Barrett’s chest tightened as an unpleasant certainty settled in his brain: the particulars of his time with Mignon couldn’t remain private. Not given the realities of why she’d left the theater with him and why Isabella Dandaneau had marched into his life in her cousin’s wake. Expelling a long, slow breath, Barrett resolved to handle the circumstances with as much dignity and decorum as possible. “Initially, yes,” he replied tautly. The arch of her brow and the cynical shadow to her smile told him that she knew exactly what had transpired the instant he’d closed the carriage door that night. Precisely why he was embarrassed by that … “Still, it bears searching,” she announced jauntily, turning on the seat and skimming her fingers along the seam where the bottom cushion met the back one. “She could have hidden the map in the moments before putting you on your back.” Barrett watched her as yet another realization took up residence in his brain. He had two choices: he could either focus on the trampling of his sense of propriety and wiggle in acute discomfort, or he could ignore all that and concentrate on understanding the spiderweb in which he’d become ensnared.
