In Death - 24.50 - Dead of Night

by J. D. Robb

  “After that kiss, Simon, anything is possible.” She was near the Guardi painting, but her eyes were on him. “Amy and the earl are going to have an amazing adventure.”

  Is a kiss all it would take to make her smile again? Now that was a welcome prescription.

  “How do we find the coin, Simon?”

  She wasn’t smiling now.

  “I think we have to let the coin find us. It could be anywhere. It could have been left behind.”

  “All right. Hard as it is not to tear apart my room and the coach and your bedroom, I can see your point.”

  She bit her lip and he knew she was holding back. With a long breath, she let it go. Turning away from him, she gave her full attention to the painting.

  Would they be able to travel back if they did not do what they had been sent to do?

  “So this is the Guardi. The real thing.” She leaned very close to it, examining it as though she could read something in each brushstroke.

  “It is,” he said, taking her lead. “Painted around 1780 and brought from Italy two years later. One of his classic scenes of the Grand Canal in Venice.”

  “You will note that it is still here. Not given away, stolen or otherwise lost. Not yet anyway.”

  “That in itself is intriguing, isn’t it? It means that someone noticed it was gone almost as soon as it disappeared.”

  “Of course they would.”

  “No, Amy. Think about it. It’s one of a dozen paintings in this room. That big one over the fireplace is the focal point. It could be missing for days, even weeks before someone noticed it was gone. You know how that is.”

  “Okay. That’s happened to me a few times. I guess it’s possible. So what do we do now, my lord earl?”

  “Watch and wait, I guess.”

  “And you’re sure the last time anyone saw it was in this room?”

  “That’s what Stepp’s records indicate.”

  “You started to talk about that in your study. So the house steward kept a written record?”

  “Right.”

  “And you still have it?” At his nod she went on, “Wow. That is so cool. Can I see it when we get back?”

  “Sweetheart,” he said with a teasing edge in his tone, “when we’re back in our time you can sleep with it if you want.”

  She grinned at the thought, or was it because she was thinking of sleeping with him rather than the household record? He smiled back. One could only hope.

  “So,” she said, moving away from him. “Stepp would make notations in the book?”

  “Yes, it covered all manner of household incidents. If a glass was broken, or if dry rot was found. The item listed before the painting is about the dismissal of a servant after an ‘accident.’ There is a notation that the painting is missing on April 10, 1805, and the next item is a discussion of spring plantings in the kitchen garden and some changes to be made.”

  “You have a darn good memory.”

  “I’ve looked at that page a hundred times.”

  “The fact that there is no additional information would argue for the earl intervening. In this little kingdom, the earl is head of state and no one questions him.”

  “Right.”

  “So that means the painting will disappear within the next few days. How do we solve a mystery that hasn’t happened yet?”

  “Spend a lot of time in this room while we figure out who we should give the coin to?”

  “Simon,” she said as though his suggestion was one a five-year-old would make, “you’re joking, aren’t you?”

  “What do you think we should do? Start a full-scale investigation before it even goes missing?”

  “No, it’s only that if we’re hanging around here no one will come to take it away.”

  “Right.” Simon covered his face with his hands. “I feel a headache starting.”

  “You don’t mean to prevent the disappearance, do you?”

  There was a small commotion outside, and Simon walked to the window.

  “I mean, you want to know what happened to it?”

  “Right. Right,” he said as a man rode into the yard leading a horse. Simon closed his eyes as he thought about Amy’s question. “So, we go about our daily routine, whatever that is, and check on the painting every few hours.”

  “I’m not sure that will make it any easier to figure out who took it.”

  “Of course it will.” He turned his back on the horse and rider to watch her look at the painting. He loved the little tendrils of hair that escaped her attempt to control it. They tickled her neck at the exact spot he next wanted to kiss.

  He was quiet too long and she looked over her shoulder. There was that smile again. He could read her mind as surely as she could read his. He stayed right where he was. For now.

  “It will be easier to find out who took it,” he said. “For one thing, the household will be talking about it when it does disappear. There will be rumors even if Stepp says the earl took it. And you, as Lady Anne’s companion, will be in the perfect spot to hear it all, above, and below stairs.”

  “So our plan is to be on the lookout for the coin and to watch out for any gossip about the missing painting?”

  “Right.” There was a knock at the door before Simon could say anything else.

  It was Fancett. He did not so much as look at Amy. “My lord, Stepp asked me to tell you that your new horse has arrived. It’s being settled in the stable and everyone is awaiting your arrival.”

  The valet stepped out and as he turned he did glance at Amy. His expression was so impassive that Simon was sure he knew exactly what the man was thinking. There might be ten feet between the earl and Miss Stevens, but hormones were singing in the air. Ah well, the man was his valet and was surely used to less than discreet aristocratic behavior. Hopefully, he was snob enough not to share the gossip below stairs.

  “Does part of his job description include being a condescending jerk?” Amy walked over to the looking glass near the door. He saw her wince at her reflection and begin fiddling with the pins that held her hair. He could not look away. When their eyes met in the mirror, he saw her smile.

  “You are a minx, you know that.”

