Ten minutes later, she reached the fireplace. She was about to move past it when a thought struck. She studied the large portrait of Cecilia Ennis as a young lady that hung above the mantelpiece, then reached out, raised one corner of the heavy frame, and peered behind it. A safe was recessed into the wall.
She let the frame hang straight again and turned to Sebastian, who was pulling out and replacing books on one of the high shelves behind the desk. “Has the inspector looked in the safe?”
Sebastian glanced at her, then raised his gaze to the portrait. “He didn’t say. I’ll ask.” He went to the door, opened it, and left.
Antonia progressed to searching the shelves on the other side of the fireplace.
Several minutes later, Sebastian returned. He closed the door. “There’s nothing in there but Cecilia’s better jewelry and two hundred pounds in cash.”
“Exactly what one might expect and nothing more.” Antonia continued to search through the ledgers, but more to be thorough than in any real hope of finding any plans.
Sebastian returned to the shelves behind the desk.
Eventually, she asked, “How long do you think there’s been a house on this spot?”
She felt Sebastian’s sharp green gaze, but didn’t bother meeting it.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because at Chillingworth—and I’m sure at Somersham, too—because the house is so old, the plans are kept—”
“In the library.”
“Precisely. The plans of the house are bound in one large volume, and the landscaping plans are kept in a separate folio, because they keep being updated.”
“So we’re looking in the wrong place.”
“Perhaps.” She glanced at him, a wryly questioning look in her eyes. “But we wanted to search here anyway, didn’t we?”
Fleetingly, he grinned. “Indeed.” He turned to a shelf by the door. “And I’m almost finished on this side, and I haven’t found anything.”
She replaced the last stack of loose papers on their shelf, then stepped back and visually checked. “I’ve finished here.” She turned to survey her side of the room one last time. Her gaze swung over the grate, and she froze.
Then she went forward and, crouching, carefully teased a paper—the left half of an envelope—free of the ashes that had almost obscured it.
She rose with the remnant in her hand. Frowning, she angled it so the light from the window fell on the words scrawled across the envelope’s face.
“What is it?” Sebastian came to see.
“It’s part of an envelope. The writing on it says ‘Three hundred pounds for’—and the rest has burned away.”
He halted by her side, close, and leaned closer still to examine the black scrawl.
She fought to keep her hand—and her breathing—steady.
“Damn!” he murmured.
“Indeed.” She glanced sideways at his face. Firmly quashing her unhelpful reaction, she managed, “The fire was burning when you came in to see Ennis, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Just crackling away, nothing out of the ordinary.” He straightened, and she could breathe a touch easier. He added, “I didn’t notice that in the grate, but then I didn’t really look.”
“And the staff haven’t been allowed in this room since, so whatever’s in this grate—”
“Had to have been there when I found Ennis dead.”
Tilting her head, she studied the envelope. “Did he put it in the flames, or did someone else—like the murderer?”
“Hard—if not impossible—to say. But as to that, Ennis was with us—his guests—throughout yesterday. In the afternoon, he came in with the rest of the men with only time enough to change for dinner, and I saw him come upstairs. So he didn’t come in here during the day, not for more than a minute at most. So the fire in here, which would have been laid earlier in the day, almost certainly wouldn’t have been lit until dinnertime.”
As accustomed to the ways of large houses as he, she nodded. “Blanchard would have ordered it lit while dinner was being served.”
“Exactly. So that envelope couldn’t have been fed to the flames until after dinner—which means by either Ennis or his murderer.”
“By which, I take it, we can infer that the name of the person for whom the three hundred pounds was intended was, in fact, the murderer.”
Sebastian stared at the envelope for a second more, then met Antonia’s gray eyes. “We should take this to Crawford and Sir Humphrey immediately. Three hundred pounds is a large amount for any man to carry in notes.”
Her lips firmed. “Thinking himself safe, the murderer might still have the money on him or have hidden it in his bags.”
They found Sir Humphrey and the inspector just finishing their interview of one of the footmen. On seeing their faces, Crawford wound up the interview, got to his feet, and sent the footman on his way.
The instant the door closed, Sir Humphrey, who had also risen, said, “You’ve found something?”
Sebastian waved Antonia forward. He let her explain how she’d found the envelope and its significance—and what he and she thought the inspector’s next step ought to be.
Crawford was eager, but he turned to Sir Humphrey. “A search will cause a ruckus.”
Sir Humphrey glanced inquiringly at Sebastian. “Only if they know.”
Sebastian’s smile was intent. “They’ve all gone shooting. You can search their rooms now.”
“And if you don’t find anything,” Antonia said, all the hauteur at her command on show, “make them turn out their pockets when they come in—in the gun room, before any of them have a chance to go upstairs.”
Again, Crawford glanced at Sir Humphrey. “They’ll squeal.”
“Not”—Antonia slanted a glance at Sebastian—“if you tell them it’s to eliminate them as suspects, and that Earith has already complied.”
Sebastian promptly started emptying his pockets onto the desk’s blotter, starting with the three very important letters he was carrying. “And you have my permission to search my room—and indeed, you should also search the rooms of all the visiting staff, maids as well as valets.”
“Yes, and you have my permission to search my room, too.” Antonia held her arms out to either side. “As is obvious, I have no pockets in this gown that could hold three hundred pounds.”
The bodice of her walking dress was a very snug fit.
Instinctively, Crawford had run his gaze down her figure; abruptly, he realized what he’d done and looked down at the desk as a wash of color crept into his cheeks. He gruffly cleared his throat. “As you say, my lady.” Then he glanced at Sir Humphrey. “Shall we?”
“Why not?” Sir Humphrey looked almost belligerent. “This is a murder investigation, after all, and Lady Antonia and Earith have just cleared the way for us.”
“That’s it.” Sebastian patted his pockets, demonstrating that they were empty.
Antonia glanced at the items piled on the blotter and fought to hide a grin. The expensive pocket watch, engraved silver billfold, heavy silver card case, coin purse, fine embroidered handkerchief, notecase, and silver capped pencil were to be expected, along with the silver hip flask and the three letters, but the two pieces of string, several crumpled notes, a short section of candle plus a box of Congreve matches, a button, a lady’s ornamental buckle, and a pebble—river-washed to smoothness—were more appropriate to a boy’s pockets.
She knew he had a habit of slipping random things into his pockets; she’d always assumed he later discarded them. She felt his gaze touch her face as he reached for the pile—as his hand closed over that river-washed pebble, hiding it from her sight.
Abruptly, memory seized her and jerked her back into their long-ago past.
That pebble came from the Lambourn, the river that flowed past her family home. He’d picked it from her hair when, on one hot summer’s day, along with his siblings and several of his cousins, all of whom had been visiting, he and she had gone down t
o the banks of the river, and during a game, she’d fallen in.
The river had been deep where she’d entered it, but as the season was mid-summer, the currents had been flowing lazily, and like all the group, she could swim. She hadn’t been in any danger, yet Sebastian had immediately dived in, swum to her, seized her, and hauled her to shore.
They’d come to the bank farther along the river, screened from the others by an outcrop.
She’d waded out alongside him. But once they’d reached solid ground, he’d narrowed his green eyes at her and lambasted her for her carelessness. During his tirade, he’d reached out and plucked that pebble from her hair.
Her memories were so vivid, she felt a phantom tug.
Drenched and infuriated by his high-handedness, she’d narrowed her eyes back and, in no uncertain terms, had told him what she thought of his behavior—of his entirely unnecessary rescue.
Beyond furious with each other, they hadn’t exchanged so much as a word for the rest of his stay.
But he’d kept that pebble.
It had to be the same pebble.
She blinked, then glanced at his face, but he was stuffing all his belongings back into his pockets and didn’t look at her.
Crawford waved Sir Humphrey to the door. “We should start our search immediately—speaking to the rest of the staff can wait.”
Sir Humphrey glanced at Antonia and Sebastian. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“No,” Sebastian said. “But we think we’ll find the house plans and diagrams of the grounds in the library.” He picked up the rolled map of the estate they’d found earlier. “We’ll hunt them out, then start our search.”
They filed out of the estate office. Crawford, followed by Sir Humphrey, strode off up the corridor and into the front hall, taking his constables with him.
To Sebastian’s surprise, Antonia turned in the opposite direction. For an instant, he thought she was heading back to the study for some reason. Instead, she opened a door—a secondary door more or less concealed in the wall the corridor shared with the library—and led the way into the large room.
He followed and closed the door, which clicked shut, fitting neatly into the wall in a way that rendered it not readily discernible. He walked deeper into the room, then halted and surveyed the shelves lining the walls. Interrupted only by gaps for the doors, windows, and the large fireplace, the open shelves were packed with leather-bound tomes of every description.
“Luckily,” Antonia murmured, “we’re looking for folio-sized books, and there aren’t so many of them.”
He set the map of the estate on a small circular table. “I see some.” He walked to the wall shared with the corridor and crouched to scan the tall volumes filling the bottom shelf. Antonia trailed after him and halted beside him. He forced his mind to remain on track, to take in what his eyes were seeing in terms of the words etched on the spines and not drift… “Ah—this might be it.” Thank God.
He hauled out a large, heavy volume covered in maroon leather with “Pressingstoke Hall” inscribed on the spine. He hefted it into his arms, rose, and carried it to the central library table.
Antonia followed eagerly, her attention plainly diverted by the find.
They opened the book and saw a copy of an early plan of the house when it had been a medieval hall. Like many large houses, Pressingstoke Hall had gone through various iterations, with new versions built onto or over earlier structures.
“This book looks like it was compiled early this century. We need the latest plan.” Antonia turned the pages until they were looking at an exquisite rendering of what was obviously the current Pressingstoke Hall.
