Lord Maccon snorted at her and went to sniff suspiciously at her armoire. “So, what was in that drawer?”

“I can’t readily recall. Some society missives from before we were married, I believe. Can’t imagine what anyone would want with those.” She frowned, trying to dig her way through the mire of pregnancy-addled wits.

“You’d think they’d be after your dispatch case if it was classified paperwork they wanted.”

“Exactly so. What did you smell?”

“A bit of grease, probably from that parachute contraption. Nothing else significant. And you, of course—the whole armoire smells of you.”

“Mmm, and how do I smell?”

“Vanilla and cinnamon baked puff pastry,” he answered promptly. “Always. Delicious.”

Alexia grinned.

“But not of child. I’ve never been able to smell the bairn. Neither has Randolph. Odd that.”

Alexia’s grin faded.

Her husband returned to his examination of the drawer. “I suppose the constabulary will have to be called.”

“I don’t see why. It was only the odd bit of paperwork.”

“But you kept them.” The earl was confused.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean they were important.”

“Ah.” He nodded his understanding. “Like all your many pairs of shoes.”

Alexia chose to ignore this. “It must be someone I know who stole it. Or arranged for the theft.”

“Hmm?” Lord Maccon slumped thoughtfully onto the bed.

“I saw him enter. He was after that drawer in particular. I don’t think he was expecting us to be here—he seemed more than usually startled to see me. He must be intimate with our family, or acquainted with some member of Woolsey staff, to know where our room is located and that we were not supposed to be in residence.”

“Or it is meant to throw us off the scent. Perhaps he stole something else or did something that has nothing to do with those papers.”

Alexia pondered, still standing on one foot, like an egret, propped back against the windowsill. “Or he is after some important item to use for blackmail. Or something to give to the popular press. There has been remarkably little scandal since you and I reconciled. I wouldn’t put that kind of thing past old Twittergaddle and the Chirrup.”

“Well, idle speculation is getting us nowhere. Perhaps he got the wrong room or the wrong drawer. Now, why are we not both back in bed?”

“Ah, yes, there is some difficultly there. My ankle, you see, no longer appears to be functioning as designed.” Alexia gave Conall a weak smile, and he noticed, for the first time, her awkward stance.

“God’s teeth, why?” The earl strode over to his wife and offered his own substantial form instead of the windowsill. Alexia transferred her weight gratefully.

“Well, I did take a little bit of a tumble just now. Seems I have twisted my ankle.”

“You never . . . ? Wife!” He half carried her to the bed before bending over to examine her foot and lower leg carefully. His hands were impossibly gentle, but still Alexia winced. The joint was already starting to swell. “I shall call for a surgeon immediately! And the constabulary.”