Who needed hidden rooms in their homes other than people hoping to hide something? As someone who hadn’t been raised surrounded by the ton, she could only guess what kinds of secrets the lords and ladies kept.
What sort of secrets did Richard keep?
Shuddering, she swallowed down a curse. She shouldn’t be thinking about him in any other capacity than that of an accomplice. Was he keeping the viscount distracted as was required?
A surge of guilt hit. Of course he was doing his part, and it wasn’t just his willingness to escort her. Every day since she’d told him of the operation, he’d sent packets of information on dozens of his ton connections, information one could only glean from personal relationships. Every day the packets would come, and every day her estimation of him grew.
He could be counted on; she felt that all the way to her bones. Richard was a man worthy of trust and utter faith—she could see that in his eyes, in the way he carried himself, his broad shoulders high, his back straight, his countenance powerful. But she couldn’t shake the sense that Richard was barreling headfirst into danger.
And why? Because he wanted to help. To help her.
I will never forgive myself if something happens to that stubborn lout.
Just after the next rotation of serving staff, Vic took her chance to extricate herself from the party, her gaze catching on something out of the corner of her eye, just before she slipped from the room. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw someone…a man, watching her from behind a lemon tree.
Gāisǐ de. Just her luck to be caught.
Well, if someone mentioned her exit or her absence, she would just say she was allergic to the blooms and needed to escape with the utmost expediency, and the servants’ corridor was the closest.
With that settled, she paused just inside the door, allowing her eyes to adjust to the meager light. How did the servants navigate the hallway with so little illumination, and why did the viscount allow such dangerous conditions? Why, the servants could trip and hurt themselves, not to mention upend their trays all over the floor.
Sighing to herself, Vic moved along the walls, keeping to the shadows, of which there were many. The corridor broke off into three directions, a junction of sorts, just beyond a small alcove.
The alcove was empty, and for a moment Victoria wondered what should have gone there. For now, though, it would act as the perfect place for her to don her costume—which she did in record time.
With nowhere to hide the outer skirt of the gown she’d removed, she simply left it on the floor, in the very corner, and hoped no one looked close enough. She pinned the mobcap onto her hair and pulled her satin gloves from her hands, shoving them into the pocket where the cap had been.
Having seen the house plans, she knew the kitchen and attached larder—with its hidden room—was to the left, deeper into the house. So, she turned left, praying she didn’t encounter any servants who were, perhaps, lagging behind in their rotation. Would they notice she wasn’t a regular household servant?
Rounding the corner, she heard the shouts, clanging, and commotion common in most kitchens. Her own kitchen, complete with scowling Ping-Na, had been the hub of their home in Zhejiang. Noisy, warm, and comfortable, it was one of the things she missed most about home: the lack of stiff formalities. If she ever thought to enter the kitchens at their townhouse, the staff would fall out, her mother would hear of it, and she’d spend the rest of the day reciting a list of ridiculous societal principles.
Pressing herself against the wall just outside of the kitchens, Vic tensed when someone hurriedly exited. Luckily they were facing the other direction, or she’d have been discovered.
Too close. Vic listened to the conversation just inside the main kitchen. The cook was ordering the scullery to hurry up with the pot because they needed a receptacle for the next batch of soup. Then the baker snapped at someone about a missing bread knife. Then the cook again, telling a kitchen maid to run to the larder and retrieve a wheel of Brie for the appetizer tray.
The larder—just the place she needed to go. Unfortunately, the larder was inside the kitchen where all the staff was. This disguise was about to undergo a trial by fire, and she could only hope her training under LaMagre had been enough.
Drawing back her shoulders, she squared her chin, put on her most haughty air, and entered the kitchen. All conversations stopped as six sets of eyes snapped to her.
“Oi! Who’re you and what’re you doin’ in my kitchens?” the wide, short, ruddy-faced cook snapped.
