Chapter 22
Henry tapped his fingertips against his leg, shifting his weight back and forth as he stood outside the door to the study.
He hadn’t a clue why he was nervous, but it gave him the aggravating need for a drink. The excess of nerves seemed to build up to the point of creating an unquenchable thirst. He wouldn’t give in, though, not now.
“Sir Henry?”
Blast. He’d been spotted. He turned to see Mrs. Seymour’s butler standing in the hall. “Yes?” he asked.
“You’ve had a letter. I was going to send it to your room, but then I saw you here.” The older man held out a sealed missive.
“Thank you.”
The butler bowed, and Henry was about to tuck away the missive when he recognized Carlton’s script. He broke the seal, scanning the short letter.
Sir H—
I have been busy seeking out further information. Cannot say much here, but look at the wife. We would be fools not to, everything considered. The house party may be a front. Please respond posthaste with findings.
—C
Henry stared at the scrawled words. Look at the wife.
That had to be Mrs. Seymour—what other wife could Carlton mean?
But it made no sense. Yes, if one were just to look at the position of Windvale, central to the island and near many a beach and cove, or think that she was the widow of a gentleman who’d served in the navy .
. . but for Carlton to send Henry this, he must have found something. But about Mrs. Seymour?
No. Henry may not know her well, but he could not believe it of her. Call him a fool, Carlton might, but Henry refused to consider his hostess a suspect.
But Carlton did not want Henry’s gut feeling. Henry wouldn’t have accepted it in the man’s position. What could Henry use to exonerate her entirely? Beyond finding the true culprit behind Carlton’s pirated ship.
There was the fact that everything Henry had found on the commander pointed to the man’s innocence—it made no sense why his mild-mannered widow would then be involved.
But he needed more.
He turned back to the door, shaking off the feelings of frustration and confusion. He knew Mrs. Seymour’s character; he would not allow a letter to derail that.
Nodding to himself, he pushed open the door.
Mrs. Seymour looked up from the desk at which she sat with several papers and a pen poised above one of them. His midsection twisted with feelings entirely opposite of those he’d felt in the hall. A smile spread across her face, and Henry was past recovery.
Then and there, might as well write his eulogy: Sir Henry Ainsley, laid down by a smile of extraordinary proportions.
He crossed the room to her. “You look as if you are surprised I have come.”
She set down her pen. “I admit that I am.”
“I told you I would.” He stopped in front of her table.
Her chin tilted up, exposing her slender creamy neck. “And I do not mean to imply I did not believe you, only that I could not see what would interest you in helping me.”
“You, Mrs. Seymour. You interest me.” Heaven help him.
A flush crept up her cheeks. “I do not know that I will get much work done if you intend to flatter me like that. Perhaps you should sit over there?” She pointed to the far corner of the room.
“Not a chance.”
She smiled, cheeks still red, and shook her head.
“Very well, have a seat.” She gestured to the side of the desk he was standing on, and he sat.
Why would her late husband, who’d clearly loved parties more than she, never have helped her plan one?
Because it was evident in her reaction to his offer of aid that she’d never had such a one before.
He was coming to know and resent Commander Seymour for his treatment of Mrs. Seymour. As far as he could tell, he had not been outwardly unkind, but clearly he’d sowed seeds of doubt in her, and it made Henry unreasonably furious.
He swallowed his feelings, scooting his chair in. “Where are we starting?”
“I need to double check the guest list and begin invitations, but you could . . . ah . . . ” She glanced around at all her papers, grabbing one. “You could look over the menu? And then when I am ready, perhaps we can address the invitations together?”
He nodded, reaching for the paper. “Sounds easy enough.” Too easy. It would leave far too much room in his mind for Carlton’s letter to creep in.
She graced him with another smile, then bent her head, scribbling away.
He opened his mouth to ask a question—something to settle the concern now wheedling into his thoughts.
But there was a furrow between her brows as she worked that distracted him.
Her red hair was curled about her forehead, strands dancing against her eyes and cheeks.
And again, he told himself she was not involved.
She was not.
Henry glanced down at his paper. My, but this menu was extensive.
It included drinks and refreshment for the ball portion, as well as a several course meal for the dinner.
