by Ann Chaney
“Gillian, you are in love, remember?” He muttered as the dining room doors opened before them.
She stopped walking and leaned closer and twitched his cravat and smiled at him. At least, that was what the butler saw. Moreham saw the anger in her eyes.
“Dearest James, I would like to spend the evening in the library. I’ll have Perkins retrieve that book of poems from our sitting room and you can read to me.”
To his surprise, the minx brushed his hair back from his brow before going up on her tiptoes and kissing him. Not a kiss of passion. A quick buss on the lips. To his dismay, once she returned flat footed to the floor, he felt bereft.
An ill wind blew down his back at the sight of amusement in Gillian’s eyes as she took hold of his arm and led him out of the dining room. At that moment, he knew he was in trouble. Was his father looking down on him, laughing at how easily this slip of a woman had bound him in knots?
Once the tea tray was served and Perkins had delivered Gillian’s book, they were finally alone. Gillian bounced to her feet, but he tugged her back down beside him on the settee with a finger to her lips.
“Wait, we may have a spy already among us.”
“You don’t think Perkins is your spy?”
“No, but one of the footmen? Do you recognize all the servants we’ve seen today?”
“No, but I am certain my aunt ordered additional staff be retained to accommodate her guests.”
“Exactly, far easier to slip someone into the house. House party needs a full staff to see to the duke’s guests. Now, shall we?”
Moreham picked up the volume Lyrical Ballads, with a Few Other Poems and rolled his eyes. “You like Wordsworth and Coleridge?”
“Of course, I do. Do I seem like a brainless ninny to you?” Gillian shot back.
She fell back against the cushions looking like a pasha. He thumbed his way to Coleridge’s poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Serve her right to have to endure the insufferable poet’s words. If he could have found a volume of Byron’s works, he’d have really made her suffer.
The low ebb and flow of Moreham’s voice washed over Gillian like a babe’s lullaby. With a start she realized he was no longer reading, and she couldn’t say if he had finished reading the poem about the old mariner or had just stopped.
“I haven’t heard any footsteps in the last quarter hour. I think we can get on with our work.” Moreham whispered, “You go to the door. Don’t open it but keep your ear to the keyhole. You should be able to hear footsteps if someone is coming this way.”
He nudged Gillian toward the door. He had stopped reading halfway through the poem. The dreamy look in her eyes mesmerized him. All he wanted to do was lean over and kiss her. He slammed the book shut and was rewarded by Gillian’s abrupt start to the sound. She hesitated for an instant then left him to stand watch at the library doors.
Once she waved in his direction, Moreham went around the large monstrosity of a desk. Ornately carved with lion heads on each corner, the mahogany wood shined from years of polishing. The surface was bare except for one inkwell and a pair of quills in the top right corner. Ready for the duke to appear and work without any fuss.
He sat down in the upholstered chair behind the desk. Moreham pulled each drawer open and found only orderly stacks of foolscap and more quills in one of the top drawers. Another had fresh ledger books with the duke’s crest embossed on the front. Nothing.
He closed the bottom drawer with a resounding thud. To his surprise, Gillian had remained quietly at her post. He stood then moved around the room on the lookout for a safe behind one of the many paintings, only to come up empty.
Completely dejected, at not finding anything either to clear the duke or to condemn him, Moreham heard Gillian squeal a few seconds before she slammed into his body.
“S-someone’s c-coming,” she stuttered in his ear.
For someone so small, the woman packed a wallop. Moreham held her tight. He lowered his head and covered her lips with his own. He almost let go of her when she stiffened in his arms. Before he could do so, she stood on her tiptoes, melted into his embrace, slid her arms up around his neck and held on tight.
At that moment, Moreham would have been hard pressed to remember where they were and what they were supposed to be doing. Saving Britain from French sympathizers? Protecting Gillian from Percy Arnold’s compatriots?
He feasted on Gillian’s lips and rejoiced when her tongue touched his. How would he ever exist without this woman?
A cough broke through the fog around them. He eased back only to bask in the sight of Gillian’s befuddled expression––as she moved closer for another kiss. Another cough. He smiled down at her and pressed a finger to her lips before seeing one of the footmen at the now open library doors.
“I hope you are here to tell us the house is on fire or perhaps word has come the King is approaching the front gate. Any other reason to interrupt will not be acceptable.”
The footman looked over his shoulder. “Um…my lord. Um…the Dowager Countess of Moreham and Lady Philomena Preston.”
He should have known.
Chapter 12
Gillian burst out laughing at the announcement of the arrival of her mother-in-law and Philly. The folly of thinking either lady would leave them to search Whitings by themselves was the outside of enough.
“Darlings, how wonderful to see you both. Only after you left, Philly and I realized our calendars were clear and we decided to join you. We were packed and ready to depart. It was just a simple matter of loading the coach and leaving Town.”
Moreham kept his arm around Gillian and led her over to the middle of the room where his mother and Philly stood. Both ladies grinned at them. She could hear the words “I told you so” resounding through the air. Clearly, the ladies smelled a love match and were thrilled at the prospect.
Gillian embraced each in turn then motioned for them to sit. Moreham leaned over and kissed his mother’s cheek first then Philly’s.
