by Allison Lane
Terrence’s horror changed to hope.
“You lie,” charged Mathilda.
“Never! You are a snoop, Aunt. And stupid. Did you never note that this letter was already worn when you found it? I recognize the writing, for I have seen others in this same hand. She signed them L. W. as a way to deny her marriage, for she was born Lucinda Winterbottom.”
“You knew but told no one?” she choked.
“I learned of it only last week,” he said gently. “She and Gareth loved each other deeply – and very painfully, for neither enjoyed their illicit relationship. But that was long before he married you, Aunt. In fact, had she lived, I doubt he would have wed at all. He knew firsthand how agonizing infidelity could be for all parties. It is true that he fathered a son by Lucinda, but the boy was stillborn. He never once betrayed you, even after you denied him his rights. You might have found comfort and serenity together if you had not decided to make his life a misery. It was your own sharp tongue that drove him to cold disdain. And for what? Because he loved another before he wed you? You have spent a lifetime waging war against innocent people for a crime that exists only in your own head. You have destroyed your reputation and set yourself up as a laughingstock for nothing. It will stop now!”
“Then why was he so interested in Winter House?” Her face had paled, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“His interest began long after you turned on him. I think your hatred drove him back to the past. Perhaps he wanted the reminder of Lucinda. It was her dowry and had once been part of Tallgrove.”
Lady Avery was left speechless.
He had to feel sorry for her even though she had brought her suffering on herself. Her vindictiveness was a clear case of cutting off her nose to spite her face. Her antagonism toward the Wingraves had eroded her own reputation. Her repudiation of Gareth left her lonely. Her refusal to carry out her duties gave her too much time to brood, contributing to her chronic melancholy. Ignoring her children because they were also Gareth’s courted their disdain. Shaking his head in sadness, he headed for the hall.
“That is the truth?” asked Terrence when they had left a sobbing Lady Avery behind.
“The truth. Your father’s journal contains the details. Try not to condemn him. He suffered most of his life from guilt over an unwise love.”
“Then there is nothing to bar me from marrying Alice?”
“Not morally. But Penelope also opposes this match.”
He groaned. “Alice was sure she did not.”
“She was wiser than I. Knowing that I would move heaven and earth to prevent your marriage – based mostly on the unsupported statements of your mother, I am ashamed to admit – she saw no reason to goad you into an elopement by ordering you away.”
“So I am no better off than before.”
“Not necessarily. You might try the same argument with her that you just did with me. Part of her objection is your youth and irresponsibility. Remove her fears on that score. She understands the power of love, for her father and Alice’s mother were very close. And she knows about the affair between Lucinda and Gareth.”
Terrence nodded. “Bringing that up would serve no purpose.”
“You are learning prudence. Good luck.”
He watched his ward stride upstairs to change. His encouraging words continued to reverberate in his ears. Penelope knew the power of love. Perhaps that was the answer to his own dilemma. He loved her. Could she ever return the feeling?
Hope blossomed as he headed for his room. He also had a call to make.
* * * *
“Drat it all!”
Penelope shoved the pottery records aside. She had added this column six times, with six widely different results. It was useless to try again. A long, sleepless night made it impossible to concentrate.
She should have had no trouble falling asleep, for they had not returned from the assembly until well after midnight. Normally she was in bed by ten. Yet she had been unable to lie still long enough to relax. Memories made her too restless.
What had possessed her to attempt a waltz? The dance had a scandalous reputation. Even London high-sticklers reportedly looked at it askance. The vicar often decried it as an instrument of the devil, and she could see why. Dancing in the arms of an attractive man swirled devastating sensations into the pit of her stomach. Embracing him in front of the entire neighborhood made her feel like a Jezebel.
Even worse, she had thrown propriety to the winds, allowing him to draw her close enough that their bodies had touched, thus confirming his suspicion that she was a wanton. Or – horrible thought – had she been the one to press against him? Heat infused her face. His hand still burned into her waist and hip. Memory of her bosom brushing his coat was enough to tauten her breasts and heap fuel on the fire raging in her abdomen. The contact had awakened the ghosts of every earlier encounter. Her lips tingled. Her fingers curled into the shape of his shoulder. Scandalous indeed!
“Dear God!”
Surging to her feet, she rapidly paced the floor. What must people think of her? Never had any man affected her like this. Despite his denials, he must be a practiced rake who knew all too well how to invoke unspeakable emotions in every female he met.
Not that, she mouthed silently. She did not want to be like every other woman. Nor did she view him like every other man. Beneath his facade lay intelligence, humor, compassion, and sense. And something more that triggered a longing to seek out the safety of his arms.
What damnable stupidity! I love him.
Her pacing increased. Surely it was merely lust! She could not have fallen in love with an arrogant marquess who always believed the worst of others. He would never consider marrying a woman like her. Even her fantasies did not stretch that far.
But it was easy to understand her foolishness. He had considerable charm when he chose to exert it. She had heard of the changes he had ordered since arriving at Tallgrove. Whatever his moral failings, he was up to snuff when it came to running an estate. Rather than a wastrel like Lord Avery, he was proving to be a progressive landowner.
