space, but it was relaxed and homey. A full bookcase sat on one wall and the other held what he assumed was a phonograph, though he’d never seen one in person. The large brass cone sat silently. Everything appeared well-kept and undisturbed.
On quiet feet, he glanced inside the tiled bathing chamber to find it empty before making his way to her bedchamber. A strange feeling came over him as he opened the door and switched on the light. A sense that he was intruding on her private sanctuary, the place she came to get away from the world, washed over him. It was a place he very much wanted to know. Her bed sat neatly made with a faded blue-and-yellow quilt. Given the understated elegance of the rest of the space, he’d expected something slightly more grand. Maybe something made of silk or satin. But it was an ordinary quilt. Her grandmother’s quilt, he realized.
How many people knew about that quilt? The rumor was that she never entertained men privately. While that seemed to be true, rumors could be wrong. At the very least, it was highly likely that her staff had been to her private rooms. The list of people who knew that detail was endless.
He tried to imagine her sitting on the bed, reading the book that sat closed on the nightstand. Her bare feet peeking out beneath the hem of her gown with her hair down around her. He couldn’t do it. He knew so little of the woman he couldn’t imagine her as anything other than the self-possessed Glory Winters. Calm, elegant and always proper. Did she ever lounge in her bed without a corset? He grinned at the thought.
Stepping farther into the room, the soft scent of roses washed over him. Nervous energy moved through him at the same time his skin tightened, muscles deep in his gut clenched in pleasurable anticipation. The scent of roses had always filled him with wary trepidation, reminding him of the words of warning he’d been given as a child. Roses were a sign of death. Yet, ever since he’d met Glory, he’d associated the scent with her, leaving his body a mess of confusion.
A dressing table sat across from the bed with cosmetics and perfumes scattered across the surface as if she’d dressed in a hurry that morning. He felt like an interloper as he examined it. He should be checking the armoire and under her bed, but he couldn’t make himself walk away just yet. He gently ran his fingertips over a handkerchief she’d left blotted with rouge from her mouth. The shape of her lips stared back at him.
A clouded glass bottle sat backed up to the mirror, and he picked it up. Bringing it to his nose, he closed his eyes as he inhaled the familiar scent of her perfume. It always lingered behind her, lying faintly in the air when she passed, sweetly calling him to his doom. The usual warning sounded in his head, warring with the desire that had flared to life within him. No matter how he reminded himself of the premonition, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to inhale that scent directly from her skin.
He shook his head at the thought. In all the years that had passed since he’d left his mother’s people, he’d never quite been able to shake the words from his memory. His aunt had told him before she’d sent him away to his father that roses were bad for him because she’d seen it in a dream. That warning had stayed with him for years. He’d never even seen a rose before she’d told him that. She’d drawn a tightly budded flower in the dirt to show him, but he hadn’t been able to tell much from it. He’d grown up avoiding every flower he came into contact with. Now that he was older, he couldn’t decide if what she’d told him was real or something she’d imagined, but he still couldn’t shake the premonition that came over him.
He put the bottle back and forced himself to walk to the armoire and look inside. Empty but for stacks of brightly colored silks and satins. It was the same beneath her bed. A couple of wooden boxes were stored there, and he realized that he’d give his eyeteeth to know what was inside—evidence of who Glory really was. But he wouldn’t intrude on her privacy any further than he already had.
Turning the light off behind him, he moved back into the parlor. From his vantage point he noticed a wooden frame on top of a spindly table. The frame held a single rose pressed between two small panes of glass. He walked over and picked the frame up out of its little stand to examine it closer. The rose was dried, its petals various shades of faded pink.
A warning? It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t leave Glory to fight this battle on her own. The rose was a reminder that he could help her, but he needed to keep his distance. Setting the frame back down in its stand, he walked back to her study.
“It’s empty. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been in there.”
Glory gave a firm nod as if that was exactly what she’d expected him to find. He had to admit that he’d been a little brash, but the idea of someone hiding in her rooms ready to harm her had sent him barreling forward.
“We were talking about next steps,” Hunter offered. “I’ll check into the bank account tomorrow.”
“And I can question the staff about who might have had access to this room,” Able added.
“I can help with that,” Zane said. It was no secret that most people were afraid of him. His height combined with the scar and his longer hair effectively kept most people at a distance. Over the years they’d been riding together as the Reyes Brothers, it had quickly become apparent that Zane was the most effective of the group when it came to interrogation. He always got the information he needed. His record was flawless, not counting the night they’d met Emmaline, but then she’d eventually married Hunter, so he didn’t count her.
“No need, Pierce. I can handle it.” Able gave him a firm look.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Able. I’m happy to help.” Zane smirked just to rile up Able’s irrational distaste of him. There’d never been one incident that Zane could trace back to the origin of that dislike. It just was, like Zane’s fascination with Glory.
“I can handle it.” Able crossed his arms over his chest.
“I have more experience in these things than you,” Zane countered.
“Gentlemen.” Glory’s voice cracked through the room. “There’s enough staff for you both. The last thing we need right now is you two at each other’s throats.”
Able stepped back and dropped his arms, conceding her point. Zane gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. She was right. There was no need to make the task before them more difficult.
She sighed, calming herself. “I only ask that you make your inquiries discreet. I don’t want to give fuel to any rumors that may start.” That seemed a simple enough request, but then she narrowed her eyes at him. “That means no dragging anyone into the cellar. No tying anyone up. No assaulting anyone.”
Zane bit back a grin. She was referring to the man Derringer had paid to find Castillo. They’d caught him lurking around last week and brought him to Victoria House’s cellar for questioning. “As you wish, but I can’t be responsible for a lack of results with my methods inhibited.” He was teasing her. Those methods he usually reserved for criminals or people actively trying to kill him.
She stared at him as if trying to determine if he was joking. He wasn’t about to clue her in to whether he was or not, so he continued since he had her attention. “Until we know who sent this letter, I think it’s best if you’re never alone. We don’t know who this person is, or if it’s the very same person you both ran away from...” Zane paused because he knew what he said next would rile her. “I’ll stay with you until we get this settled.”
“Stay with me?” Her mouth dropped open slightly.
“Until we figure out who this is and if he or she is dangerous.” He nodded.
She tensed to refuse, but Able interrupted her. “Pierce is right.”
Zane stared at him, surprised that he’d so easily gotten the man’s endorsement.
“Absolutely not!” Glory gaped at her friend as if he’d just sided with the devil himself.
“Someone got into your office,” explained Able. “What’s to say that they can’t get into your room tonight?”
She blinked