Leslie Lafoy Read Online Free Page A

“No, Mr. Stanbridge,” she assured him, chuckling darkly. “Until I find Lafitte’s treasure, I can barely afford one meal a day. I came here this morning because I need your permission and assistance to search your private property. If you’ll give it, if you’ll assist me in this one small way, I’ll tell the authorities the entire story and clear your name.”
    The cynical smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “And make yourself the principal suspect in Mignon’s murder?”
    It was a small price to pay for invaluable—no, absolutely essential—help. And one she’d concluded was worth the risk before she’d walked in the door. “I’ll be well gone before they open the letter. Let them try to find me.”
    Barrett stared down at the carpet, his mind racing. How long had Mignon Richard been in London before she’d met him in the theater lobby? he wondered. Was he the only man with whom she’d spent time? Was his the only property she might have used to hide her half of the map? They were important questions, he knew. But not absolutely vital. Not unless a thorough search of his house and carriage failed to produce results. At that point, he’d have no choice but to find the answers.
    But if, on the other hand, the map was where Isabella Dandaneau thought it was … It wasn’t going to solve his problems as easily as she believed. Her vouching for his innocence wasn’t going to carry all that much weight with the authorities. Especially when they couldn’t find her or another suspect to haul into the dock for a grisly murder.
    The decision of what to do in the long run could wait, he decided. At the moment, it was in his best interests to help her find the missing half of the map. Hopefully, she was right and they’d discover it tucked somewhere in his carriage or his house. The prospect of having to trace every move Mignon had made while in London was too daunting to even contemplate. And spending hours and hours with Isabella at the task … God, he wished she didn’t look quite so much like her cousin had. His eyes seemed to be linked to his memory and his memory to his loins. All by the shortest of cords.
    Unfolding, he pushed himself off the desk and strode across the office. “Quincy,” he said, pulling open the door. “Have the carriage brought around, please.”
    He was taking his greatcoat from the rack in the corner when she rose from her seat saying, “Thank you, Mr. Stanbridge. I appreciate your trust and accommodation.”
    “Those are noble reasons,” he replied, shrugging into the wool garment. “I’m going along with this strictly in the interest of self-preservation.”
    “I do understand the importance of that.”
    Barrett considered her. Her initial nervousness had subsided in the course of their exchange and the woman who now met his gaze from across the room was absolutely certain of the direction in which she was setting them. And beneath that confidence lay a steely resolve every bit the equal of that her cousin had displayed during her time with him.
    But there was more to Isabella. Or maybe less, depending on how he looked at it. Mignon had been the kind of woman who moved through every moment like a chess player; each action, each breath, calculated for effect and strategically planned well in advance. But while Isabella knew just as well where she wanted to go and what she wanted to accomplish, she didn’t seem to employ cold manipulation to get there. She danced along the edge, trusting instincts to keep her balance from one moment to the next.
    All in all, he decided as he motioned for her to precede him out of the office, she was a much more dangerous woman than Mignon had ever been. Isabella was comfortable with behaving in largely unpredictable ways. The sooner she was gone from his life, the better.

Chapter Two
    “Is this the seat Mignon occupied during the trip to your house?”
    Barrett’s chest tightened as an unpleasant certainty settled in his brain: