“Yes, she. An old woman wearing clothes that were a good half-century out of date.” Vashti frowned, a painful act. “Now that I think on it, she said that she would have to tell the others of my presence in this room. But it was Minette who directed Stirling to this chamber, was it not? I must have imagined the incident. Before we came to this wretched house, I never imagined anything. It is all very strange!”
Charlot had scant interest in ghosts who acted in so unadventurous a manner, and even less in old women, for which latter failing his Aunt Adder must be blamed. He bounded up from the couch and continued his explorations. Over his shoulder, he grinned at his sister. “I’ll say this for you, Vashti! You know how to set a household on its ear. Minette was on pins and needles when you turned up missing, and Orphanstrange looked like he was about to go off in an apoplexy.”
To this compliment, Vashti returned a weak smile. She wondered how the old woman had passed away, if indeed the old woman was a ghost. If, for that matter, there had been an old woman—but there must have been, because Vashti’s imagination was not so well developed as all that, her opportunities to develop her sensibilities having been scant. Was it possible someone dwelt without her knowledge in Mountjoy House? That notion was even more absurd that the suspicion she’d spoken with a ghost. Very well, then, what had caused the ghost’s demise?
Unrequited love, no doubt. Vashti poked unenthusiastically at the cushions of the couch. Either the old woman had languished, or been murdered, or aggravated to death. In any case a gentleman was doubtless involved. Vashti paraded culprits before her mind’s eye, all clad in the garb of centuries past and all wearing Lord Stirling’s face.
With considerably more efficiency, Charlot continued his search. No detail was too minute to warrant his attention, not the plump chairs or the settee covered with Aubusson tapestry, the small portable desk, with its nest of empty drawers, not even the silver chamber pot. Nor did he neglect the room’s small window, which opened onto a chimney and thus could not be glimpsed from outside. His investigations turned up only additional cobwebs, and dust. “This ghost of yours isn’t the tidiest of housekeepers!” he muttered, brushing a cobweb out of his eyes.
He didn’t believe her about the ghost, either. Vashti supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.
Charlot abandoned his search and flopped down beside Vashti on the couch. “There’s nothing here,” he said. “Like there’s been nothing anywhere else. Sometimes I think Cousin Marmaduke didn’t have a treasure, sis.”
“Papa always said he did.” Vashti contemplated Bacchus, who had descended from Charlot’s dusty curls to perch upon her knee. “Although Papa hadn’t seen Marmaduke for a very long time, and there’s no telling what happened in the interim.” If the treasure was nonexistent, people were certainly taking a great deal of interest in it. Even Lionel had begun quizzing her about Marmaduke’s treasure, of late. “Or perhaps it is the missing memorandum that is the cause of our sudden popularity. Stirling, for one, will go to any lengths to secure that wretched paper for his godpapa.”
Charlot retrieved Bacchus from Vashti’s knee and tucked the rat tenderly away. It was time to change the subject, lest his sister fall into the dismals, as she was prone to do upon the mention of his lordship’s name. Charlot shared the opinion of the sawbones that Vashti should have remained several days in bed, charitably attributing her newfound gloomy silences to her enfeebled state of health.
From one of those silences, he now roused her, by prodding her with his foot. “Stop air-dreaming, Vashti! We’re wasting valuable time. What with Stirling and Lionel both haunting the house, there’s precious little chance to search.”
With a distinct lack of enthusiasm, Vashti rose. Devoted as she was to Charlot, she could wish for a more mature ally. Their father would have known how to deal with this abominable situation. As Vashti remembered him, the Comte de Fontaine would have known how to deal with anything.
But the comte languished in a French prison, at best; and at the worst, had already ascertained the truth of Marmaduke’s treasure first-hand. In the latter case, he afforded his daughter scant spiritual guidance from beyond the grave. Marmaduke’s solicitor, were he made privy to Vashti’s problems, would likely conclude she was spying for the French, while Stirling—
If only she could trust Stirling! Unconsciously, Vashti smoothed her soiled gown, patted the scarf that covered her hair. But Stirling had been a friend to Valérie—or rather more!—and was therefore not to be trusted an inch.
