She managed a pleasant expression and extended the book to Mr. Holder. “Will you give this to Mr. Delacroix? I’m sure it’s difficult for a man of his temperament to be confined to bed. Perhaps this will help.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

The butler carried the novel up the staircase, and she longed to follow and beg Gray to tell her that all this espionage suspicion was pure foolishness. Instead she had to snoop through his files in search of information that could hang him.

Two minutes later Otis arrived, his face curious as he escorted her to the library, a set of keys in his hand. “You’ve got to tell me how you persuaded him to give you access to his sacred space,” he teased.

“A shared fascination with Tahitian orchids,” she said in an off-handed voice.

The keys rattled as Otis unlocked the door and let her into the dimly lit, book-lined office. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, and three sides were lined with bookshelves and filing drawers. Maps covered one wall, and a standing globe stood in one corner.

“These three shelves document Africa,” Otis said. “This entire wall is the Far East and the Spice Islands. And these are Central and South America. The filing drawers are all correspondence with American distribution companies, so I doubt you’ll find much of interest there. The antique chest is mostly old family papers and letters. Probably best that you stay out of those.”

“And what is that?” she asked, nodding to an apparatus the size of a shoe box on a separate table beneath the room’s only window.

“That’s the telegraph machine,” Otis said. “The Delacroixs have always been very private about their business dealings, so I send all their messages rather than use a public line at the local post office.”

“You know Morse code?” she asked.

“Learning Morse code was the first request old Mr. Delacroix ever had for me. I think it was the reason he hired me in the first place,” Otis said. “I’ll leave you to it. If you need help with anything, just holler.”

He closed the door softly behind him. That was when Annabelle noticed her spice map hanging on the wall. Amidst the practical maps and shipping schedules, space had been cleared for her ridiculous piece of whimsy.

She ignored the ache in her chest and forced herself to walk toward the first filing cabinet. The cold metal handle triggered a swirl of nausea as she pulled the drawer open. Everything about this was wrong. She wasn’t a snoop. She wasn’t a spy.

But you are.