The Purloined Papers

by Allison Lane

  “No. Peter is not at death’s door, according to the groom. I want to learn more before informing her. Settling Laura will keep her fully occupied this evening.”

  They fell silent as the carriage raced through the night, but Andrew couldn’t relax. Two accidents separated by a reckless break-in. Something was very wrong at Fields House.

  * * * *

  Peter was asleep under the influence of laudanum. Gramling and Mrs. Harper hovered in the hall.

  “Tell me about the fire,” William ordered.

  Gramling’s hands were singed, but the house was safe. The damage was confined to Peter’s bedroom.

  “It started when an oil lamp overturned, soaking the bedcurtains,” Gramling croaked, his voice roughened by smoke. “It’s a miracle Sir Peter survived. The flames had spread to the wall and floor.”

  “How much wine had he consumed?”

  “I can’t rightly say, for he often rides out. He’s put away several bottles since the funeral – though one cannot blame a man for drowning his grief.”

  Andrew nearly snorted. Any grief arose from poverty, which was why Andrew couldn’t acquit him of the burglary. His desperate search for valuables could have caused damage he had to explain.

  “How much today?” asked William, pressing for specifics.

  “Three bottles. Possibly more. I haven’t checked the brandy decanter in the library. And he was out for an hour.”

  “How badly was he hurt?”

  “He will recover, but the burns on his hands and face will leave scars. We moved him into the master’s bed and left Sally to watch him.”

  William nodded.

  As Andrew followed them into Peter’s room, acrid smoke thrust him back into the stinging hell of Waterloo. He fought down the memories, chaining them in the corner where they belonged. It took only a moment to realize what had unleashed them. What was black powder doing in a bedchamber?

  Gramling had shoved the windows open to admit sweeter air, but the stench was still strong enough to make William cough. Flames had reduced one bedpost to cinders.

  “He knocked the lamp over,” said Gramling, pointing to the marble-topped table beside the bed. His tone suggested that an inebriated Peter often blundered through the house, leaving destruction in his wake.

  Andrew studied the room. Water soaked the carpet. One wall was charred. Only the frame remained from the bed – the linens, mattress, and hangings must have been tossed out the window.

  Atop the table, an oil lamp lay on its side. Next to it sat a full glass of wine, a plate of biscuits, and a dueling pistol.

  But if Peter expected the burglar to return, why had he drunk so much wine? Anyone with intelligence knew that being three sheets to the wind made shooting impossible.

  There were other oddities. Only the lamp was disturbed, though the other items lay between it and the bed. The biscuits were sooty but unburned, so no oil had splashed on them. Nor had it spilled on the table.

  He leaned closer, squinting in the dim candlelight. No burn marks marred the marble, though oil should have left traces. And while the table legs nearest the bed were blackened, their wood wasn’t cracked, though the bedpost half a foot away had burned to cinders.

  He examined the pistol. Its powder was intact, so it was not the source of the stench.

  “Peter didn’t start this fire,” he said softly to William, pointing out his observations. “After he passed out – if he’d been conscious, he would have finished the wine – someone poured oil over the bed, added black powder to make the flames hotter, set the lamp on its side, then struck a spark and left.”

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  “The same man who ransacked the house on Monday.” Which would drop Peter from his list of suspects.

  William cursed.

  “You talk to Gramling,” Andrew murmured. “I’ll see Sally. Her ears are sharper.”

  * * * *

  Andrew drew Sally away from the bed. Peter was sleeping fitfully, groaning as the laudanum wore off. “Did you hear anything before the fire started?” he murmured.

  “Just Sir Peter staggering up the stairs. We was in the servants’ hall, eating dinner, when he returned.”

  “You heard no other footsteps before or after he went up?”

  “Nothing. We only heard Peter because he cursed when he tripped.” She wrung her hands together. “You think someone else was here?”

  “Maybe. There are too many odd incidents lately.”

  She shivered. “I can’t stay in this house another day, Master Andrew. This is too much. I’m giving Gramling my notice. I don’t care if I lose the quarter’s wages.”

