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“Sometimes the Spinsters leave each other messages in the libraries of houses such as this one.” She touched the gilt lettering, reading titles. “Something wholesome and utterly boring that no one is likely to want to read but would look perfectly ordinary in the hands of a spinster wallflower. They always bring a copy with them. I should have as well.”

He was constantly impressed with these women who operated under the noses of aristo knabs who thought themselves smarter than everyone else, especially ladies of good birth. They might fear Priya, and rightfully so, but they never failed to overlook Clara or Emmeline. Even Peony when she was not swimming across lakes or riding horses better than the acrobats of Astley’s Amphitheatre.

For instance, no one in their right mind would want to read a book titled Manners and Morals of A Virtuous Woman, Part Three.

Clara pulled it out with a tiny sound of victory that went straight to his cock. He wanted that little noise for himself. Wanted it as his reward for bringing her to pleasure over and over again until she forgot how to blush. Until she offered him one of her secrets, of her own accord. He knew better, but he could not help but crave it.

Behind the book, tucked against the bookcase, was another key. Clara grabbed for it, frowning.

“Mean anything to you?” Bram asked.

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Not a message after all?” he asked.

“It most likely is, I just don’t know what it means. This or the other key.”

“It’s early days yet.”

“I’m not sure ciphers are Sybil’s strong suit,” she said drily with that wry humor no one else seemed to catch. “Or mine.”

She turned on her heel, key in hand, tracking every detail of the enormous library. Books, painted globes, arrowheads and musket balls found in the moat now filled with wildflowers and burrowing rabbits. Oil lamps, candle sconces, a bronze sculpture of Zeus, complete with thunderbolt.

“White dove,” Clara murmured.

She pointed above the bookcase that had housed A Virtuous Woman. A tiny white dove was on a scrap of watercolor paper set among a collection of curiosities, fossils, rare books, an astrolabe. It was small enough to go unnoticed but did not quite fit all the same.

“Sybil left that,” she said, sounding surer of herself than she had since they’d arrived. It transformed her, from moonlight to crystal. Both equally beautiful. “There’s something here.” She frowned at the books, the decorations. The candlestick holder set into the wall just below the dove.

“You’re right,” he said. “In Scotland, between smuggling and avoiding the bloody English, we have plenty of hidden corridors.”

He pulled the candleholder down.

There was a creak, a puff of dust, and then part of the bookcase opened up. It was just wide enough for a person to walk through into the darkness. A person like Clara.

Bram took hold of her elbow. “Anything could be down there.”

“Sybil could be down there.”

“Or the marquis. Several of his burly footmen. A family of angry rats.” He handed her the candle from the holder. “You carry that; I’ll carry the knife.”

She lit the candle, and he was grateful she did not argue or tell him to shove his head in the loch like his sisters would have. And his grandmother. His mother. But they could shoot a pistol and punch like boxers. He had yet to see Clara so much as make a fist. He did not know if she could protect herself, but he did know that she would never have to so long as he had breath in his body.

“Ready?” he asked. She nodded impatiently, holding the candle high. It sent spears of light around him, into the passageway. It reeked of dust and damp, but also beeswax. They weren’t the first to come through here with a candle. “Stay close to me.”

The way was narrow, and he had to bend down slightly to fit. They came across several peepholes cut into the walls, allowing a person to spy on those at dinner, in the smaller parlor, the conservatory. It started to slope downward. The air was thicker with disuse. Scurrying sounded up ahead.

Where they stopped at a door.

A locked door.

The candle sputtered. It was colder here, an unmistakable draft sneaking around the thick wooden planks. When Clara shivered, he stepped closer, feeling like a giant towering over a fairy sprite. “This passageway could be hundreds of years old,” she said. “But Sybil wanted us to know about it all the same.”

Even though none of her keys fit the lock.

*

It was the kind of social event Clara dreaded.