“Obviously.”
“You do, too, I take it.”
Luke took a minute to answer. “I thought I did.”
Oscar pointed at him. “Here’s the test—if you felt you had a fighting chance, would you offer for her?”
Luke pushed back from the table. “Don’t ask me things like that.”
“Ah.” Oscar stood, too. “So your temper’s up. That’s a dead giveaway. You would offer for her.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Are you certain?”
“Of course,” he lied.
“Then you’ve got a lovely case of infatuation.” There was a new twinkle in Oscar’s eye. “True love takes you to the edge of the cliff and right on over. You should be relieved, lad. I know I am. I was beginning to pity you.”
“I don’t need pity from anyone.” Luke sent him a warning look, although he tried to keep it light, out of respect for the older man. At the moment, Luke wanted nothing more than to be left alone.
“I know you’re ready to be rid of me.” Oscar’s voice was softer now. “But I want you to know that even mere crushes die hard, so give yourself some time.” He slapped Luke’s back. “Who knows? Before you know it, another girl might come along, one of your own station. A girl you’ll truly love.”
“I don’t want to hear that.”
“I know. Get angry at me. I’d rather you do that than mope.” The driver winked at him and clattered down the stairs like a kid.
Luke watched him go. He was more uneasy than ever after that conversation. He’d outright lied to Oscar—and Oscar probably knew it, too. Of course Luke would offer for her. But what could he do?
Truly?
How could a man in love with the wrong woman ever make it right?
He couldn’t. The knowledge burned, but it cleared a spot in his muddled thinking. His feelings for Janice had jeopardized his mission to help St. Mungo’s, but it wasn’t too late to fulfill it.
And she might think marriage to his cousin was endurable, but if she found that journal she’d be wrecking her own wedding plans.
The lantern hadn’t worked to summon her, so he’d write her a note instead and send it with Aaron.
Chapter Twenty-six
If Janice could never be happy, at least she could learn to be content. She’d become expert at avoiding the duke: never taking her breakfast at the same time and spending most of her day working with the housekeeper, the occasional footman, and Mrs. Poole to improve the dowager’s circumstances. When Janice wasn’t with them, she was often visiting the puppies in the room by the kitchen, where a small crowd could usually be found, including Mrs. Friday, Isobel, Aaron, and Oscar, for starters.
This morning, the duchess’s move to the light, spacious bedchamber in the main wing of the house was now complete. Janice and Mrs. Poole fussed about like excited hens putting everything in the new nest in order. The dowager herself sat by the window in her Bath chair, gazing outside as if she couldn’t believe her good fortune.
“I haven’t seen this view in so long,” Her Grace said. “Every day I’d look out at the trees when my maid dressed me in the morning. My children used to play out front, too. I’d laugh from this very window at their antics and call Liam over. He’d put his arms around me from behind and watch over my shoulder.”
Janice felt a twinge of sadness. She remembered Luke holding her just that way, but instead of standing, she’d been sitting on his naked lap.
“Every night,” the duchess went on, “we’d both stand here to gaze at the stars and the moon.” She paused. “It was a good life.”
“And I’m glad you can tell us stories about it,” Janice said.
She and Mrs. Poole exchanged a satisfied glance.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Poole said in an airy manner that suggested she was now happily oblivious to her whistling s’s. “Do you want me to remove these books from this shelf? Is there something else you’d like here?”
The dowager winced. “Books? What books?”
“These ones over here.” Mrs. Poole pointed to a row of them.
“They’re mythology and history books, most of them,” Janice explained. She already knew because she’d looked through them as she searched for Emily March’s journal.
The dowager put her hand to her forehead. “I-I don’t know. Books? Here? This is too much. This is all too much.”
Mrs. Poole sped over to her and began to push the chair to the bed. “It’s time to lie down,” she said calmly.
Janice went to the bed and threw down the covers. “Everything will be fine, Your Grace.”
