Another warning would probably do it, despite Penelope’s encouragement. Not that she seemed particularly encouraging today. More sulky and unhappy.
No doubt because Garth was getting in the way. Well, she should have picked a man with a stiffer spine.
Hapton was a different proposition altogether. He took what he wanted and got away with it. Of all the men here, he presented the most danger to the pretty bride should he bestir himself in her direction. Fortunately, he seemed more taken with the lady companion. Garth suppressed the urge to warn him off there, too.
To Hapton that would be an irresistible dare.
While Mrs Mallow played competently, if without inspiration, the rest of the party listened politely or chatted softly. ‘This is so dull,’ Penelope whispered.
‘What were you expecting?’ Garth asked. ‘An orgy?’
Penelope’s cheeks turned pink. ‘You are disgusting.’ Married she might be, but she was no sophisticate.
‘You said you were bored,’ he said mildly.
The pout grew more pronounced. ‘And all you think about is…is…’ Now her face was fire red.
‘It is all any man thinks of.’
Pain filled her pretty green eyes. Tears welled. ‘I know that now.’
Why the hell was she crying? Mark was the one being betrayed. ‘What is going on, Penelope?’
She blinked a couple of times, teardrops clinging to her lashes. She dashed them away. ‘Why would you care?’ she muttered. ‘You are just like him.’ She turned her face away.
‘Penelope?’ he said.
She rose swiftly to her feet with her fingertips pressed to her temples. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said to the room at large. ‘I have a headache.’ She almost ran from the room.
Mrs Travenor leaned forwards and whispered something in Lady Keswick’s ear. The old lady nodded and Rose came to her feet and disappeared from the room.
She looked tired, he noticed, as if singing had tapped her strength. Or was her late-night excursion wearing her down? Would she go out again tonight? If she did, he would be right behind her.
Mrs Mallow finished her piece and the guests applauded.
Lady Keswick got to her feet, smiling broadly. ‘Come along, everyone. Rose has arranged for card tables in the drawing room.’
Cards had been an inspired idea. Rosa closed the door on a buzz of conversation and laughter. While the guests, including Lord Stanford, gambled away their wealth, Rosa had something else in mind.
She smiled at Jonas coming the other way with more port for the gentlemen. ‘Goodnight, Jonas. I hope they don’t keep you up too late.’
‘I’m used to it, Mrs Travenor. Got a note for you.’ He nodded at his tray. A white folded square of paper lay on its edge against one of the bottles. Who on earth would be writing to her? No one knew she was here, except her sisters. She nipped the paper between finger and thumb, smiled her thanks and ran off up the servants’ stairs, the missive a dead weight in her hand.
Inside her room, she opened the letter.
The spidery handwriting was unfamiliar, but the signature was not. She sat on the bed to read.
Inchbold’s note relayed the worst possible news. Her grandfather would arrive in two days’ time to ensure all was in readiness for the new tenants. Inchbold had been ordered off to Rye to procure supplies and servants and he would not be back until the day after tomorrow. Just in time to meet her grandfather. The dear sweet man had left her the key under a stone beside the door into the kitchen.
She only had two nights for her search.
Something hard and heavy weighed down her chest. Fear.
Fear that Grandfather’s blistering rant the day he came to the school to inform her of Father’s death was the truth. Fear her father had forgotten his daughters.
She got up from the desk and went to the window, fingers laced so tight her skin burned. She would not give up. She would prove Grandfather wrong.
Whirling around, she grabbed up her cloak and fled, pausing only long enough to pick up the small lantern she’d placed beneath the table near the side door earlier in the day. She lit it from one of the candles on the hall table and ducked out into a light drizzle.
Cloud cover made finding the path through the woods difficult. She shielded her light from the house with her body and held her skirts as high as possible with her other hand. The scent of wet leaf mould and greenery washed clean filled her nostrils. A friendly scent, unlike the heavy perfumes of Lady Keswick’s female guests.
She spun around at a sound. Could someone have followed her? Stanford? Hapton? She shuddered at the thought it might be the latter. She stood stock-still, not breathing and hearing nothing but the pounding of her heart and the rain pattering on soft earth. It must have been raindrops dripping from the trees that she’d heard. Or a nocturnal creature about its business. A badger or a fox. She waited a moment more. Waited for her heart to calm. Then hurried on, crossing the bridge in reckless haste, splashing through puddles and mud. She only had a few hours before she must return. It would not do for any of the early-rising servants to see her coming in.
She found the key as promised by Inchbold, unlocked the door and stepped into a kitchen that seemed oddly chill, when it had always been a warm friendly place in Rosa’s memories.
Where to start?
Her father’s chamber. Mother and Father had always shared a room and Rosa had visited them there in the mornings. To go there in the knowledge they would never be there again clawed at her heart. For her, there was some joy in the sadness. At least she remembered Mother and Father and how happy they were. The girls struggled to remember their faces and Grandfather had insisted that all pictures of their mother be destroyed.
On the way up the well-remembered flight of stairs to the second floor, memories flooded back. The pictures on the walls, all gone now, the pale green paint picked out in white replaced with Chinese silk. She flung open the chamber door, fearing the worst. If the pictures were gone, would the furniture be gone, too?