Though she didn’t trust his lordship, Vashti was indignant that he shared the sentiment. “Stirling thinks I am an impostor,” she said as she followed her brother out into the secret passageway. “He told me so himself. I’m not at all like the Vashti Beaufils he knew—and if ever I see Valérie again, I vow I shall wring her neck!”
Charlot had grown very weary of the subject of Lord Stirling, to which his sister continually returned. Vashti was in a fair way to being very foolish over his lordship, he thought. Perhaps it was due to the blow to her head. Charlot didn’t remember his sister ever before evincing any interest in this silly cuddling stuff.
If moping about was what happened when a person took another person’s fancy, Charlot wanted no part of it himself. “Look sharp about you, Vashti, else you take another tumble!” he scolded.
Recalled to her surroundings, Vashti surveyed them gloomily. There was little enough she could see, Charlot’s candle casting only a feeble light. They were in a narrow winding passage set in the thickness of the wall. “Where are we going?” she inquired.
“To the attics. I found a hidden staircase.” Charlot led the way. With a great deal less enthusiasm, Vashti trudged after him. Though Charlot might not credit her intruder, Vashti knew otherwise. Now she accompanied her brother to insure he suffered no similar mishap. Yet what could she do, did they surprise some other searcher? It would do little good to scream, and Vashti doubted she was capable of anything else.
At least, within this narrow, dark and dirty passage, there was no good hiding place. “Stirling,” she said abruptly, “has renewed his offer for Mountjoy House. The price he offers us would enable us to live comfortably for some time, even in France. In light of recent developments, I think we should consider selling the place, Charlot.” Let Stirling fend off would-be invaders and worry about his wretched memorandum! Whatever his sins, which Vashti suspected were innumerable, he was unlikely to be spying for the French. How would he next try and persuade her to assist his efforts? Thus far Stirling had utilized bribery and kisses and threats.
Charlot glanced over his shoulder. “You’re convinced he wasn’t your intruder, sis?”
Perhaps Charlot did not altogether disbelieve her? The thought left Vashti somewhat cheered. “I don’t rule out any possibility, but Stirling claims he wasn’t in Mountjoy House that night.”
“He wouldn’t be likely to admit it, sis, even if he was—that is, if nobody knew.” Charlot paused, raised his candle, stared attentively at one wall. “What a queer old house this is! I wonder why Lord Stirling wants it.”
“I suspect that what Stirling wants is not Mountjoy House, but the memorandum which he insists is hidden here. Were Mountjoy House in his possession, he could search at leisure. What did you mean when you said he wouldn’t be likely to admit being here, Charlot? How could Stirling deny it, had he been?”
Upon this further demonstration of his sister’s addled thinking, Charlot cast her a sympathetic glance. “He could deny it very easily, if no one knew he was here. What with all these secret passages, there might well be a means of entry we don’t know about; there probably is, in fact. What’s to prevent his lordship’s knocking you over the head with his stick, then dragging you into the secret room, then leaving the way he came, with no one the wiser? All he had to do the next day was pretend to be surprised.”
Though she might doubt his lordship, Vashti disliked criticism of him from any other source. “Stirling does not carry a walking stic
k,” she pointed out.
Exasperated, Charlot turned on his sister. “Goose! We don’t know that it was a walking stick he hit you with. You’re going on in a very bad way, sis. You’ve been wishing his lordship to the devil ever since you met him, but let me say a word against him and you take up the cudgels in his defense.”
So she had, and Vashti could not explain. She consoled herself that she was not the first inexperienced young woman, unversed in the ways of highhanded gentlemen, to make a cake of herself. This reflection did not lessen her growing resentment. And furthermore, Vashti realized, she knew precious little about his lordship, not even if he had a wife.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Had the explorations of Charlot and Vashti led them in a different direction, they might have discovered another peephole, which afforded an excellent view of the main gaming saloon. As usual at this late hour, the large room was crowded with fashionable gentlemen in evening dress. In one corner, a faro bank was in full swing. Among the players present there was Lord Stirling, who had already established himself as a gambler with a great deal of cool caution and a definite flair. Orphanstrange strolled casually through the throng, keeping watch on the dealers and croupiers and waiters as well as the guests. It was not unheard-of for a reckless plunger to come belatedly to his senses and realize he had staked his entire fortune on a throw of the dice. Orphanstrange’s ambition was not to prevent these unfortunates from suffering the consequences of their folly but to insure no fits of remorse were enacted on the premises. Scandal enough had already attached itself to Mountjoy House.