  “I think that is wise,” he agreed, relaxing. If he knew Gramling, the butler would pay her for the quarter anyway. Only a fortnight remained. “Chloe would fret if you stayed after this.”

  “She offered me a post.”

  “I know. And she meant it, though not for a week or so.” He could see the fears teeming in her eyes, such as where to find food and shelter. She had no family, and a quarter’s wages wouldn’t last a week at an inn. At least he could help with that. “Mrs. Moulding needs help with Seabrook’s house party. You can work there until Chloe is settled.”

  “Thank you.” Her hands quit twisting.

  Peter groaned.

  “I’ll stay here until Peter awakens. I need to talk to him,” said Andrew. “You speak to Gramling, then pack. And perhaps you could check the doors and windows. Let me know if any are unlocked.”

  She nodded and left.

  Peter subsided into sleep, so Andrew slipped into the dressing room where Chloe had seen the priest’s hole. Even knowing where it was, it took a quarter hour to find the release. When the door finally opened, the shriek nearly deafened him.

  Peter bolted upright. “What?” His fist clutched his chest.

  “Priest’s hole.” Andrew returned to the bedroom. “Lie down.”

  “Priest’s ho— I didn’t know— Is anything there?”

  “Two silver trays and a dead mouse. Sir Nigel’s emergency stake, I imagine.” But the discovery added new questions, starting with how long the trays had been there. Both were black with tarnish, and Sir Nigel could hardly have accessed the priest’s hole without alerting the entire household. “Do you recall anything about this evening?” he asked Peter.

  “Flames. Thought I would die.”

  “You nearly did.”

  Peter shuddered. “Woke up hot. Fires of hell. Rolled off the bed. Then nothing.”

  Andrew nodded. “Rolling to the floor saved your life. The burns would have been much worse had you stayed in bed. The air is better on the floor, too.” He paused. “Why keep a pistol on the table?”

  “Scared,” Peter admitted groggily, pulling the blanket closer as if cold. “The burglary—”

  It was a reasonable explanation, though it sounded false. On the other hand, Peter was still half asleep from laudanum.

  William arrived to check Peter’s condition. Gramling’s assessment had been correct. Though Peter would remain ill and in pain for some time, he would recover and might even be able to rise in a day or two.

  But the incident had been deliberate. The conservatory door was again unlocked, though Gramling swore he had locked it before dinner. The culprit must have a key.

  By the time Andrew returned to Seabrook, he was convinced that Sir Nigel had hidden something at Fields House. Having failed to find it in three attempts, an intruder had decided to destroy it – and Peter with it. Even if Peter knew nothing about the prize, the intruder was desperate enough to take no chances.

  It was a sobering thought, for the destruction had failed. Peter lived and the house still stood. So the intruder would be back – which was why he had brought Sally to Seabrook. He didn’t want her on the premises if the man decided to act again.

  The next step was to identify what was hidden. Tonight’s escapade proved it wasn’t money. Had Sir Nigel floated a fraudulent scheme of his own?
If so, Peter was in danger. Serious danger. Sir Nigel had lacked the intelligence to carry off a fraud.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  Thursday

  Andrew gave up on sleep and headed downstairs, hoping a brisk ride would clear his head – and perhaps help his leg.

  The hours since returning from Fields House had been long and frustrating. Every time he closed his eyes, Kevin appeared, furious that Chloe was headed for certain destruction. It had been bad enough when she’d planned to live near her brother’s estate, where Peter could have provided some countenance. Now she wanted to leave friends and family behind. If she failed to attract enough students – a distinct possibility, for rumor was bound to question her virtue – what would she do?

  Rumor was unavoidable. Too many men considered a woman alone to be fair game for a little slap and tickle. Some weren’t overly fussy about willingness, either. With only a companion to protect her, Chloe might easily fall prey. She had no husband, no family, no social position. Whether she rebuffed advances or not, the gossips would draw damaging conclusions. She might weather one furor, but never two. Stripped of reputation, she would lose students, leaving her no way to support herself short of prostitution.

