by Laura Hile
“Buongiorno,” he said. “Beauty in distress?”
She gave no answer. His lips twisted into a smirk. “Settling up, is he? Odd that he should do so here.”
Instantly Elizabeth’s tears were forgotten. “I beg your pardon?” she said.
“The tears are touching, but they are entirely wasted on me.” His eyes strayed to the desk. “I’ve no time for women today. I’m on a treasure hunt.” He began to turn over the pages on the desk.
“Here now!” Elizabeth objected.
He paid her no mind. Right away he spotted the grey velvet bag that she had earlier cast onto the desk. The string of pearls had spilled out and was visible. The man gave a low whistle and reached for it.
Elizabeth snatched it up. He must not have her mother’s jewellery!
“Returning Paddy’s gifts, are we?” His lip curled. “A noble gesture. Stupid, but noble.” He held out his hand. “If you’re so determined to be rid of the tokens of his affection, I’d be happy to take them off your hands.”
“No thank you!”
He gave a careless laugh. “Are you cherishing hopes of winning him back? Banish them! Once a man is finished with a woman, he’s finished. E’ un peccato!” He threw a superior look and translated: “Such a pity.”
“I know what it means.”
He made a movement, and Elizabeth heard a metallic clank. Was this man wearing a sword? A sudden idea presented itself. “You are Ronan!” she said.
He tossed his head. “It so happens that I am.”
There was no reason to stand upon ceremony with such a rude person. “You do not resemble your brother,” Elizabeth observed. “Except, perhaps, for the chin.”
Ronan gave a snort of displeasure. “My brother is nothing. Do you hear? Nothing. Whereas I—I am descended from nobility.” He struck a pose. “My mother is a contessa.”
Elizabeth pursed up her lips. This Ronan, who was also an idiot, was the son of the Italian woman, the loathsome stepmother Patrick Gill had mentioned. Could it be that some of the things he told her were true?
After giving her a scathing look, Ronan resumed his search. What was he looking for?
“Oho!” he cried, and held a slip of paper aloft. “This is more like it!”
Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat. She knew exactly what Ronan had found—the bank draft Admiral McGillvary had written.
Ronan’s smile grew beatific. “Ten thousand pounds,” he said. “Ten thousand lovely pounds.”
“And thirteen shillings,” Elizabeth added tartly. “Which you will notice is made payable to someone else. Not you.”
He shrugged. “A trifle, my sweet. I shall find a way to profit from this, never fear.” He folded the draft. Obviously, he intended to use it.
Panic seized Elizabeth. As much as she loathed Admiral McGillvary, that draft meant her father’s freedom. His brother must not be allowed to tamper with it! Fear made her bold. She caught Ronan’s wrist; her fingernails found bare skin and dug in.
“Oh no you don’t!” she cried and squeezed with all her might.
He gave a shout and twisted free. “Unhand me, wench! This is not your affair.”
Elizabeth came around the corner of the desk. “But it is,” she said.
Ronan nursed his bruised wrist; his dark eyes wary. As she approached, he fell back. What a coward he was!
“Your brother does not know you are here. If you take that draft and leave, he’ll think I stole it.”
“You’ll tell him who did.”
“And you think he’ll believe me? Do you think me so completely stupid?”
“You could lie,” he suggested.
“Never!”
Ronan gave a loud sniff. “What you do, madam, is entirely your affair. I wash my hands of you.”
From his pocket he pulled a lace-edged handkerchief and began to bind his wounded wrist. It was an awkward business. Elizabeth did not offer to help.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she said. “Stealing from your own brother.”
“He steals from me,” Ronan countered. “This house, this land, the income due me as a son—”
“—are lawfully his as the eldest of the family. It’s called primogeniture, Mr. McGillvary. Even I know that much. What a simpleton you are!”
Ronan finished knotting the handkerchief. “English laws,” he grumbled.
“Roman laws,” Elizabeth flashed back. “E’ un peccato! as you say.” Her grasp of Italian was nothing like her sister’s, but it pleased her to be able to hurl Ronan’s own words back at him.