Everything was covered in holland covers—chairs, chests, tables. Hardly daring to hope, she lifted the corner of a sheet and discovered her father’s desk in its usual place. A cloud of dust rose in the air. She sneezed. The woman who dusted clearly didn’t make a very good job of it.
She smiled at the desk she remembered so well. Her father’s escritoire, inlaid with gilt and rosewood flowers and birds. She’d sat on his lap while he wrote his personal letters. She also remembered the secret drawer beneath the lid.
Could it be this simple? Could what she sought be right here, tucked away and forgotten? If it was going to be anywhere, would it not be here where he must have known she would look?
It had to be.
Chapter Four
Breath held, fingers trembling with hope, Rosa felt far at the back for the catch inside on the roof of the pigeon-hole. A small raised knob. It was easier to twist as a child. It slipped from between her thumb and forefinger. She huffed. Tried again. It turned. A faint click.
A drawer slid out from the elegant carving above the writing surface. She peered in. Nothing.
Either someone had found it already, or… Neither scenario boded well for her quest. She refused to give room to her doubts. He must have put it elsewhere.
She would not lose hope. For her sisters’ sake, she must search everywhere.
She glanced around the room. Under the bed?
She crawled on the floor, but found only dust.
Perhaps another secret hiding place. One she did not know about. She walked around the room and its adjoining dressing room, pushing and twisting any projection or seeming oddity in the hearth and the panelling until her fingers were sore.
A loose floorboard squeaked beneath her feet. She snatched up the poker and pried it up. An old mouse’s nest, full of bits of wool and fluff, met her gaze.
Rosa shuddered.
Despair rose in her throat. Hot moisture burned the backs of her eyes. She swallowed
hard. She’d been so sure it would be in the desk.
She sucked in a breath. She’d try the other bedrooms on this floor and then the library, and after that, she’d try every other room in the house. And if she didn’t find it tonight, she’d come back tomorrow.
Oh, please let her find it tonight.
Garth wanted to curse. He would never have believed the woman could slip out of a house so quickly. He’d had to run to catch her up. Or at least to catch up to the sight of her lantern willow-wisping ahead to who knew where.
Thank heavens for the lack of a moon, though he could have done without the rain.
The lantern danced ahead like a glow worm. Or a naughty little wood sprite of children’s stories. Except there was nothing of the wood sprite in Mrs Travenor. Far from it. She looked like an innocent and sang like a siren, an erotic siren. As exotic as an eastern princess.
The lantern stopped bobbing.
Damn. She’d heard him. He remained still, not breathing, staring into the dark, listening to the sound of the rain splattering on leaves, on his hat and his shoulders. The rain itself was of the fine drizzling sort, a kind of irritating mist, but the leaves harboured the foggy stuff, releasing it in big fat drops.
The twinkle moved on. Faster this time. He increased the length of his stride, determined not to lose her. In his mind’s eye, he tried to guess her destination. There was nothing out here, except woods. He’d checked with the gardeners.
A new sound, the sound of running water, overpowered the pattering of the rain on the leafy floor. A small stream, if he recalled the map, with a narrow footbridge. It defined the boundary of the neighbouring estate.
The progress of the lantern slowed to a crawl. He drew closer, catching glimpses of ancient wooden rails in the swinging circle of light. Why would she risk life and limb crossing such a rickety structure?
He waited until she was clear and approached the stream. Feeling the slick boards beneath his feet and the shake in the timbers in his grip, he crossed slowly.
Wherever she was going, it had to be important to risk traversing this bridge.
By the time he reached the other side, all sign of her lantern had disappeared. Cursing under his breath, he wandered around seeking a path. Without her light to guide him, it took him a good few minutes to find the track, only to discover he’d gone in a circle ending back at the bridge. This time he used his brain and sparked his tinderbox. In the brief flash it provided, he found her footprints in the mud, heading off to the right.
He pressed on through the tangle of brambles. A wet branch slapped him in the face. He grabbed for his hat. He cursed at the trickle of chilly rain running down between his collar and his skin. Any owner of a property who let his woods grow wild ought to be shot.
The woods ended at a lawn. And beyond the lawn there had to be a house.
Got you!
He frowned. Why so much secrecy? He couldn’t imagine Lady Keswick caring if her lady companion had a special friend at her neighbour’s house. He could even imagine the old girl encouraging the lass.
Perhaps she had. Then why not admit it?
He forged on. The house was there, he knew, he’d seen it on the map, but strangely, it was utterly dark. Even if all the occupants were abed, which they couldn’t be if she was meeting someone there, then there ought to be some light in the corridors and stairways.
The house must be empty.
The crunching of gravel beneath his feet signified he’d reached a drive, albeit a rather weedy one. And at the end of the drive, he found a house. Of Mrs Travenor there was no sign. How far ahead of him was she? He must have lost sight of her at least a half an hour before. He went around to the back of the house and stopped.
Here were the lights he sought. A lantern hanging beside a back entrance to the house. It bounced off slick cobbles.
Of Mrs Travenor there was no sign.