But before they could get her onto the sheets, she sneezed into her handkerchief.
Oh, dear. Janice and Mrs. Poole knew what this meant. The Queen was much more difficult to deal with than the dowager.
Sure enough, the elderly lady looked at Mrs. Poole with a haughty stare. “I thought I’d gotten rid of the notebook.”
Notebook? Janice’s heart began to thump hard against her chest.
Mrs. Poole’s brows flew up. “What notebook, Your Majesty?”
“Ss-s-sh!” She put her finger on her mouth. “We don’t want her to know.” She tilted her head at Janice.
“I’ll—I’ll walk away.” Janice retreated a few steps and silently indicated to Mrs. Poole that they needed their own little conference.
Mrs. Poole came over, her eyes rimmed with worry lines.
“I know we don’t want to upset her,” Janice whispered, “but please encourage her to talk about the notebook.”
“Why?”
“Remember I asked you about Emily March?”
“Yes, and I told you I wasn’t here when she worked here.”
“I know, but my friend said she left a diary.”
Mrs. Poole scratched her temple. “This is all very odd.”
Janice hesitated, not sure how much to say, but she needed the woman’s help, didn’t she? “It’s really not,” she said. “I have a friend who never knew his mother and would like to find out more about her. This was her diary. He was told that she might have spoken of being mistreated here.”
“Really? By the dowager?”
“No, I’m sure it was somebody else.”
“I see.” Mrs. Poole didn’t look very comfortable.
Janice laid a hand on her arm. “Miss March is dead now, but if we could find her notebook, at least my friend would have some peace. I need your help, Mrs. Poole. The Queen won’t talk to me. Please.”
“All right.” Mrs. Poole nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.” Janice threw her a grateful smile.
She walked away but she didn’t go far, only over to the window. But Her Majesty’s Bath chair, faced as it was toward the bed, prevented the grande dame from seeing her.
“Now, Your Majesty”—Mrs. Poole picked up her hand and held it—“please calm yourself so that you can tell me about this notebook.”
“What notebook?” the Queen snapped.
She’d already forgotten about it.
Janice put her hands to her temples and shut her eyes to calm herself. They’d been so close.
Five minutes later, Her Majesty was in bed, propped up on her pillows.
If only there was a way to get her thinking about the notebook again …
“Would you like me to read you a book?” Janice asked her. “There are so many books on that shelf. We should look through them. Unless you want me to find a notebook for you.”
The Queen eyed her askance. “What nonsense you spout. Get out the cards. We’ll play.”
Terribly disappointed, Janice dutifully opened the escritoire to look for them. “I don’t see them, Your Majesty. Mrs. Poole, would you know where the cards are?”
“I don’t think we have any,” Mrs. Poole said. “Her Majesty never asked for them upstairs.”
That was because upstairs had been like a gloomy dungeon.
The dowager was coming to life again, and it was good to see. Janice de
cided to focus on that rather than the fact that she was getting nowhere with the search for the diary.
“I’ll be right back,” she said. “I have some cards in my room. I keep them in a hatbox. My maid and I often play.”
“Hatbox?” Her Majesty sat up taller on her pillows. “You have my hatbox?”
“No, Your Majesty.” Janice looked to Mrs. Poole, who discreetly lifted her palms and shrugged. “It’s my own.”
“I knew you were up to something.” The Queen’s eyes narrowed. “The problem with having clever subjects is that they’re often nosy, too.”
“I’ll show you my hatbox,” Janice said. “I promise it’s not yours. I’ll get it right now.” She walked briskly to the door.
“Don’t bother,” the Queen said with a sly chuckle. “You’re too late. I moved it.”
“Moved my hatbox?” Janice asked her carelessly, hoping not to overexcite her.
“No. The notebook.”
Oh, thank heaven. She was on to the notebook again!
Janice’s entire body tensed, but to appear nonchalant she leaned against the doorjamb. “What do you know about this notebook?”