  She faced him and blew him a kiss. “I suppose we shall see each other at dinner, will we not?” Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door, paused, and then closed it again.

  “One more thing, my lord. Who is Lord Allbryce Stevens?”

  “Stevens? A bloke I met at University. His family lives in the Orkneys and I’m pretty sure the title dates back beyond time.”

  “That is so weird, Simon. I told Lady Anne and her maid that I’m from the Orkneys and I don’t even know where they are.”

  “Off the north coast of Scotland. So not likely Lord Bryce will turn up here.”

  “It’s weird, Simon,” Amy insisted.

  “Weird does not make it magic.”

  “You know,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “I would think that after time traveling to 1805 the idea of magic in the cosmos would be a little more believable.”

  He put his arm through hers and tugged her through the door. They left the room laughing, the sound echoing up the stairway.

  Seven

  Even with the door to the small music room closed, Amy could hear the pianoforte. Passion was the word that came to mind and she found it hard to believe that the aristocratic snob she had met upstairs was capable of such feeling.

  Indeed she was. Lost in the music, she did not seem aware that Amy had entered the music room. A moment later, Amy heard someone else enter the room and turned to see Simon, who came to stand beside her.

  When Lady Anne finished the piece, she raised her head to the ceiling with her eyes closed. The power of the music swam in the air around them and she seemed to draw in what energy she had lost with one deep breath.

  She stood up, twirled around, and curtseyed to their applause.

  “That was wonderful, Anne.”

  “
Thank you, Weston,” she said with a sincere smile.

  One of the footmen came in to tell the earl, again, that his newest horse had arrived and the groom was awaiting him at the stable.

  “Tell him he will have to wait a little longer.” As he spoke, Simon gave his attention to Lady Anne, missing the look of complete surprise on the footman’s usually impassive face.

  “Did you not hear him, brother?” Anne asked. “Your new horse is here.”

  “Yes, yes,” Simon answered irritably. “The horse will still be there in twenty minutes. For now I should like to hear you play something else.”

  “Weston, are you feeling quite well? The last time I played you were restless after five minutes.”

  “That was before Miss Stevens told me how important music is to you. You have only to play that piece and all London will be at your feet.”

  “Oh nonsense. How do you know? You are deaf as a post when it comes to anything musical.”

  He was? There were so many pitfalls when you were trying to be someone else.

  “You have been at the brandy already, haven’t you?”

  Talk about a woman who could not accept a compliment. Amy decided that Simon needed rescuing and abandoned her attempt to try to blend in to the wall, as any good paid companion should.

  “I am sure Lady Anne appreciates your praise.” Amy turned to her patron and knew at once that she had made a mistake.

  “I do not need lessons in conduct from you, Miss Stevens,” she said stiffly. “You are not my governess.”

  “That was rude, too, Anne,” her brother added.

  “Indeed,” she said, the lady of consequence triumphing over the artist. She curtseyed to her brother, as formally as if they had just met. “Thank you for the extravagant compliment, Weston. I shall treasure it always.” She sat down again at the pianoforte. “Now if you will leave me, I am going to continue my practice.”

  With a bow and a curtsey, they left the room.

  “I’d best go to the stable to see the blasted new horse the earl has spent too much money on.”

  Amy turned to face him. “Footmen have ears,” she whispered. “Play your role.” And then added in a louder voice, “May I walk part of the way with you? Lady Anne asked me to see if the roses were ready to be cut.”

  As they made their way to the front door, the sound of the pianoforte reached them again. This time it was Beethoven. Angry, almost vicious music left no doubt of Lady Anne’s mood. Well, Amy thought, at least the footman would be entertained.

  “No doubt about it, that was my first big mistake,” Amy said. “I am not her governess.”

  “Not to worry. You don’t have to face a job eval. That kind of reaction to criticism is a family trait. You’re all but asking for a bloody nose if you tell my brother Will that he’s driving badly or drinking too much. I, of course, am exempt from all the West failings.”

  “Of course, my lord.” She was sure he was joking. Pretty sure. “I wonder how her governess handled it. A shame she’s gone.”

  “You will find a way back into her good graces. Now toss those worries away and run off to the garden to check the roses, which, by the way, are nowhere near blooming. I think you must have misspoken and meant tulips.”

  “Indeed I did.” She watched as he walked off and then turned abruptly for the garden. Please, let no one see me looking at him as though he were a god.

  “Fine figure of a man, is he not?”

  An old, old woman was tottering down the pathway, coming from the garden. A maid followed her, a basket filled with the tulips that Amy was supposedly on her way to inspect.

  “I beg your pardon.” Amy curtseyed, sure that no matter her station, a woman this old deserved the courtesy.

  “My nephew,” she said, nodding toward the now distant figure. “The earl is my nephew. His father was the second earl’s brother. The second Earl of Weston was my husband.”

  The genealogy was hardly confusing; still, it took Amy a second to reason out who this woman was: the Dowager Countess of Weston. How many more of the earl’s relatives called Westmoreland home?

  Amy curtseyed again. “How do you do, my lady.”

  “We had no children and so William inherited.”