  He grimaced. She simply didn’t understand her peril. Rakes and rogues were a far greater threat than Peter.

  So he had to protect her. Kevin would expect it.

  Which brought him to the other reason he couldn’t sleep. Last night’s discussion with Thomas had forced him to admit that he did not want to rejoin his regiment. Napoleon was gone for good this time. India offered no lure. It might be too late to follow his dreams, but he could surely find something to do besides killing and maiming.

  He would mail his resignation today, terminating the mental battle that had cost him so much sleep lately. Then he could help Chloe settle without the pressure of an imminent departure hanging over his head.

  Fear twisted his gut at the challenges he would face. The only job that might work was draftsman for a builder. He could draw well enough. The study he’d done of Lisbon’s Sé Cathedral was as good as any he’d seen, and the one of Madrid’s Royal Palace was even better. Unfortunately, the pay would not be high, even if he found a position.

  But that was a problem for later. First he must see Chloe settled. Then he could find work nearby so he could keep an eye on her. If he was at hand to prevent trouble, perhaps Kevin would leave him in peace.

  He turned toward the side door nearest the stable and nearly ran down another early riser.

  “Sarah! What are you doing up at this hour?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I went out to see Beulah’s puppies.”

  “How are they?” The litter was four weeks old.

  “Frisky.” She smiled, but her usual sparkle was missing.

  He led her into the morning room and shut the door. “What is it, Sarah?” he asked quietly. “I’ve never seen you this subdued.” Granted, they rarely met, but Mary and Catherine wrote of her so often, he felt he knew her well. “Are you sickening for something?”

  She shook her head.

  “Nightmares?”

  “No.” She inhaled deeply. “It’s Aunt Laura. I know I shouldn’t carry tales, but she has changed so much since her accident that I hardly recognize her. When she lived with us at Rockburn, she was polite and always followed the rules, taking special care to defer to Mama and Blake. Now her manners are deplorable. She treats the servants like slaves, and last evening she ordered Miss Sullivan to lower her hems so people needn’t look at her big feet. Miss Sullivan turned bright red – I think she is mortified when people notice that her feet are larger than most. I fear Aunt Laura will do something vulgar. You know Uncle William hates every hint of embarrassment.”

  And always had. Which sometimes prompted him to ignore trouble. He’d already made excuses for Laura’s latest insult. “What did Laura do that bothers you?” he asked as he lit a pair of lamps so he could see her face. “It cannot be only an unkind word to Miss Sullivan.” A word that had doubtless sought to remind the girl that she was also imperfect.

  “I heard she attacked everyone at dinner.” Sarah had returned upstairs when dinner was called. “And after you left the drawing room, she was even worse – or so Mama told Blake.”

  “There is little we can do about her tongue. If we argue every word, she will throw a fit that would shame William for years.”

  “I know. Blake said the same thing. He told Mama to ignore Aunt Laura, but to make it clear that we don’t believe her lies. Every family has a black sheep. If we allow her to annoy us, we give her more power than she deserves.”

  “Good advice. People will judge you on your behavior, not hers.”

  “But it’s not her words that bother me, Uncle Drew. I saw her last night when I slipped down to the kitchen for biscuits.” She blushed.

  “My favorite activity at your age,” he agreed.

  “She was flirting with Ned.”

  Andrew raised his brows.

  “You know. Just like she does with every man she meets – smiles, batting her lashes, running her fingers up his arm.” She clenched her fists. “Ned looked like a panicked horse, all white eyes and flared nostrils. Before he could bolt, she grabbed him and ordered him into her room – something about the wardrobe door. I didn’t hear what he said, but she changed from coquette to harridan in an instant, cursing and screaming and calling him the most horrid names. Her eyes looked crazed. She even threatened to see him turned off. How can he escape any lies she tells? He is only a footman.”