“She put it in the hatbox,” the Queen said as if Janice were a small child. “And it was in this very room that I found it years after she’d left, when I’d already moved to the dower house.”
“After who left?” asked Mrs. Poole.
“The girl. Emily.” The dowager folded her hands together.
Emily!
Janice’s mouth felt exceedingly dry as she walked to the bed and tucked the old lady’s quilt around her. “What about Emily, Your Majesty?”
She slapped away Janice’s hand. “I sneaked over to visit one day when Russell wasn’t here. No one tells me I can’t visit my grandson. I was going to be in a skit with Grayson and he needed me to wear a silly bonnet. I hoped to procure one that was out of vogue from one of the hatboxes in this room. And there it was—the notebook—in the box containing my favorite emerald silk bonnet hat from years before.”
“Really?” Janice was so excited, she could hardly keep from doing a little dance. “Why do you think it was there?”
“I think Emily meant for me to find it. But the day after she went missing, I moved to the dower house without taking anything except one bag. Russell was in high dudgeon. I refused to linger, especially as he…” She hesitated.
“He what, Your Majesty?”
“He was rude,” the old lady said gruffly. “The only reason I didn’t send him to the Tower was because he was such a pathetic creature. I should have.” She raised a finger. “Remind me next time not to be so merciful.”
“Very well, Your Majesty,” said Janice. “So … the notebook was left, forgotten, all those years?”
“Yes.” The old lady shrugged. “It moldered away with all those lovely bonnets.”
“Where is it now, Your Majesty?” Janice held her breath. This was it, the moment she’d been waiting for.
“Destroyed,” the Queen said proudly.
No.
Janice’s chest felt hollow with disappointment.
“I asked my gardener to throw it into the stove in the orchid house.” The old lady chuckled. “It’s got the biggest fire I’ve ever seen. I knew it would become ashes in seconds.”
“So it’s gone then,” practical Mrs. Poole said.
The Queen nodded. “And good riddance.”
Janice’s eyes were stinging and hot. She was upset—much more upset than she’d imagined she’d be. “What happened to Emily March, Your Majesty?”
The Queen stared at her.
“What happened?” Janice asked again. “Did someone here mistreat her? Why did she leave? For that matter, why did you, the very next day?”
“Lady Janice,” warned Mrs. Poole.
The Queen opened her mouth as if to speak. Her eyes grew confused. Fearful. “No,” she whispered. “It’s a state secret. You’re not privy. It’s my responsibility. Mine. I should have called the guards. I should have stood up to him.”
Janice sat next to her and held her hand to her bosom. “The guards were busy elsewhere,” she soothed her. “It wasn’t your fault. And whatever the secret was, it’s over and done.”
“What do you know?” Her Majesty’s scorn was palpable. “It’s never over. The pain goes on.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” Janice held firm to her hand. “If you can’t talk about it now, I understand. But I’m here to listen if you change your mind. It can’t be easy to keep secrets. In my own family, we’ve had several that have come out recently. And we’ve discovered we’re much better off sharing them than not.”
Mrs. Poole’s eyes filled with worry. “Let’s get some sleep, shall we?”
The Queen sighed and shook her head. “He left him,” she croaked. Her fingers curled tighter around Janice’s. “The traitor … left him.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Who, Your Majesty?” Janice asked gently. She’d hoped they’d talk about Emily, but the dowager’s mind flitted about like a butterfly. “Who left whom?”
The elderly woman’s rheumy blue eyes were shiny with tears, but her mouth was bitter and unforgiving. “Russell left Everett in the pond to drown. His own brother.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Janice and Mrs. Poole stared at each other.
The last words that Her Majesty—or was it the Dowager Duchess of Halsey?—had spoken were so chilling, the temperature of the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The old lady began to tremble.
“I’ll get her a cup of tea,” Mrs. Poole said quietly. “I’ll get all of us a cup of tea.”
