partially open.
The men had been overly kind, leaving a strong fire in the hearth that sent warmth and light to every corner of the room, creating shadows as the wind howled outside.
It was the perfect setting for the entertainment she had planned for her evening.
Her only concern was the lingering stench of cigar smoke that shrouded the room. It would clear soon enough, though.
Sam would have thought twice about leaving the group and skulking about in Lord Cummings’ office if Lord Ridgefeld had attended the meal—but as course after course passed and the women retired to await the men, Elijah hadn’t joined them.
Now, she hoped to find what she sought before scurrying back to her bedchambers without anyone seeing her. Her maid had assured her they were here—stacked among all the other books. A scandalous secret the Cummings’ servants took great pleasure in sharing with visiting servants.
If Cummings knew his secret had been spread to all his guests, he’d release all his servants immediately—but as yet, he hadn’t heard, giving Sam ample time to slip in and collect a sample from his collection.
Lord Cummings was not foolish enough to hide his scandalous collectibles on the shelves nearest the door where anyone could happen upon them—especially with several elderly men and a few matrons in attendance.
Unexpected heart palpitations were a serious risk if the aforementioned group were to find such scandalous items. She surveyed the room, furnished with all dark, cherry wood pieces—massive desk, tall chairs, tables both large and small—and shelves lining every wall except the one that housed the bank of windows to her left.
Her eyes moved back to Cummings’ desk. If Sam had something she wanted to hide, the best place was behind her, allowing her to guard her treasure.
The shelves behind his desk were set high, permitting a table to be nestled below, cluttered with assorted ledgers and paperwork all neatly stacked and organized.
The man was not the most interesting fellow—all proper and gentlemanly at every turn.
It was shocking to think he’d actually acquired such an indecent thing and sheltered it within his home.
The light from the hearth was barely enough to read the titles on the spines—the angle attaining more shadows due to the desk.
Sam had been told the set included ten thin volumes, their covers crafted from the softest leather, each only about six inches tall.
None of the shelves before her held such books.
Time was slipping by, and the men could decide to adjourn once more to the comfort of the study, a room their wives and other female guests would not venture into without an invitation from their host.
“Where are you hiding, you pesky things?” The fire crackled in response, calling for her to search harder—and faster—or she’d never locate them.
She thought for only a brief moment she should have enlisted Jude’s help, but her twin had been more than clear with her.
Her sister had put her thieving ways solidly behind her and would not jeopardize Lord Cartwright’s trust by embarking on another of Sam’s schemes.
This wasn’t a scheme, though. She had no plans to steal and sell the books, nor even keep them; she merely wished to peruse and return them before anyone was the wiser—more specifically, before Lord Cummings suspected anything was afoot.
As the curator of the British Museum, his home was brimming with ancient artifacts.
If someone sought to steal a piece, there were several rooms housing far more valuable items than his study.
No, what Sam sought was not a thing of monetary value, though of educational value, certainly.
Namely, her education.
Cummings…she needed to see the room as he did, see his personal domain through his eyes.
Sam paused, closing her lids and channeling all she knew of men, which wasn’t much.
She’d spent innumerable hours with Garrett, her brother; however, he’d spent so many years surrounded by four sisters that he certainly did not project an accurate portrayal of what men acted and thought like when not surrounded by the fairer sex.
Opening her eyes, Sam took in the room as a man arriving home after a long day of conducting business—whatever business a man with unlimited funds need handle—and appraised the room.
Yes, a drink would be welcome after a long day addressing museum business.
Sam walked slowly to the sideboard, her strides long and exaggerated—mimicking the overconfident saunter she’d witnessed time and again from men who saw themselves as above those around them.
She surveyed the decanters on display—three held liquids of varying shades of brown, one held a clear liquor, and one a deep burgundy.
She itched to select the last as it likely held table wine, but that would not be Cummings’ selection, and she could not bring herself to sample the darker spirits. The compromise—the clear decanter.
A line of tumblers sat to her left. She poured a small portion into the closest one. There was no need for waste. Sam was attempting to get into Cummings’ mind, not fall deep into her cups. The night was only beginning, and she planned to use it wisely.
Sam sniffed the clear liquid—her nose filled with the smells of Christmastide. A distinct odor of juniper and pine reached her, similar to the holly branches they hung about Craven House.
Cautiously, she took a sip and swallowed quickly.
While the least visibly harmful, it burned the entire way down her throat and warmed her stomach—her chill from earlier gone.
Not an altogether horrible sensation, but not one she’d partake of on a regular basis.
It was satisfying to know what Garrett sought when he poured himself a drink—even now, she felt her nerves flee, and she settled into her task once more.
Cummings was a single man—his mother long gone from this earth, no wife or children, no female relations in residence.
He would have no need to hide the collection or place them high so little hands did not stumble upon their wickedness.
Though, neither was he an overt man—arrogance of social standing did not lead him to disregard all propriety.
No, he would not display them openly for viewing.
Besides, they were of a very private nature.
Not close to the door or on the shelf behind his desk.
The shelves closest to the hearth were lined with baubles that were for visual effect, and the bank of windows left no room for the collection.
That only left a few areas.
Sam stared at the massive desk, moving her inspection to one side and then the other.
She noticed a shelf lined with portraits—his father, mother, and several older charcoal images.
The shelf was shrouded in shadows. Sam took each framed picture, careful to handle them with extreme care, and set them aside—revealing a row of thinly bound books.
Her breath hitched as she ran her finger down the spine of one.
The leather was soft to her touch, though it should be hardened by age—brittle from years of explorers devouring them from cover to cover, examining each hand-drawn image.
Maybe even pausing to try what the illustrator suggested as they moved from one page to the next.
No, someone took great care with this collection, certain to oil each cover from time to time to prevent deterioration.
Examining the binding of each book was difficult in the dim light. She needs must remove one from its place and bring it closer to the hearth to make certain it was what she’d risked discovery to find. The way her pulse raced indicated there was little doubt what lay within these tiny books.
Sam stilled and listened. Even the voices from the salon had receded. Either everyone had retired, or the festivities had settled for the night. She must make her selection, replace the pictures, and hurry back to her room.
If she asked Lady Theodora, Cart’s little sister, she’d insist Sam take the first book—any book lover understood the importance of starting at the beginning of a story, not in the middle.
The decision was made—and she agreed. Any education must start at the very beginning or one might miss something important.
And how utterly embarrassing if Sam ever gained the chance to use her forthcoming education and missed something of great import because she’d started in the middle.
Sam had three days to study all ten books.
Certainly, that was ample time to make her way through each in proper order.