  How disappointing for them. What did one say to a woman who had failed at her only responsibility? Providing an heir. No matter how the modern world saw it, the Regency placed the blame squarely on the woman. “I am Amy Stevens, Lady Anne’s companion for the Season.”

  The countess’s pleasant smile became a grimace and Amy’s own smile stiffened. Yet another supercilious aristocrat. She was beginning to have some sympathy for the French, if not their awful method of ridding themselves of the aristos.

  “Amy Stevens? What happened to Miss Kemp? I specifically asked Mrs. Braintree to send her.”

  “She will come as soon as she can. Miss Kemp was detained.” More likely being held hostage in the twenty-first century. Please, Lady Weston, please leave it at that, Amy prayed.

  “Are you related to the Stevens family? The ones who live in those horrible islands north of Scotland?”

  “The Orkneys? Yes, my lady, I am.”

  “This must seem like Paradise to you then. Does the sun ever shine there?”

  “It is lovely here, and I have not been in the Orkneys since I was a child. When my parents died I went to live with my godmother in Yorkshire. It was through her that I came to Mrs. Braintree’s attention.” Maybe she should try her hand at a novel when this was over. Her imagination was in high gear. She was certainly better off than the earl and Miss Kemp.

  “I should like to hear about that.” The dowager countess shook her cane at the maid next to her. “Angston, take those flowers to the cutting room. They will wilt if they are not in water soon. You may begin to arrange them. Miss Stevens will give me her arm and I will come to see how you are doing. Then we must dress for dinner.”

  It was hardly the third degree, but by the time Amy went up to dress for dinner she was exhausted. She lay down on the cot, only for a moment, thinking over the questions fired at her and the answers she returned. The first few were easy: How old was she? Twenty-four. How had she met Mrs. Braintree? Through the headmistress at the Yorkshire Academy for Young Ladies. Surely there was one. The other questions were more difficult. Who seemed likely to make a match this Season? Were there any ducal heirs or perhaps a marquis? Yes, always. And the best way to meet them was through the mothers and grandmothers who were the dowager countess’s friends.

  Quickly, before the dowager could get another question in, Amy had shot one back. “Who did you think we should call on?” It was the perfect question. Soon Amy had a list that would be useful.

  Her biggest misstep came when Amy dared suggest that someone with a taste for music might be most suitable.

  “Making the right match is not about who likes to hear music in the evening, it is about increasing position and power. You know that as well as anyone, Miss Stevens.”

  Amy fell asleep wondering how she was supposed to know that. Because she had no position or power except what was given her by her employer? How could servants stand that kind of dictatorship?

  She dreamed of a world where love and lust were fueled by power, where a man could claim you with only money as a measure of his worth as a husband. Loyalty, honesty, generosity meant nothing. Where sex between married strangers was little more than mating to ensure the same game would be played by the next generation. It was a nightmare.

  “Miss, miss, you must wake up.”

  Amy surfaced from the heavy, too-short nap.

  “It’s Martha, miss. I have your dress and am sorry I have taken so long. I promise you will not be late.”

  The maid hurried her through her toilette and then led her down to the dining room.

  Simon was waiting, as were the rest of the dinner guests. He did not look at her as she came in. A well-dressed man had his complete attention. Amy guessed that the woman beside him must be his
wife.

  Stepp announced dinner the moment she arrived. It saved her the effort of trying to figure out whether she should simply sit unobtrusively or join the conversation as an equal. More than one person had made it clear she was not.

  The group that sat for dinner was eclectic. The earl, the dowager countess, and Lady Anne were to be expected. Besides herself, there were five others, all unknown to her though it was easy enough to figure them out. There was the portrait artist who wore his badge of honor—a smear of paint on the collar of his cravat. Then there was a hearty man, dressed in a flamboyant style. He was introduced as a cousin who acted as the estate librarian. Judging by his appearance, he seemed an unlikely bibliophile.

  There was one more relative, the first earl’s brother, a very old man, who held the title of chaplain.

  The estate steward and his wife made up the last of the group. They were a delightful couple who seemed on comfortable terms with the family. Mr. Smithson was the gentleman Simon had been talking to when she came into the room. He had the Weston smile, which left little doubt in Amy’s mind that he was some relation to the family.

  By the time the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, it was clear that despite the egalitarian nature of the meal, everyone knew whether they belonged above or below the salt. She followed the ladies into the large music room and found a corner where she could observe.

  This world did not seem to welcome strangers with neither money nor rank. She had known that from her novels, but living it was decidedly frustrating.

  Was the British aristocracy still like that? Or had the tax structure and industrialism been the great equalizers? As fascinated as she was by Simon West, she could not imagine living in a world where your value hinged on something less than ability.

  Conversation was desultory while the ladies sipped tea. The dowager countess prosed on about the virtuous Miss Kemp, while Lady Anne played some light, vapid tunes, even as she absorbed every word her aunt was saying.

  It was Mrs. Smithson who came to sit beside Amy. “As you can tell from our dinner companions, the earl is very kind to his relations and his staff. He will not turn you off without finding another post for you.”