But by the time she’d rung the bell rope, the matriarch of the House of Halsey had fallen into a doze. Or was it a faint? Janice wasn’t sure. But the old lady’s color was good, which was a great relief.
“I’m sorry.” Janice backed away from the bed and looked at Mrs. Poole. “I’m so sorry I questioned her.”
Mrs. Poole sighed. “Let’s let her sleep.” She paused. “Perhaps it was good for her to confess such a heinous secret.”
As sunny and cheerful as the room was, the atmosphere had changed. It felt as though there were secrets hiding in corners. The disjointed observations of the woman in the bed weren’t as easy to shrug off anymore.
Her pain had been real.
“Do you think it happened?” Janice asked Mrs. Poole. “If so, it must be the worst burden a mother could ever bear.”
And the worst for a child, too. Russell was the current duke’s father. Janice had to wonder if Grayson had heard of any of this.
“I have no idea.” The nurse was somber. “As both men involved have passed away, perhaps it’s best to let this go. Let’s not ask her any more questions about it.”
“All right,” Janice said. “Although—”
“Although what?” Mrs. Poole seemed prepared to be skeptical.
“If she insists on speaking of it again, I won’t refuse to listen. You said it yourself—it might have been good for her to talk about it.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Poole gravely. “But we’re not going to be Scotland Yard.”
“No,” Janice reassured her.
Janice left then, and as she walked down the corridor her whole body felt as if it were whirring with extra tension.
What other secrets did the house hold?
And who knew of them?
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, she and Isobel were behind the kitchen garden walking with Esmeralda. The dog sniffed the air and trotted happily through the melting snow, her teats swinging from her sagging belly.
“She’s enjoying this break from the puppies,” Isobel said.
“Isn’t she, though?” But Janice was distracted. She couldn’t stop thinking of what the dowager had said when she’d been channeling the Queen. “Do you know where the pond is?”
“Over there.” Isobel pointed to a distant copse of trees behind the house. “On the other side
. What’s wrong, my lady? I know you’re dreading having to marry the duke, but is there something else?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I told you of the long-ago drowning. But I just found out that Everett’s brother, Russell, made no attempt to save him.”
“That’s ghastly.” Isobel shivered. “I-I wish I didn’t know that.”
“Me, too,” said Janice. “I don’t think that’s the story that’s told about Everett’s death in Town. I seem to recollect my father suggesting he died of a fever.”
“So many people do die that way.”
“Sadly, you’re right. A drowning is something people would recall, however, especially one in which a brother didn’t attempt to rescue the victim.”
“Why would an entire household stay quiet about that?” Isobel asked. “And how could such a secret be kept all these years? Surely the people of Bramblewood know.”
Janice shrugged. “It’s a painful memory, I’m sure. Perhaps the family asked the staff not to talk about it. And who knows? The family influence might extend to Bramblewood. Mr. Callahan told me that the duke supports the town very nicely.”
“It’s such old news now.” Isobel bent down to pet Esmeralda, who’d come running back to them after sniffing a nearby holly bush. “I can’t imagine it comes up very much.”
“Yes. Nearly thirty years have passed.” Janice sent the maid a warning look. “I have another unsettling thing to tell you.”
“No,” said Izzy, who was always prepared for drama.
“Yes,” said Janice. “The duchess, when she was very much Her Majesty, told me she’d found Emily March’s diary.”
Isobel gasped. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”
“I wish it were.” Janice was gripped with intense regret that their search had come to such an unproductive end. “Years after Emily left, the duchess found it here at Halsey House and took it with her to the dower house. I presume she read it, but she gave it to her gardener to throw into the orchid house stove.”
“Oh, no!” Isobel’s face twisted in disappointment. “Perhaps she can tell you what was in the journal.”
Janice shrugged. “It’s so difficult getting straight answers from Her Majesty—or the more gentle dowager—that I don’t know if we’ll ever know anything about Emily March.”
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