Yet she could hardly ignore his moral failings. Nor could she let him guess how susceptible she was to his touch, for his own interest did not extend beyond dalliance. And despite her love, she did not want it to. All of his courtesy in recent days arose from discovering that her breeding was far from base. It was his way of apologizing for misjudging her. But he would never really approve of her, for his ideas on the proper role of women were traditional and repressive. He was accustomed to London misses, with their polished manners and witty repartee. She was unsuited to a life of idleness and gossip and could never measure up to his expectations – especially if he was confusing her character with that other Penelope’s.
They would not suit, she decided, though she knew that her decision was mostly a way of accepting that he would never offer. Loving him filled her with fear, leaving her more vulnerable than ever before, for he could destroy her with a word. Would he? Pain settled into her heart, but that was only to be expected. No country spinster should allow the least tendre for a London gentleman, even one with admirable qualities.
And the central question would not go away. Why was he investigating Winter House? He could only be continuing Lord Avery’s plots despite his claims to the contrary. So she could not trust him.
She resumed her chair and frowned. Never again could she dance with him. Nor could she be alone with him lest she inadvertently betray her foolish thoughts. She had often derided her fellow spinsters for silly infatuations. Miss Partridge – who was all of forty – was currently sighing over their thirty-year-old curate, a lanky bag of bones with no chin, protruding eyes, and not a shilling to his name. But Penelope Wingrave would never open herself to ridicule by revealing that she had fallen into the same trap.
“Miss Wingrave?”
“What is it, Mary,” she asked the maid, grateful to have her unproductive thoughts interrupted.
“Oh, Miss Wingrave,
I’m so sorry. Indeed, I didn’t mean it and I hope you won’t turn me off, cuz me poor mum needs the bit I make to keep a roof over her head – not that I could blame you if you did, cuz I failed in me duties so ’tis no more than I deserve—”
“Enough, Mary.” She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over such an outpouring. Tears rolled down the girl’s cheeks, unchecked because both hands clutched a thin package. “Now, suppose you tell me what happened before we consider punishments.”
Mary sniffed, but a stern look silenced further wails. “A gentleman come to the door yesterday afternoon, Miss. He didn’t leave no name, but he give me this package and said to see you got it.”
“Then why have I not seen it?”
“I meant to bring it to you, but Master Michael said you was in the barn, and then Miz Peccles told me to fetch her some blackberries so’s she could make a tart. By the time you got back, I was settin’ the table and had forgot about it. Please don’t turn me off, Miss.”
“Calm down, Mary. I haven’t the least intention of turning you off. But we have no butler, so you must handle deliveries. You have two choices for a package such as this. If the gentleman asked for a reply, you should have brought it directly to me. Did he do so?”
“No, Miss.”
“In that case, you should have placed it on my desk.”
“I’m that sorry.” She hung her head.
“No harm was done this time,” she said, taking the package from Mary’s trembling fingers. “But try to do better in the future.”
“I will, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”
As soon as Mary left, Penelope broke the seal, drawing out several sheets of paper. Her eyes widened as she read the cover letter.
Dear Miss Wingrave,
As I mentioned at our last meeting, I discovered a detailed account of my uncle’s attempts to wrest control of Winter House from your brother’s hands. I would never condone such dishonor even if he had a legitimate complaint against you, but I can find no reason for his plot beyond a possible sentimental attachment to Lucinda’s estate.
Be assured that I have terminated all of his stratagems. He kept meticulous records that allowed me to estimate the effect of his predations. An accounting is enclosed, along with a draft for damages. If I have missed anything, please call it to my attention.
Carrington
P.S. Set aside your fury and keep the settlement. Just as you could not accept overpayment for that broken pottery, I cannot allow Gareth to tarnish my family name.
The draft was written against the Tallgrove account in the amount of £2103 4s6d. She nearly tore it up, but Carrington’s postscript stopped her fingers.
Setting the letter and draft aside, she examined his figures. Fury battled horror and chagrin – sabotage at the pottery, poisoned fields, injured animals, damaged trees, the stable fire. How could Avery have been so venal? And why had she not suspected his hand in recent disasters? That was the worst insult. She, who prided herself on astute management, had never once considered vandalism. The admission was humbling.
Carrington must know as much about Winter House as she did. His figures were precise. He neither underestimated to cheat her nor overestimated to expiate his uncle’s crimes. And he must have begun this reckoning long before his encounter with Ozzie. There would have been no time to do so afterward.
An honorable man. This was precisely the hedge against disaster that she had been searching for. She could set a thousand pounds aside for Alice and invest the rest in Consols. The security would pull them back from the edge – and she had Carrington to thank for it. That treacherous warmth again invaded her stomach, though his actions in no way hinted that he might return her regard. They merely deepened her feelings for the rogue. How long would it take before her infatuation faded into memory? At least she could console herself that he was worthy of her affection.