Antonia studied the plan. “There are too many rooms to remember, especially on the lower level and in the attics. We’ll need to make a copy.” She looked around. “There’s a writing desk.”
She crossed to the desk, sat in the chair behind it, and searched in the shallow drawers, eventually unearthing several sheets of paper and a handful of pencils.
He carried the large book over and placed it open on the desk. “You’re unquestionably better at drawing than I am.”
“True. But before I start on this, let’s see if we can find the plans of the grounds.”
They hunted through the folio-sized volumes and finally found a box stuffed with loose sheets. He carried the box to the library table, and she quickly sorted through the pages.
“This is the one—done in 1827.” She studied it for a moment, then handed it to him. “You can manage a reasonable copy of that, I’m sure.”
So while she settled at the desk to make a copy of the plan of the house, he sat at the library table and did his best—his distinctly poor best—to draw what was at least a passable representation of the grounds, noting the location of the various buildings and structures that dotted the cultivated area around the house.
Antonia diligently copied line after line, an activity that required attention, but not a great deal of active thought. Her mind, unsurprisingly, reverted to contemplation of what was fast becoming her dominant obsession.
Sebastian.
He who apparently carried around a pebble he had drawn from her sodden hair some fifteen years ago.
If it was the same pebble.
It had to be the same pebble; why else had he glanced at her and moved to hide it?
So why had he kept it? Why did he carry it in his pocket to this day?
She knew all about his protectiveness; it was something that had always been there—that had simply come to be the way he related to her, unchanging and absolute.
She’d grown so accustomed to it—that overbearing protectiveness—that she’d long ago stopped being surprised by it, or by anything he did while in its throes.
What she hadn’t previously realized was that he was as aware of his reaction to her as she now was, as aware of the longevity of those feelings, as demonstrated by that pebble.
It meant something to him. Something definite. Something important.
Something very real.
That longevity, that constancy—the fact that his protectiveness toward her had never ever faltered, and it certainly hadn’t waned—wasn’t something she should have been so cavalier in taking for granted.
Given what she now knew, all that she’d seen and felt, put that obsessive protectiveness together with all that had flared between them since they’d left their normal world behind, and what did that add up to?
It was tempting—oh, so tempting—to leap to conclusions, but she wasn’t about to do that. This was too important. Far too important.
Yet whatever the reality was, she needed to know and was determined to find out.
But if she left further exploration of that topic until after they returned to town…she would never learn what she needed to know. She understood him well enough to be one hundred percent certain of that. No matter whatever happened in the future, if she wanted a clear and unequivocal declaration of what drove him, she would have to push for one now—while they were there, away from their families and the world they usually inhabited.
The simple truth was, once they returned to London, any further interaction between them would be at his discretion, not hers. She could refuse to engage with him, but she couldn’t make him engage with her. She wouldn’t have any opportunity to initiate anything he wasn’t prepared to allow.
That prospect thrilled her not at all.
If she was reading the signs correctly, them being thrust into this situation—one neither of them, of their own accord, would have instigated—had stripped away the veils and screens they both normally kept in place, especially with regard to the other.
Whether intentionally or unintentionally, wittingly or unwittingly, until now, neither of them had faced, much less focused on, what was, in truth, between them.
But courtesy of the hours they’d spent there, in each other’s company, they now recognized what that potentially was.
Both of them kn
ew that much.
But he liked control—more, he insisted on control, on control remaining in his hands.
Ergo, he would put off dealing with what lay between them, at the very least until they returned to town.
And possibly even after that.
She had no idea how he saw the lady he would wed, but it was perfectly possible he had some entrenched notion of eventually marrying some meek and mild miss he could easily control.
That was not just possible but likely.
She hadn’t ever thought about being the Marchioness of Earith. Knowing him as she had, it had simply not occurred to her—much as a prize she wasn’t at all sure she would want to win. Marrying Sebastian hadn’t ever featured on her list of things to do because…
Carefully drawing in the final lines on her copy of the plan of the basement, she realized that she’d always known that marrying him would be a challenge—one she hadn’t been sure she could win.
She still didn’t know if she could win.
If she could win the one thing that, according to all those ladies who knew, was the only viable guarantee when marrying a nobleman.
She knew how he felt about her protectiveness-wise.
She had no idea about his heart.
Holding up her copy, which she knew to be exact, she pretended to compare it to the original while her heart thudded, slow and certain, and her mind raced.
Would she attempt it—would she open Pandora’s box and find out what their truth really was?
Or would she cling to safety and let the moment—the next few days—pass without risking it?
She stared unseeing at her copy for several silent seconds, then she compressed her lips, picked up the four sheets she’d prepared—one for each level of the house—rose, and shut the heavy volume with a thump.
She looked at Sebastian, seated at the nearer end of the long library table. As he looked up, she met his eyes. “I’m ready.”
He pushed back his chair, picked up the single sheet on which he’d sketched the grounds, tucked it into his pocket, and rose. “Let me put these away.”
The Lady By His Side Page 13