His features twisted. “You have no idea what it is like to be ejected from your own home!” he cried.
This was uttered so tragically that Elizabeth had to laugh. “Oh yes I have,” she retorted. “I am the eldest in my family—the eldest daughter. I have nothing of my father’s. It will all be left to my odious cousin. What can I do about this? Nothing! Whereas you—you are a man. You are able to provide for yourself. Why don’t you join the army?”
“I?” he said, astonished. “What a vulgar idea.”
“Would you rather be a common thief?”
Ronan winced, and Elizabeth held her peace. Besides, an idea had occurred to her; with a man like Ronan, it just might work.
She took up the velvet bag of jewels and weighed it in her hand. “However,” she said, “since you are so desperate for money—” She waited for Ronan to look up. “I believe we can come to an agreement.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “What sort of agreement?”
Elizabeth glanced down just long enough to insert her fingers into the bag. She felt through the contents and found what she wanted.
“We shall make a deal, you and I. You put that draft on the desk where it belongs, and I will give you this.” She extended her palm. In it was the emerald pendant.
Ronan gave a ragged gasp and snatched it up. “Agreed!”
He held the pendant to the light; the diamonds surrounding the large central stone glittered. “Beautiful!” he marvelled. “Absolutely beautiful.” Then he appeared to get hold of himself and rounded on Elizabeth. “Why are you doing this?”
She lifted a careless shoulder. “I no longer wish to keep it. Unpleasant memories.”
“Memories of my dear brother, perhaps?” Ronan said slyly. “Poor Beauty! What went wrong? Did your husband find out?”
Elizabeth ground her teeth. Was there no end to the man’s insults?
Ronan McGillvary clicked his tongue and, with a flourish, replaced the bank draft on the desk. “Women are such fools,” he said. “Always the husbands discover the affair.” His lip curled. “Shall yours divorce you, my sweet? Or are you the governess?”
“Oh!” Elizabeth cried, firing up. “I’ll have you know that I—” Abruptly she clamped her lips shut. Never would she air her personal business before this man!
He looked her over appraisingly. “Perhaps I might be interested,” he mused. “You’ve spirit, I’ll give you that.”
“I think you should leave now,” she said coldly. “Your brother might find you here, and then where would you be? Or,” she added caustically, “I might change my mind.”
Ronan thrust the pendant into a pocket and made a flourishing bow. His sword clanked against his thigh. Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
With mincing steps he crossed the library and, after listening at the door, he went out into the entrance hall.
Elizabeth realized that she was trembling. How fortunate that she remembered that hateful pendant! Fortunately Ronan had been too greedy to examine the stone.
How Patrick would laugh! He would love the thought of his stupid half-brother attempting to pawn a counterfeit stone. The gold and diamonds were real, so to lose it cost something. And yet it was worth it.
And so Elizabeth waited in the chair before the desk, wondering how Cleora McGillvary was faring. Was she seriously hurt? And then there was Ronan. The longer she thought about him, the more uncomfortable she became. He was comic
al, but not safe—he was a thief and a liar! Should she disobey orders and go in such of Admiral McGillvary? He was not a safe person either!
Presently her gaze fell on the secret inner door, still ajar. Here was a mystery. Where did the passage lead? Curiosity took root. It would do no harm to have a look inside …
She came cautiously around the desk and bent to peer into the opening. The passageway was dark, but not completely black. She felt the floor with tentative fingers. It was not earthen, as she expected, but polished wood. She withdrew her hand; there was no dust on her fingers. Where were the spiders’ webs?
Elizabeth drew back. She’d been expecting a priest’s hole or pirate’s lair. The artfully concealed door in the library bookcase simply led to another room of the house. There was no mystery here at all.
There was nothing to do but wait for the return of Admiral McGillvary. This was not a pleasant thought.
The sound of a door latch made her jump. Through the proper door came a liveried footman; he held it open for another who bore a loaded tea tray. A man Elizabeth recognized as the butler followed.