  “I’ll see that William knows the truth.” Another confrontation William would hate, though he should not be surprised. Laura had cornered footmen before so she could practice her wiles. It put the footmen in untenable positions, for she wasn’t averse to moving beyond simple flirtation. There had been a particularly nasty scene the year he bought colors, though she’d been but thirteen. He’d returned from the orchard to find her tormenting a groom. Reading her the riot act had reduced her to tears, but it had made him even more aware of his own shame, for his attack on Chloe had been far worse.

  “Are you sure he will believe you? Laura can sound awfully convincing.”

  “Ned will be fine, Sarah. I can guarantee that no one will take Laura’s word for anything. You had best return to bed before Miss Griswold discovers you gone. And if anything else bothers you, come to me. You need your sleep.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Drew.” She skipped away, her natural exuberance restored.

  The relief raised by his decision to resign faded. William should have brought Laura to Seabrook a month ago so he could judge for himself whether to include her in the house party. It would have revealed her growing problem.

  Now they had to accept that her manners had disappeared, and she no longer cared what the family thought of her. Apparently she was ready to abandon morals as well. Having left society, she no longer felt constrained by its strictures.

  Laura had long used her beauty to dazzle, though few gentlemen wanted to live with her petty demands. She needed constant attention, but because she was neither sweet-tempered nor conformable, her court had always consisted of young men who were not yet ready to consider marriage. He wondered if any of those who had proposed over the years had expected her to accept.

  An hour of hard riding did little to settle his mind. William remained abed when he returned, so he could not discuss Laura. But if Chloe was up, they could leave immediately for Exeter. It would make the journey less noticeable. The fewer questions he had to answer, the better it would be for both of them.

  He was mounting the steps to the nursery floor when Laura’s voice erupted from the rose room. Chloe was undoubtedly her opponent.

  * * * *

  Chloe choked down exasperation. It was bad enough that Laura had sent for her at the crack of dawn. But her reasons were ridiculous.

  A wave of guilt reminded her that part of Laura’s anger was justified. A companion should
obey her employer, and usually she did. But this time it was impossible.

  Inhaling deeply, Chloe steadied her voice. “You cannot return to Moorside. All other considerations aside, Lord Seabrook won’t provide transportation until after the ball.”

  “Then I’ll walk,” Laura declared.

  Chloe glanced at Laura’s feet. As usual, they were clad in stylish slippers unsuited for more than a short stroll in the garden. Despite two years of isolation, she clung to her London wardrobe. “You wouldn’t reach the gates without laming yourself. And if you leave, Lord Seabrook will bar you from Moorside.”

  “I won’t stay here. I won’t! The Sullivans stare as though I were a freak. Andrew is spreading lies about me. Lady Grayson had the gall to flaunt her husband before my face – a husband she stole from me!” Tears trailed down her cheeks. “But to endure abuse from the servants is beyond enough.”

  Chloe stifled a sigh. They had been circling the reason for Laura’s outburst since dawn, but she knew little more than when she’d arrived. “What happened? I cannot imagine a servant alive who would insult you, and certainly not in your brother’s house.”

  “Of course they didn’t speak to me. But Ned refused to repair my wardrobe last night. I had to do it myself. Of all the ungrateful, disrespectful…”

  Chloe glanced at the wardrobe. The door did not quite close, unlike yesterday, when it had operated smoothly. If something had happened to it, Laura must be responsible.

  “And not five minutes later, I heard Rob and Bill laughing at me,” Laura finished.

  “I doubt it.”

  “That shows what you know! I heard them.” Laura snapped her mouth shut in a stubborn line.

  Chloe shook her head.

  “I did,” Laura insisted. “Rob called me a two-faced bitch.”

  “All right. Perhaps he mentioned you. But after the way you treated him before dinner, you should not be surprised.”

  “I did nothing.”

  “Not true,” said Chloe firmly. “I was here when he gashed his hand on your trunk. As was William. You were very solicitous, even promising to send him a salve that would deaden his pain. But not only did you forget that promise the moment William left, you actually re-injured the hand when you struck him an hour later because he did not respond instantly to your summons.”