Not bothered by the woman’s tone, Vic raised her eyebrows in mock affront.
“I am her ladyship’s new maid, Berta,” she exclaimed in her best personal maid voice: just enough culture to be well spoken but not enough to be haughty.
The cook stepped forward, wiping her hands on her stained apron. Sputtering, she muttered, “I-I didn’t hear ’bout no new maid.”
“I am very new, ma’am. So new that this is my first night here, and my first order from the lady—please, don’t make it so that I cannot get what the lady demanded.” She dropped her face, widening her eyes and drawing her lips into a pout.
“And what did her ladyship demand?” the cook asked, just as three waiters with trays entered the kitchens, headed right for the scullery.
“She has the most dreadful headache, and she decided that I ought to make a tincture using a recipe from my old granny who was an apothecary in Devonshire.” She supposed she needn’t add the part about the granny, but she felt it made the whole thing seem more credible.
Her face screwing up in confusion, the cook snapped to a maid, cowering in the corner. “You, fetch the ladyship the willow bark tea, and I’ll heat the water.”
Panic slammed into her. “No!”
Both the cook and the maid halted, mid-movement, to stare at her.
Offering them a smile, she explained, “I would much rather find it myself, if you don’t mind. The countess wanted a specific recipe, and I would feel much better giving her exactly what she asked for.”
The cook’s beady eyes bored into Vic’s face, making her skin burn from the strain of keeping her expression pleading.
“Well, get whatever it is you need,” she said dismissively. “The larder is just to the right there.” She pointed across the kitchen, and Vic could see an archway with a set of stairs descending two feet.
With a quick nod, she turned and made her way there, moving past a young woman hauling a wheel of cheese. Vic descended the short stairway—nothing more than two wooden steps—and then she was in the largest larder she’d ever seen.
One wall was stacked high with pallets of flour, oats, and beans. The two other walls were covered completely with shelves laden with cheese wheels, loaves of bread, baskets of eggs, spices, herbs, boxes of tea, cocoa, and other sundries. There were also jars of preserved fruit, probably from the trees in the conservatory, and jams, and jellies. And Vic couldn’t miss the bucket lined with cloth and full of butter.
After a moment to examine the contents of the larder, she set her gaze to looking for anything that would tell her where the entrance to the room was. She hadn’t much time; the kitchen staff couldn’t see her in there, but they’d get suspicious if she didn’t reappear before long.
Walking toward the nearest wall, she slid her fingers over the edge of the shelves, feeling for levers or latches that would release the door.
Nothing.
She took a step back, peering at the sconces hung between the shelves. They were placed awkwardly, in the very corner of each wall. All except one, which was affixed to the wall just beside the door she’d come through. Curious, Vic made her way to it, gazing at the way the sconce wasn’t fastened to the wall directly like the other ones were.
“Berta,” a quiet voice said, startling her.
Gasping, she lifted her face to see the pale face of a young maid. She was wringing her hands.
“Cook sent me to see if you need anything.”
&n
bsp; She had less time than she’d hoped. Think quick. “I am just in need of a few moments alone. It is quiet and cool in here, and I find that I require both to help me recall the ingredients and their measurements.”
Curtseying hurriedly, the maid left, and Vic turned back to the sconce on the wall before her. The brass plate it was fastened to was set out from the wall by only a few inches. Lifting her hand, she ran her fingers gingerly over the metal of the sconce, then down toward where the sconce met the brass plate. It was loose.
Holding her breath, she pulled slightly. It gave just that much. She pulled again, with more effort this time, and the sconce and brass plate came away from the wall on an invisible hinge. A soft click echoed through the room.
Spinning, she looked behind her to find that the wall of shelves just before her was actually two sets of shelves, with one side made to be the facade of the hidden door.
Vic peeked her head out of the archway to check that no one else had been sent to check on her, and then she made her way to the sliver of opening along the wall. At least she hadn’t needed to use her lockpick set, which she’d thought to carry into the party in the hidden pocket of her skirt.