“Mama, I thought we all agreed Gillian and I would come ahead so she could see to the arrangements for the house party?”
“Yes, dear, but now the four of us can make quick work of the details and enjoy a day of leisure before Isadora’s horde descends upon us.”
Philly snorted. “I’ve seen the guest list and horde is an apt description of that lot.”
“Are you saying my uncle’s guests are not proper?”
“No, dear, I am saying any time members of Parliament are one’s guests, one has a horde.” Philly replied. The woman’s eyes were full of meaning.
Gillian looked around the ladies to find Perkins standing in front of the footman.
“May we have a tea tray please? Also, Perkins, I am sure the ladies would enjoy sampling Cook’s desserts.”
“Oh yes, we had supper at an inn about two hours ago but I am most decidedly peckish.” The dowager countess smiled at the butler.
Both servants disappeared and the door closed. No one spoke for several minutes. Philly and the dowager exchanged a speaking look and motioned for Gillian and Moreham to follow them over to the fireplace.
“So sorry for the change in plans, but we have to warn you. Sturmbridge has disappeared. Cross and others are tearing London apart trying to find him. The last Cross knew Sturmbridge was to visit a fencing club listed in Arnold’s ledger.”
Moreham muttered something Gillian couldn’t decipher. She tensed, waiting for someone to explain. It was worrisome to not know where Sturmbridge was at present. Surely, this group was used to one of their agents disappearing from time to time. He was a viscount after all with a large family if she remembered correctly.
“He may have been called from Town on a family matter.” Gillian voiced her thoughts. The others did not seem to give her words any credence.
Moreham smiled at her but shook his head. “No, we have very specific procedures for not being where we are supposed to be. Sturm would have contacted Cross or Philly if word had co
me requiring his presence at one of his estates.”
Philly nodded. “Also, we always think the worst in our business. We stay alive that way.”
“So, what is the worst?” she asked afraid of the answer.
Moreham took her hand. “The worst is Percy Arnold’s compatriots know of Sturm’s affiliation with Whitehall and by deduction knows all our identities. This means we must complete our search of the house and grounds as quickly as possible.”
Philly nodded. “Yes, our timeline has changed. To be desperate enough to take an agent, the traitors are ratcheting up the stakes. May I suggest after a cup of tea we all retire. Gillian, best to give Sylvia and me rooms on whatever floors most of your guests will be staying.”
Philly waved her hand to cut off Gillian’s reply. “Your aunt spent a bit of time discussing who her guests were and where they were to stay. If upon her arrival, we are settled in two of her special bedchambers as she calls them, there will be nothing she can do. Isadora always worries about what others are thinking of her. She’ll not say a word about the change.
“None of the guests will question it, if Sylvia and I have more sumptuous bedchambers. You are newly wedded and wish to please your new mama-in-law. Once the staff retires, we will check the suites on that floor. You and Moreham will search the duke’s rooms. I am assuming our arrival interrupted your search. Did you find anything here?”
Moreham shook his head. “No, you have the right of it. The desk is full of stationery and extra inkwells and quills. No hidden drawers. I checked behind the paintings and found no safe.”
Gillian spoke up. “That’s because the safe is in the duke’s sitting room. My aunt’s jewels are stored in that safe.”
A tap on the door signaled the arrival of the refreshments and the end to their discussion. The ladies fell on the dessert tray while Gillian poured tea for all around. Philly finished her sweets, yawned and delicately covered her mouth with her serviette. “Mercy, my apologies. I must be more tired than I realized. After such a lovely repast, I for one am ready for my bed,” Philly opined.
“Oh yes, Philly, I too am ready for bed,” Moreham’s mother chimed in.
Gillian smothered a giggle. The duchess was not as consummate an actress as Philly and her delivery was not as believable as her friend’s.
Gillian rose with Moreham shadowing the two ladies. “Come with me and I will show you to your rooms on the second floor. The entire floor has been prepared for my uncle’s most distinguished guests from Parliament. I thought it best to put you there so you will be close to the others during the house party.”
“I am sure, we will enjoy ourselves. The duchess is a special friend of ours.” Philly responded. The only sound in the room was Perkins caught in a coughing fit. Gillian gasped at the butler when she passed him at the library doors. The old man winked at her. She had been gone from this house far too long. Winking indeed. Moreham growled behind her. The perfect reaction of a bridegroom seeing a retainer act too familiar with his new wife.
Gillian, with Moreham on her heels, led the ladies up the stairs. A quick look into the first room revealed a maid unpacking.
“Lady Philly, here is your room and Lady Sylvia…um…Mama your rooms are across the hall. Each room has a dressing room with a cot for your maids. The tweenie will enter your rooms to set your fires at five o’clock. Please have your maids ring for your morning tea or chocolate and toast.”
“Moreham and I will break our fast in the dining room at the back of the house if you wish to join us or you may ask for your breakfast to be served in your rooms. We plan to ride in the morning, so we will eat breakfast early and be gone until mid-morning. If there is anything, we can do to make your stay more comfortable, please say the word.”