The first footman brought forward a small table, and together the men placed the tea things. The butler looked on as the footmen worked, and then he dismissed them. He poured out a cup and brought it to Elizabeth, along with a silver salver bearing the milk and sugar. He placed a second cup on the table, but did not fill it. By this she knew that Patrick had been delayed.
Not Patrick! Admiral McGillvary!
Elizabeth’s mind fairly screamed the correction. She must never think of him as Patrick! He might have Patrick’s eyes, and Patrick’s smile, and Patrick’s sense of humour, but that was all.
The butler returned to the table and filled a small plate for her. “The Admiral,” said he, “sends his apologizes. He will join you presently.”
And then she thought of something—this man could tell her what had happened. “I trust Miss McGillvary is well?”
“The name is Jamison, Miss, and God be praised, Miss Cleora took no serious hurt. Only scratches and a bit of a bite from that brute.”
“The large dog?” Elizabeth, who knew nothing about dogs, decided that the larger animal must be the fiercer one.
“No, Miss, the little one.” Jamison gave a sniff of displeasure. “Mrs. Huntington’s dog. Is there anything else that you require? The Admiral is desirous that you be made to feel at home.” She shook her head, and the butler withdrew.
At home! As if she would ever feel at home here!
Elizabeth took a tentative sip of tea. She disliked admitting it, but this was a comfortable sort of room, as far as libraries went. With the exception of pastoral scenes, the artwork centered on a naval theme. She took up her plate and went to examine the pictures more closely.
The landscapes had the same subject: the timeworn remains of a castle set on a bluff above the sea. The title engraved in the gilt frames named a place in Ireland, unfamiliar to Elizabeth. The other paintings were of ships.
Elizabeth took a bite of a cucumber sandwich. The largest one was of a vessel named The Borthwick, surrounded by smoke and the drama of battle. It was strange; the man who had met her for tea all those weeks had been in command of a fighting ship like this.
The sandwich was delicious; she helped herself to another. There came a scratching at the library door. “Come,” she called, but the door did not open. Plate in hand, she went to investigate. Servants did not knock.
But the visitor was not a servant. It was a slim grey dog with brown eyes.
“Sweetie,” Elizabeth said, and it looked up. This was Ronan’s dog, the would-be racing greyhound. Without thinking she put out her hand to him. He responded with a lick, which she avoided, and a pleading look at the plate.
“You are hungry,” she said. Sweetie did not whimper or bark, he just gazed at her with soulful eyes. Elizabeth compressed her lips. “Better come in, then,” she said, and she closed the library door behind him. “From all accounts, you have been a Bad Dog. But I expect you neither know nor care.”
Sweetie’s paws clicked against the floor as he walked, and Elizabeth could not help but notice that he limped. Her heart went out to the creature, but what could she do? She knew nothing about what a dog might eat—certainly not cucumber sandwiches! Pâté, perhaps? She investigated while Sweetie laid his grey muzzle alongside the plate.
“You are a big fellow, aren’t you?” Elizabeth said. Then she had a thought—perhaps he would like milk? “Here,” she said, pouring the contents of the pitcher into her saucer. As she placed it on the floor, she could not help but notice that the china was particularly fine. Sweetie consumed the milk and, one by one, ate up the pâté sandwiches. She gave him a pat. “What a nice creature you are,” she said, “for a dog.”
Sweetie gave a great yawn and went behind the desk. Obviously he was looking for an out-of-the-way spot to take a nap. What happened next was altogether unexpected. Sweetie began pawing at the secret door, which was still ajar. Before Elizabeth knew what was going on, the dog got it open and squeezed inside.
“Here, now,” she cried, starting up. “Come back!” She did not like to think of Sweetie being punished for ending up in the wrong place.
In her haste, Elizabeth knocked her empty teacup onto the floor. She paid this no mind. Somehow she must get Sweetie back into the library! “Sweetie,” she called into the opening. “Come here.”