The door opened silently as she pulled it toward her. The interior of the room was pitch-black, which meant she’d have a devil of a time investigating it. Thinking quickly, she spied a taper on the shelf opposite and she snatched it, lighting the very end with the flame from one of the other sconces.
Hmmm…stone floors. That meant she was heading into the ground…like a casket lowered into the grave.
She shuddered as the taper cast meager light into the recess beyond. It did little to illuminate the space, but Vic could just make out the outline of a lantern hanging from a hook on the wall. Taking the lantern in hand, she lit the wick and was immediately awakened to what abject disappointment felt like.
Naked stone walls framed an empty room, and Victoria cursed the dank air.
Why would he have an empty hidden room? What was the purpose of it?
She knelt to examine the floor, looking for anything that could have been there before. There were marks in the dirt along the wall, wide rectangles that turned to drag marks, as if crates had been there but had been moved recently—recently enough that the vermin hadn’t disturbed the loose soil.
A small yet direct voice in her mind spoke. He knew you were coming…
And if that was true, the insidiousness was rooted deeper than any of them knew.
A sickening realization pooling in her belly, she left, then secured the hidden room, grabbed a few items from the shelves for appearance’s sake, then rushed through the kitchen and into the corridor. The alcove was still empty save the skirt of her gown, so she redressed in the skirt and her gloves, removing the mobcap and stuffing it back in her pocket.
Her movements were jerky, fueled by growing rage—at herself and Viscount Algren. She had no doubt the man was up to some nefarious acts, and that someone had warned him about the agency’s plans.
But who?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Richard swallowed a mouthful of cloyingly sweet and watery lemonade and smiled at the woman on the viscount’s arm. Not his wife, who was dancing attendance on Lord and Lady Gadstoke—both conspicuously present and accounted for—but he couldn’t recall if he’d heard her name.
Not good, old man. You’re supposed to be distracting the viscount, not ignoring him while standing in front of him. He couldn’t help it; he was thinking about Victoria.
Where was she? Had she run into any trouble? Did she need help?
“Downing, you appear to be woolgathering,” Algren said, snatching Richard from his increasingly hectic thoughts. “Are you all right, man?”
He waved off Algren’s concern, offering a lopsided smile. “I’m afraid I have been woolgathering: thoughts of my aunt and cousin, actually.” Which wasn’t too far from the truth. While he was worried about Victoria and her safety, he couldn’t help but wonder why his aunt and cousin were absent from the party. “I had thought they would be in attendance tonight.”
Algren nodded, bland politeness written into the lines of his face. “I understand. I cannot believe my wife would neglect inviting Lady Ashbury and darling Lady Elizabeth to our garden party.”
“Perhaps my aunt declined.” Which wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. His aunt, while being a stickler for propriety, was also a tad ornery. If she felt she’d been slighted, even the tiniest bit, she would turn her dragon snout up at the offender. He would have to ask her about it when he saw her next.
“Perhaps,” the viscount admitted. “She is more than welcome to do so.”
Richard chuckled. “Even if she weren’t, she’d do precisely as she pleased.”
The woman beside the viscount tittered, fluttering her lashes at him. To most, she would be a lovely young woman, but he wasn’t most. Not after meeting Victoria Daring.
He couldn’t help but wonder about the tension that hummed between them, every time they were together.
And to kiss her again… It would be the height of folly. And the greatest of pleasures.
The woman before him tittered again, pointedly gazing upon Richard.
“I am sorry, but I have failed to properly introduce you two,” Algren said, handing Richard the opportunity he needed to keep from looking an ass. “Miss Mongrian, may I introduce to you Lord Richard Downing. Richard, this is Miss Mary Mongrian, niece to my beloved wife.”