Moreham watched over her as each lady bade them good night. He fought the urge to preen. He’d done well in marrying the lady.
With his mama and Philly tucked in for the night, Moreham and Gillian retired to their sitting room. Gillian paced around the room looking at first one trinket then another.
“Now we wait. Wouldn’t happen to have a deck of cards or a chess board among your things, would you?” Gillian mumbled as she rummaged through the drawers of his secretary on the far side of the room.
“Why would we need to amuse ourselves with games?” he asked without thinking.
Gillian ceased her search and gave him her full attention. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a glare that spoke of mutiny in the ranks was coming his way.
Moreham shook his head at his bride. “There is no need for you to accompany me to the duke’s rooms. Take yourself off to bed.”
The headstrong woman’s brow furrowed more deeply which was not a good omen. Gillian ceased her search and gave him her full attention.
“I think not. We are in this together, remember? Besides, you have no notion where uncle’s safe is located in his rooms. Nor do you know where the key is hidden.”
Moreham disliked the smug expression on his wife’s face. He really abhorred the fact she was correct. Having her along would speed up the reconnaissance of the suite of rooms at the end of the hall. One never knew when a servant would make an appearance to take care of a task left undone. Having Gillian along would provide him with a plausible though weak excuse for wandering through the private rooms of the duke, his host.
He threw up his hands in surrender. “Very well, we will wait until the household settles for the night. The later we venture out the better. However, you will follow my instructions to the letter. No dramatics. We will do as we did with the library. I search and you keep watch. Agreed?”
Gillian favored him with a huge smile and raised her hand to reveal a deck of cards.
“Yes, now what shall we play?”
Two hours later, Moreham crept down the hallway with Gillian at his back. They’d played every card game she wanted while they waited. Every time he thought they were the only ones awake footsteps would resound through the night’s quiet. He had finally given up and declared the games over.
They made their way down the corridor to the ducal apartments. He eased the double doors open and stepped into the duke’s sitting room. Gillian followed him and without the slightest squeak of hinges closed the door. The sitting room was filled with settees and chairs arranged in two small seating areas centered on the fireplace. The drapes were drawn which robbed them of any moonlight. They would need candles for their search.
Moreham pulled Gillian closer to his side. “The safe?”
Gillian nodded, took his hand and led him to the far side of the fireplace where a rather old looking silver urn occupied a decorative alcove. He almost groaned when she reached for the large urn and picked it up. Gillian sat the urn on the floor. She ran her hand over the back wall of the small space. A single click echoed, and the wall disappeared downward.
Moreham lit his candle and leaned closer to get a better look at the safe. A padlock? He would have to find the key.
Gillian cleared her throat. He turned to find her holding out a single key.
“Gillian, you are a treasure, to be sure.” He kissed her and plucked the key from her grasp. So relieved to have the key, he pulled her closer instead of sending off to assume her watchdog station.
Moreham handed her his candle and inserted the key. Another quiet snick in the night and the door to the small safe sprung open. Fully aware of their discovery in the duke’s bookroom in Town, he gave extra attention to the papers in the front of the safe.
Sheets of foolscap laid on top of what he assumed was the duchess’ jewels. Why the jewels were not in London with Whitney and his duchess was enough of a conundrum to merit a look inside the box. A closer perusal of the sheets of foolscap was unexciting, deeds and writs mostly. Moreham had thought to find some letter or note with a reference to Arnold or Jones, but nothing.
He handed Gillian the jewelry box. “Look through that. See if there are any pieces missing or notes hidden in amongst the pieces, ma
ybe a false bottom. I’m going to look in the bedchamber.”
He left Gillian sitting on a settee sorting through the gold and silver pieces. Whitney’s bedchamber was darker than the sitting room. He lit another taper. He made quick work of opening drawers. He found nothing. Moreham spied an armoire. He’d eased open a drawer or two when he heard another door nearby creak open and then close.
“Barney, stop your complaining. The earl and his bride are sleeping like babes. Bet the old boy is enjoying a blissful slumber, as the gents would say. Would like to have a go at his missus myself.”
“Those words will get you hung. His lordship don’t look like a man who’d…”
Moreham didn’t wait around to hear what the man had to say. He ever so slowly closed the drawer and stepped backward into what he hoped was the open door to the sitting room.
Moreham pulled the door closed. “Gillian, we have company. In the dressing room.”
Gillian jumped up and shoved the jewelry box back into the safe. She clicked the padlock shut and touched the catch to return the fake wall to its rightful place. Moreham stood, the urn in hand at the ready to sit the faux silver vessel back in its place. To his surprise, Gillian took the key and slipped it under the urn before pulling on his hand toward the doorway they’d entered through earlier.
Neither spoke a word as they opened the door. Moreham peeked out into the corridor. With no one in sight, they tiptoed down the hall. Moreham held his breath as they passed the bedchamber doors. He heard the two men mumbling. He grabbed Gillian’s arm, fled down the hall to their sitting room, all but threw her across the threshold before following her into the room.
“Well, that was most exciting. I don’t think my heart ever pounded as fast it did when you came into the room.” She pointed to the clock on the mantel. “We have only been gone a half-hour. Seems much longer.”