Notably, any type of alcohol beyond negus was omitted.
Henry’s heart clenched to know that something had happened in her past to make her so detest strong drink.
Did that have to do with her late husband?
“Are you well, Sir Henry?”
He loosened his grip on the pen, forcing a smile. “I am doing wonderfully, thank you.”
She quirked a brow. He loved when she did that. “You look as if you were about to murder the roast duck I have planned for the masquerade.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I’ve always been more of a venison man, myself.”
“Oh, should we change it?” She began reaching across for his list. He pulled it closer to him.
“It is perfect, Mrs. Seymour. My only recommendation would be to add another punch location during the ball if you believe the crowd will be large enough.”
This time when she reached for the paper, he gave it over. Her eyes skimmed it. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I think you are right. I will put one in the southeast corner.”
“Brilliant.”
She made the note, then looked back at him. “Have you done this before?”
“Not a once.”
“You are a natural.”
“Why thank you.” Then his eyes glanced about the room.
“Have you always worked in the study?” he asked.
A horrible thought occurred to him as he asked.
Henry had assumed that Commander Seymour could not have covered his tracks before his death, had he been involved in the smuggling.
But if his wife worked out of the study, then perhaps Seymour kept his things elsewhere.
Or perhaps she had covered his tracks on his behalf.
No. He would not believe it of her.
“Oh, no. I only moved in earlier this year.”
His brows lifted. “Oh? What for?”
Something in her expression hinted at wariness. Of him? “I have taken over the household accounts, and it is more comfortable to do so on this large desk, especially with access to all the needed reference books and maps.”
His eyes darted back to the maps. The night before, he’d come down with a single candle and returned most of them—keeping only two for himself. At the moment, they sat at the bottom of his trunk. He’d already begun marking his for inconsistencies.
“It must have been an easy switch then, to remove Commander Seymour’s things, and bring yours in.”
She waved her pen dismissively. “Oh, the servants would never have let me remove any of his things. I only brought in a handful of account books.” She glanced at the paper in front of her and left a note.
The servants would not allow it? But their opinions should hardly signify; she was mistress of the place.
“I think the guest list is ready,” she said slowly, eyes raking over the page again.
“Might I have a sheet to begin addressing?”
She thumbed out a page but did not immediately hand it over. “You truly want to do more? You’ve already been a great help.”
“I have been here for all of ten minutes. I would rather stay with you at least a little longer, if I can.”
Her cheeks flared a rosy color. He really enjoyed being the cause of that.
“If you are certain.”
“Stop asking that. I wish to help.”
She slid a stack of papers to him and handed an extra sheet filled with names and locations over as well. “Then I will give you this list, and you can start addressing.”
For a time, all that made noise in the library was the scratch of their pens. Henry squinted at the invitation he was currently addressing. Did his H look too much like an A? He shrugged internally. What did it matter anyway? It was not as if one letter would send the invitation awry.
Or would it?
On second thought, maybe he should scratch it out and rewrite it. Yes. That was probably best.
As he drew a line through the confused letter, a stifled laugh caused him to look up.
Mrs. Seymour had a hand pressed to her mouth and her eyes on his paper.
He raised his brows at her amused expression. “What?” he asked.
“Perhaps I should address the invitations.”
“Why?” He looked between his haphazard addresses and her neat and entirely legible ones. “Oh. I do apologize for wasting so much paper.”
Her shoulders shook. “Do not worry.”
He slid the list back her way. “I will just keep you company, then, shall I?”
Her still-twinkling eyes met his. “I would like that.”
He leaned back in his chair, prepared to be the best company-keeper to ever exist, when the door to the library opened.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Trumble, stepped in, eyes flicking between her mistress and Henry.
“Mrs. Seymour? Cook has a question about dinner, and Mr. Barlow wondered if three or four carriages are needed for this afternoon.”
“Three should be sufficient. The entire party is not joining us. Can Cook’s question wait?”
Mrs. Trumble dipped her head in apology. “It seemed urgent.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Seymour stood, and Henry followed. “Would you have these items put away, Trumble? I will finish the invitations later.”
“Yes, of course, ma’am,” Trumble said, taking her leave.
Mrs. Seymour turned her face to Henry, her expression melting into an apology of her own.