In this endeavor Orphanstrange was assisted by Lionel, stationed near the door—although the solicitor’s attention had a tendency to stray to another corner, where Minette set in motion an E.O. stand. Vociferous gentlemen surrounded her, their attention less on the gyrations of the little ball than on Minette herself, who was wearing an extraordinarily revealing gown. Recklessly, they punted on the spin of the table, frequently losing on one side what they had won on the other. Minette laughed gaily and flirted outrageously, to such good effect her admirers accepted philosophically that it was the way of E.O. banks to win. Not all the guests admired Minette’s sparkling frivolity, however. She earned countless reproachful glances from gentlemen at a nearby table, who took the game of whist very seriously and played for very high stakes and strongly deprecated distraction during the course of a hand.
Nor was she regarded with admiration by Edouard, who lounged indolently nearby. Not for Edouard was the lure of the tables; he would not risk a few pounds he could ill afford to lose, and had only contempt for those foolish young bloods that gambled vastly beyond their means. His feelings for Minette were little more charitable. He had been waiting to speak privately with her for some time.
Patience was not Edouard’s long suit. He reached out, touched her arm. “Enough!” he murmured. “I wish a word with you, ma petite.”
If there was anything Minette did not wish, it was further speech with her kinsman. All the same, he must be humored. Laughing at the dismay of the players, who much preferred to watch a female elbow shaker, she signaled Orphanstrange to take her place. Then she exchanged a few words of condolence with a young gentleman who had gone down to the tune of sixty guineas during the short time he’d spent at play.
At last she turned to her kinsman, with a far from friendly glance. “Eh bien! You do not carry your walking stick tonight.”
She dared accuse him? Edouard decided to be amused. “So I do not. How attentive you are to the details of my toilette. Am I to consider myself flattered, Minette?”
“La vache! Do not try and change the subject.” Minette exhibited a great deal less charm to her kinsman than she’d shown the guests. “If you seek to enact the man-milliner, it is nothing to me, Edouard— Although you will never make a Brummell, try as you might. You have not the disposition. Brummell would never go about knocking ladies over the head with his walking stick.”
Edouard took an involuntary, menacing step forward, then recalled where they were. Softly, he murmured: “Tread cautiously, Minette.”
But Minette was tired of being cautious. Too, they stood in a crowded room. Edouard would not dare offer assault before so many witnesses. “It is you who should be careful, Edouard,” she retorted, her tone equally low. “Mademoiselle Beaufils is not without allies, Stirling among them. Whatever his reason, Stirling sticks as close to Vashti as pickpockets at a fair.”
“Vraiment?” Edouard spared a glance for his lordship, embarked again upon an effort to break the faro bank, working on the theory that there was more than one way to close down a gambling house. Then he glanced at Lionel, lounging near the doorway. “Mountjoy’s solicitor is also sticking as close as a court-plaster. I ask myself, chérie, why is that?”
Minette shrugged, thus drawing her kinsman’s attention to her extreme décolletage. “He has no doubt been apprised of the attempt on Mademoiselle’s life. But I am forgetting your ignorance on that topic. She surprised an intruder who assaulted her with his walking stick.”
And how had Mademoiselle Beaufils known a walking stick was employed? Edouard elevated his brows. “Fascinating!” he murmured. “Perhaps the incident has taught Mademoiselle the folly of wandering about unescorted in the middle of the night.”
“So it was you!” Minette’s eyes narrowed. “You gave yourself away, Edouard. I did not say at what time of day the incident occurred.”
“You wound me, ma cocotte.” Edouard paused to remove a speck of lint from his immaculate sleeve. “You are very quick you are to believe the worst of your own kinsman. It is very bad of you. À vrai dire, I already knew of Mademoiselle Beaufils’ accident. The affair is no great secret. But the version I heard is that the chit stumbled into a secret passage and locked herself in a hidden room.”