Richard smiled, bowing. After the introduction, the conversation continued in much the way he expected… He was ready to make his excuses five minutes in, but he couldn’t. His duty was to keep the viscount distracted, and if that meant holding an insipid conversation with a coy, flirtatious heiress, then he would damn well have an evening-long insipid conversation.
Although, he’d much rather be with Victoria. There was a burning in his blood, not unlike urgency, and the heat generated made the cravat around his neck seem to tighten. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, that despite her training and preparations, she was vulnerable.
What nonsense. Of course she was vulnerable—she was human.
But he knew she would never admit to needing anyone. Especially him. And he couldn’t fathom why. He’d hoped that, in some small way, she had seen him for who he really was: a man who cared. For her.
As the hour struck midnight, the party began to dwindle as guests filtered out to their homes to rest up for the next day’s schedule of events. How he had ever been so completely absorbed by the life as a young man, he’d never truly understand. It was empty, offering nothing but momentary gratification, which dissipated quickly, leaving…nothing. And so, he’d sought out more momentary pleasures, hoping to fill the hollow places inside with anything that would stay.
It never did. He could see that now. Did his metamorphosis happen quickly? Certainly not, but over the last ten years, he had seen the changes, felt the changes, and he knew he had changed. And his life was so much better for it. For if he hadn’t cared enough to follow after a sickly-looking maid, he never would have fallen into the lovely tidal pool that was Victoria Daring.
While his friends had continued on as if there were nothing outside their small circle, he’d found something far more interesting than he ever could have discovered playing cards at White’s, emptying his pockets and filling his ears with useless gossip. He’d discovered a clandestine spy organization in his own city, populated by a single family of eccentrics.
“Downing.” Algren interrupted Richard’s mental puttering. “While I enjoy your company, I am wondering why you deigned to spend so much time with me this evening, when you had the chance to converse with so many lovely ladies. I feel as though I have kept you from something important. You certainly seem distracted.”
Yes, and that was a failure he wouldn’t soon forget. But no matter how he forced himself to listen and interact with Algren, his thoughts kept slipping off to wherever Victoria was. There were on
ly so many guests remaining before the viscount realized three of his guests had never made their introduction.
Damn.
As if to shine a light on the dire situation, a voice intruded. “Lord Algren,” Lord Gadstoke called as he and his wife approached. His gaze landed on Richard for but a moment before returning to Algren. “We must heartily apologize for not coming to speak with you sooner. The only excuse we can make is that we’ve been so long gone from London, we have far too many people with whom to catch up. Why, we spent forty-five minutes with Throckton chatting about the dramatic changes in the obsidian-mining industry.”
Offering a lovely curtsey, Lady Gadstoke tapped her fan on her husband’s forearm, then turned a becoming grin to Algren, whose own wife had disappeared. Richard had never been to a house party quite as…informal as this one.
It should have felt comfortable, easy. Instead, there was an unshakeable uneasiness.
“What my lord husband failed to mention was that our two middle daughters complained of headache and left not much after we arrived.”
Algren’s mouth flattened. “I hope they are all right.”
“Oh, they will be, once they have had some rest,” Lady Gadstoke replied emphatically.
“And what of the eldest daughter? Lady Victoria? I would count it an honor to meet her…” Algren looked around as if trying to spy Victoria. “Ah, is this her?”
Stiffening, Richard turned to see that, indeed, Victoria was making her way toward them, her face pale, her gaze snapping to her father, who tensed.
Though she was unhurried in her approaching, she appeared to be moving with purpose, striding rather than floating as any other debutante would do. Then again, he did not need the reminder that Victoria was nothing like them.
Thank God for that.
“Victoria, darling, are you unwell?” her mother asked, taking her by the hand and patting it.
Victoria shook her head. “No, Mama, I am not unwell, only tired. I believe I have outstayed my own stamina.”
Algren raised his eyebrows. “I understand. I too find that the most exciting things can make one careless…”
A Lady Never Tells (Women of Daring) Page 22