To her surprise Sweetie came, but he stopped short of the doorway. Elizabeth’s fingers closed on his collar. She pulled with all her might, but the dog would not budge. Again Elizabeth pulled. Sweetie simply looked at her. “Stupid dog,” she muttered.
Sweetie responded by trying to lick her. “No, no!” she protested. “Keep your tongue to yourself!” At last Elizabeth decided that, instead of pulling, she would try pushing the dog. She crawled across the threshold onto the smooth wood floor.
“Move, Sweetie,” she ordered leaning against the dog’s back. Nothing happened, so she tried again. Sweetie made an attempt to wag his tail.
“I take it all back,” Elizabeth panted. “You are an excessively Bad Dog!”
Apparently these were words he understood, for he abruptly got up and went through to the library. Elizabeth nearly collapsed with relief. Sweetie turned and acted as if he would come back; Elizabeth panicked.
“Oh no you don’t,” she said and pulled the door to. She heard a slight click as the latch engaged. It took her some seconds to realize what had happened. She was on the wrong side of the door.
“Botheration,” she muttered.
At once she began feeling about for the handle of the latch. It was difficult to see; her fingers found only the wainscoting. Surely the latch must be here somewhere! She went over the paneling more carefully. If only there were more light!
Then she heard something—the sound of approaching footsteps.
Was someone coming into this room?
4 Look Lively!
The Wentworth’s butler opened the door hard upon Charles Musgrove’s knock. Confound the man, Charles thought. Was he always on the watch? That admiral—or whoever it was who owned this house before Wentworth took it—must have been a stickler. The navy influence, Charles decided, must have been the cause. He surrendered his hat and gloves to Yee and turned aside.
To Charles’s mind, the navy meant duty and efficiency and industry—and wasn’t it odd that he now craved such things for himself? For he was coming to realize an unhappy truth: as son of a squire he had nothing to do. Fifty sounded incredibly ancient, but his father was hardly an old man! He and Davies had the estate well in hand. In fact, by now the barley would be in fine form. Here he was in Bath, the very last place he wished to be, with nothing to do but dance attendance on Mary. Mary, he knew, was in her element.
“Captain Wentworth is out, sir,” Yee informed him.
Charles sighed again. Wentworth’s position was not an enviable one—what newly married man would like having guests underfoot? But at l
east Wentworth had an occupation, whereas he …
Charles removed his gaze from the vestibule’s carpet. “And my wife?” he enquired reluctantly.
“She remains in her bedchamber, sir.”
This was hardly a surprise. Mary would seek refuge in imaginary illnesses. God only knew what had brought it on this time. There was nothing for it; sooner or later he must put in an appearance at her bedside. However, if Mary were sleeping, perhaps he could put it off? Later would most definitely be better!
Charles made for the stairs, mindful to tread quietly on the carpet. But when he reached the first landing, he encountered Anne coming down.
“Charles,” she said, speaking low, “I must speak to you. At once.”
The look on her face meant trouble.
“It’s about Mary,” Anne went on. “No,” she cried, as Charles moved to ascend the stairs. “You cannot see her now. Perhaps later, after she’s had a chance to calm herself.”
Charles gave a snort of derision. Mary never calmed herself if she could help it.
Anne’s eyes searched his face. “She’s had a shock, Charles.”
He leaned against the banister railing and folded his arms across his chest. “What is it this time? Has she run out of money?”
Anne cast a look over her shoulder as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Mrs. Barrymore came to call today,” she said in a whisper.
“Mrs. Barrymore,” he repeated. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
Anne did not answer. “For heaven’s sake, come to the point,” he grumbled. “Who the devil is Mrs. Barrymore?”
“Surely you remember. She’s the one who is to marry Mr. Minthorne.” Anne looked again to the landing above. “Come into the drawing room where we can speak more freely.”
Charles sighed and followed. Anne sounded like his mother did when she was itching to deliver a scold. When she shut the door to the drawing room, he laughingly told her so.