He crossed the courtyard, searching for a clue to her whereabouts. He scanned the back of the house. There. A light. On the second floor. It wasn’t very bright, but it had to be her.
She’d gone inside. It was the only explanation.
What in hell’s name was she doing?
He walked carefully up to what was clearly the kitchen door and put his ear to the crack at the jamb. Nothing.
Slowly, he depressed the latch. The door opened silently. He stilled, breath held. No cry of alarm. No footsteps coming his way. He opened the door enough to allow his body to slide through and closed it behind him.
Now he really was in the dark. In the pitch-black, with the echoing sound of footsteps somewhere deeper in the house.
It seemed Mrs Travenor was up to no good.
A sense of disappointment slid through him, bitter edged and sharp. He hesitated. He could just walk away and forget what he’d seen. Or he could catch her in the act and, damn it, see her brought to justice. Clearly she’d been using Lady Keswick as her dupe to gain access to this empty house and now was about to make off with some sort of loot. His gut knotted. He almost preferred to think of her in the arms of a lover than this.
He fumbled around as quietly as possible until he found the stub of a candle. Taking his time in order not to alert her to his presence, he lit the wick. The light revealed an abandoned kitchen. Clean. Tidy, but definitely not used recently. A narrow set of stairs led upwards. Perfect. He’d take the servants’ stairs to the second floor, where he’d seen the light, and catch her in the act.
This was impossible, Rosa thought, staring around the library at chairs and tables covered in sheets and walls lined with empty bookshelves. Where did she start?
She set her lantern down on the red-leather-covered rent table in the middle of the room. It had a keyhole within its central circular section. Would her father have hidden his will in there? It seemed unlikely. Any fool would look there first, and Grandfather wasn’t a fool.
She pulled on the knob beside the keyhole. It lifted easily. She groped inside, feeling nothing but dust under her nails. Ugh.
Walking around the table, Rosa pulled open the three drawers beneath its top where Father would have kept his records of rents paid and collected. More emptiness.
She turned in a circle. This room still had all of its pictures. Perhaps they disguised a hiding place.
She pulled one of the straight-backed wooden chairs underneath a hunting scene adjacent to the hearth.
She hopped up on the chair. The picture shifted easily enough to reveal blank plaster painted blue like the rest of the walls. Disappointed, but not surprised, she slid the picture back in place. Something gave way with a snap. The picture slid through her hands. It was going to smash to the floor. She clutched it, wobbling on the chair.
‘Blast!’
‘Well, well,’ a menacing voice said from the doorway. ‘I had no idea you were an art lover, Mrs Travenor.’
Rosa gasped and almost dropped the picture. ‘Lord Stanford?’ Oh, no. What was he doing here?
He strolled to her chair and looked up at her. ‘It seems a call on the magistrate is in order.’
‘You followed me.’ Gripping the picture frame, she stared at the cynical twist to his mouth and the suspicion rampant in his dark eyes.
‘As well I did,’ he said. ‘Or you’d be making off with someone else’s property.’ He moved in close, too close, and grasped the picture by the frame. ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you to steal this.’ He took the frame from her grasp and set it down, one edge on the floor, the other leaning against the wall.
He put his hands around her waist and lifted her. His hands were large and warm; he smelled of rain and cigars, and sandalwood. He set her down lightly, as if she weighed nothing at all. ‘Now then, madam, what are you up to?’
How to explain without giving too much away? ‘I know this doesn’t look good, but I am looking for something that belongs to me. I did not intend for the picture to come down off the wall.’
Stanford laughed. ‘Smooth, Mrs Travenor. Very smooth. You
must think I’m an idiot.’
‘Then why do you think I have the key to the door?’
He frowned. Looked a little nonplussed. ‘Perhaps you have an accomplice.’
Her heart sank. She certainly did not want to implicate Mr Inchbold. Brazen it out. It was the best way—she’d learned that during her long years at school. And more recently in dealing with the doctor who had come to attend her sister, Sam. ‘I have the key, my lord, because I have every right to be here. I used to live here with my father and I believe he left something behind.’
If anything, the curl to his lip increased. ‘Money? Of course. You are looking for a safe. Expecting to find the family jewels, perhaps?’
‘There are no family jewels here.’ They had all gone to her stepmama. Even those her father bought for her mother. Blast Lord Stanford—why couldn’t he just stick to playing cards instead of chasing after her?
It was that business with Hapton in the linen closet, no doubt. A blush crept up her face. He thought she was no better than she should be. Apparently in more ways than one. ‘This really is none of your business.’
‘It is every man’s business to protect his fellow from thieves and burglars.’ He gave a rather nasty laugh. ‘Indeed, I’ll have you know I am sworn to uphold the law in my role as a member of the House of Lords.’
She gave him a sour look. ‘God help England.’
He cracked a laugh. ‘Indeed.’
Dare she trust him? She heaved a sigh. ‘Perhaps if I explain…’
He nodded, his eyes wary. ‘I’ll listen. But stick to the truth. I will know if you are lying.’
Not telling everything was not lying. All she had to do was convince him she wasn’t a thief. ‘As I said, I lived here once.’
Lady Rosabella's Ruse Page 5