Minette eyed her kinsman’s impassive face, her outburst of temper quickly succeeded by dismay. “That is the explanation being put about,” she admitted, “but—”
“But you are quite in a fright lest there is some more sinister accounting, and you think of all possible candidates for villain, the most likely is myself.” Casually, Edouard took her arm. “You know how greatly I desire possession of a certain item, and think that to secure it I would go to any lengths. Ma chère, you are perfectly correct.”
Minette’s green eyes widened; she had not expected an admission of guilt. “Then you did—”
“I did what, petite?” Edouard smiled. “Assault Mademoiselle Beaufils? What foolishness. Your imagination has grown a trifle overheated, I fear. Next, you will insist that I wish you harm. Which would be singularly ridiculous, would it not?”
“Would it?” Minette contemplated the hand which painfully gripped her arm.
“Ma foi.” Still Edouard smiled. “Have you forgotten, Minette, that my affections have become fixed?”
How could she forget it? The mere thought made Minette wish to cast up her accounts. Covertly, she eyed the doorway. Lionel was studiously looking away. If Edouard knew she had confided in the solicitor— It did not bear thinking on. As did not the possibility that Lionel might discover some of Mountjoy House’s more portable furnishings were unaccounted-for. Between the two of them, Minette was feeling as nervous as a cat on hot bricks.
“You are very quiet,” murmured Edouard. “Perhaps you doubt my sincerity. You think I am using you to gain access to Mountjoy House. Is it Mountjoy who taught you to be so cruel, Minette?”
“Cruel, am I? Yet I am not the one of us who is twisting the other’s arm!” Abruptly, he released her. Minette rubbed her abused limb. “You have not mentioned the most interesting on-dit of all, Edouard. Perhaps you have not heard it. The rumor is that Mountjoy House is haunted.”
“A ghost?” Edouard recalled the queer old woman who’d given him a sharp shove. He had not thought ghosts so corporeal, before. Not that he had a basis for that opinion, having never before encountered one. “I fear that you are trying to bamboozle me, ma cocotte.”<
br />
Minette feigned indifference. “I am only telling you what is being said. Mademoiselle Beaufils claims to have carried on a conversation with a ghost—an old woman, I collect—and won’t be persuaded otherwise. Me, I have never been so honored, so I would not know. But anyone will tell you there is no old woman living in the house.”
So Edouard had already been told, having taken the opportunity to ask discreet questions of the ex-pugilist who dissuaded unhappy gamblers from violence, as well as Orphanstrange. All the same, he thought there must be some explanation of the creature who had assaulted him, other than that her fondness for Mountjoy House had led her back to it from beyond the grave.
He also thought Minette knew what that explanation was. “I fear that you are a trifle lacking in principle, chèrie. For what purpose, I ask myself, do you seek to persuade me of the existence of this ghost? Can it be you wish to frighten me away from Mountjoy House? That would be very foolish, Minette. I do not frighten so easily.”
Clearly, he did not, to Minette’s infinite regret. She must somehow allay his suspicions. And why was it everyone regarded her with mistrust? Minette was merely a young woman forced to seek her own way in the world. Yet Delphine vowed she was up to mischief, and was on the way to persuading Orphanstrange to think the same. Minette’s own kinsman didn’t trust her, and even Lionel misdoubted her, for all he was épris.
Again, Minette glanced at that young man. He caught her gaze and blushed. Lest Edouard note this exchange, Minette looked quickly away.
Vashti, too, dealt warily with her, mused Minette, continuing her silent catalogue. Minette rather liked Mademoiselle Beaufils, who—in light of Marmaduke’s tales—was a puzzle in herself. Minette next studied Lord Stirling, currently engaged in a desultory conversation with the young woman who presided over the faro bank. Vashti was more than a little taken with Stirling, in Minette’s opinion; but as to his lordship’s sentiments, she hadn’t a clue. Delphine’s report that Stirling had been kissing Vashti didn’t necessarily signify anything, even if true. His lordship had obviously kissed many a young lady in his time. And he divided his efforts evenly between pursuing Vashti, and asking interminable questions of anyone he could comer and trying to break the faro bank.
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