Leaning back, she stared at the bookshelves, letting her eyes caress the leather-bound volumes in the hope that they would deflect her mind from feelings that she must not entertain. She loved this room. It was one of only three that had never been remodeled, retaining the original Tudor paneling – an intricate pattern of squares and rectangles framed by heavy moldings. It had probably been a bedroom or men’s retreat in earlier times, for the freestanding bookcases were a recent addition. Jake Winterbottom hung above the fireplace, staring at his third wife Jane, who smiled back from across the room. A string of seed pearls artfully threaded Jane’s curls, dividing them into a pattern resembling petals. Had she deliberately mimicked one of the Tudor roses that marched in single file just under the cornice?
Penelope shivered in an icy draft. The manor had been built just after Henry VII assumed the throne, ending the War of the Roses. His symbol combined the red rose of Lancaster and the white rose of York. The builder of Winter House had carved the device out of contrasting woods so that each dark flower contained a smaller light one in its center. Not even age and smoke had dimmed the white roses. Long after Henry’s Tudor dynasty had given way to the Stuarts, who were themselves replaced by the Hanoverians, the united roses still smiled from the bookroom ceiling.
They were her favorite decoration – and her father’s as well. He had been fond of sermon-like exhortations, his most frequent being that people should set aside their differences and work together, citing the Tudor rose as an example of benevolent harmony. Was noting the roses at this particular moment a message from on high that Carring—
Her eyes sharpened. All thought of the marquess vanished. Each five-petaled rose also had five evenly spaced indentations where petals met around its rim. The twelve-foot ceiling prevented anyone from reaching one. So who would ever try?
She rang for Mary and ordered her to summon Michael and Alice. Unless her mind had wandered into a fantasy realm, she may have solved a mystery – not that the answer would be worth anything.
“What happened?” demanded Michael. “Allie is out.”
“Meeting Terrence, I suppose.” She forbore further comment, trusting them to behave themselves. “Do you recall that odd tool you found in the attic the other day?”
“Is it valuable after all?”
“I doubt it, but I may have discovered what it is.”
She would say no more until he had fetched it and found a length of cord.
“This house is old enough to have a priest’s hole,” she explained. “Those who did not install one when Henry VIII broke with Rome felt obliged to do so when Mary gained the throne. I suspect it might be hidden in this room. A catch mounted too high to reach by hand would reduce the risk of discovery. This pole disassembles quickly, so it could be brought into hiding to avert suspicion.”
“I see,” he agreed, excitement mounting as he followed her gaze. “The pegs form a circle the same diameter as the roses.”
“Exactly.” She looped the center of the cord around the top peg, extending the ends down either side so she could turn the wheel. “The only question is which one.”
“Another question is whether the latch still works,” he reminded her. “That was nearly three hundred years ago.”
“True, but it will be interesting to try.”
And difficult, she discovered over the next hour. She had to extend the pole until its bottom was shoulder high in order to reach the roses. It would have been simple if she had known which one to attack, but they had to try each one in turn.
“I never realized how many roses were in this room,” panted Michael as he moved on to the next one.
They had started along the most promising wall – a long stretch that backed onto the butler’s pantry – but had turned up nothing. Nor had their luck held on the next two walls. All that was left was the thick exterior wall, but though it was fully three feet deep, she could not imagine it housing a priest’s hole.
“There has to be something,” she insisted. “The fit is too perfect.”
“I agree. But if such a latch existed, it must have long since rusted into usele
ssness. I still think the hole must be on that first wall. Here, you try for a while. My arms are dropping off.”
She took over yet again, working her way along the ceiling until she was nearly back to their starting point.
“I think this one moved,” she gasped suddenly.
“Let me try.” Michael took over the pole, pulling solidly on the cord. “You are right.” He pulled again.
“But nothing is happening.” Disappointment saddened her voice. “Perhaps it is merely loose.” She felt the wall underneath the rose, but it remained solidly flat.
Michael twisted the rose again, evoking a definite click. “Look, Penny. Not here, over there.” He pointed around the corner where a shadow had appeared just above a bookcase.
They wrestled with the heavy bookcase for five minutes before they set aside impatience and removed its contents. After that it took only a moment to slide the cabinet away from the wall.
A four-foot-high opening had appeared between the fireplace and the corner. Molding disguised its edges. The door screeched as she pulled it open to peek inside. The space was small, perhaps three feet wide and about six long – just large enough to hold a pallet where a man could sleep during times of danger.
“Let me see,” demanded Michael, bringing a candle closer.
She backed away so he could poke his head behind the bookcase.
“Marvelous! Who would have thought the old place contained a secret room?” Before she could respond, he crawled inside and gasped.
“What’s wrong?” she asked sharply. “No one is in there, I hope.” She shivered at a vision of moldering bones.
“Not now, but someone has been. There is a shelf in the corner.” He handed her three bundles swathed in rotting fabric, then backed out, dragging a small casket.
“What in the world?” Her voice trailed off as she unwound the first cloth. A heavy silver plate with a border of leaves emerged, its surface black with tarnish. “Good heavens!” The second bundle held a matching bowl, and the third an ornate silver chalice with half a dozen gems mounted on a band just below the rim.
