The Lady’s Secret

by Joanna Chambers

  Or perhaps not.

  A small key protruded from the keyhole of the topmost section of the cabinet, a drop-down leaf. Georgy stared at it for a moment, astonished. It was meant to be, she thought. Then she stepped forward and opened it.

  As the wooden leaf swung down to a horizontal level, two supporting wooden struts emerged from below. The leaf resting on the struts formed a desktop, the surface of which was inlaid with red leather. Inside the deep desk well were packets and packets of what looked like correspondence. Each packet was tied up with ribbon or string, some bearing an explanatory bit of script on the exterior face, some not.

  Georgy began to sort through the packets. She tried to keep them in order, but it was difficult and she was taut with nerves, her fingers fumbling. If the exterior labels were to be believed—Correspondence from Mr. Wickham re land at Halton Farm 1807; Correspondence from Mrs. Kelvin re Society of Impoverished Gentlewomen—many of the packets were plainly irrelevant. Conscious of the time, Georgy took these packets at face value, concentrating her efforts on the others, which she began to open up with shaking hands, her unusually clumsy fingers struggling with the tight knots. She perused these quickly, then re-folded them and tied the packets up again when she discovered they were of no interest.

  The clock of the mantelpiece gave out a loud tick-tock that tormented her, making her perpetually aware of the passing minutes. It rang the quarter-hour twice during her vigil. As she got to the last few packets, she began to feel desperate. There was nothing here. All this risk, and for nothing. At some point the walkers—Dunsmore and Harland among them—would return.

  And then she opened the third-to-last packet. It bore the legend From P. 1801-1803. A number of letters tumbled onto the desk when she undid the knot, perhaps six or seven. Each one, she realised, was addressed to Lady Elizabeth Dunsmore, in the same small, precise hand. She scanned the first—it was from “Peter.” She realised this was the present Lady Dunsmore’s husband, her own uncle.

  That first letter was exceedingly dull. So was the second.

  The third was not.

  The first thing she noticed was the date—the fourteenth of September, 1802. It was the day her own mother had died, stabbed by a cutpurse in broad daylight, not five minutes’ walk from the Camelot. He’d taken a few coins and small strand of pearls, ripping them from her mother’s throat as she lay dying.

  Years later, when Max had told them about their parents’ marriage, Harry had become suspicious. It was too convenient, he had pointed out, their mother attacked in the street only days after the death of their cousin Benjamin, when it turned out Harry himself should have inherited.

  Georgy hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now she dropped her eyes from that burning date to the short note set out below it.

  Dear Elizabeth,

  You were right. That woman came to see me today.

  I did exactly as we agreed—but when I asked her to speak of the matter to no one until I had spoken to the solicitor, she became suspicious.

  I was worried, so I sent Monk after her. Do not be angry. I am not convinced she has any papers—she said she did not and even if she lied, I judged it more important to ensure her silence. Further, I am at least certain of something—the children do not know.

  I feel sure the danger is past now. I will wait here another week before I return to you in Bedfordshire. I should be with you Thursday next.

  With affection,

  Peter

  She read it three times, dry-eyed and disbelieving at first, and then with rising horror and a growing lump in her throat. At length she folded the letter up again and gathered it up with the others, tying them together with the black cotton ribbon again and tucking them into her inside pocket.

  She checked the last couple of packets—irrelevant again—and then began to try to put everything back the way it had been. But somehow the arrangement didn’t look the same as before.

  Would anyone notice? She moved the packets around a little, trying to re-create the higgledy-piggledy appearance they had when she’d found them. But the more she fiddled, the more out of sorts it all seemed. When the clock rang the quarter hour for the third time, she eventually stopped and shut the cabinet up again. She had already been here too long.

  She padded back to the door and put her ear to the wood. After a minute, she inched the door open and poked her head out. The corridor was empty. She could feel relief descending upon her—a heady, almost ecstatic feeling.

  She eased the door closed behind her and stole swiftly down the corridor, turning the corner just as Harland reached the top of the stairs, a dark-haired woman in his arms.

  Nathan froze. So did Georgy. The picture she presented said it all—her shocked expression, her shoeless feet. She was obviously returning to his chamber from a part of the house she had no business being in. Her gaze flicked to Miss Lucinda—who was, by some miracle, speaking to her older sister and Lady Dunsmore over his right shoulder—and then she darted away again, back round the corner from whence she’d emerged.

  “I am wretched that this should have happened to you, my dear,” Lady Dunsmore was saying behind him. “Do you have some sewing with you, or a book to read while you rest? I could fetch you a book from my own chamber if you wish. I have several novels you may enjoy.”

  Damn. He had to stop Lady Dunsmore from going to her chamber.

  “Perhaps, ma’am,” he interrupted loudly, “we could take Miss Lucinda to her room first? My arms are becoming rather tired.”

  Miss Lucinda turned her head to glance at him reproachfully. It was a most ungentlemanly thing to say, even though it was quite true—he had been carrying her for over twenty minutes after all. But it had the desired effect. Lady Dunsmore murmured her agreement and brushed past him, leading the way up to the floor above.

  Nathan followed Lady Dunsmore’s silk-covered rump up another twenty steps and along to the west end of the corridor where Miss Lucinda slept. He hoped to God that Georgy would have the wits to get herself back to his bedchamber without delay.

  Christ, what was he thinking? He should be hauling her in front of Dunsmore, not protecting her!

  Lady Dunsmore opened the door and stepped inside. Miss Hodge followed. Nathan entered last and laid Miss Lucinda gently down on the bed.

  “Thank you, Lord Harland. You have been most kind,” Miss Lucinda said, straightening her long skirts demurely.

  Nathan suppressed the urge to shake the stiffness out of his arms as he retreated.

  “Not at all. I was pleased to be of assistance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He had his back to the door, his hand curving round the handle impatiently. He executed a bow as he turned it. Miss Lucinda smiled and Lady Dunsmore nodded brusquely. Miss Hodge looked longingly in his direction, but couldn’t very well suggest that he accompany her back on the walk without seeming uncaring of her sister’s wellbeing.

  With a final bow, Nathan opened the door and made his escape. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he darted back downstairs, shaking his aching arms. He went straight to his bedchamber, throwing the door open, half expecting to find the room empty. But she was there and she turned quickly to face him. He slammed the door behind him and stepped forward, a simmering anger bubbling up to replace the awful fear that had bloomed in his chest when he’d seen her standing there, vulnerable to discovery.

  He compressed his lips, trying to lock the anger away, and breathed through his nose. Georgy watched him, eyes wary.

  “You were trying to get into the study again,” he said.

  “Yes,” she admitted, her voice small.

  “Did you get in this time?”

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Did you take anything?”

  She shook her head but he didn’t know whether to believe her. God, how could he have been so stupid as to imagine she wouldn’t try this again?

  “You promised you wouldn’t go in there again.”

  “No I didn’t. You told me n
ot to but I promised nothing.”

  He exhaled angrily. “I made it entirely clear you were not to do so! Why were you in there? What were you looking for?”

  His voice rose and she flinched at each question, staring at him miserably.

  “So help me, Georgy—” He broke off, forcing himself to calm down. He did not want his raised voice attracting attention. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take you to Dunsmore right now. For all I know, you’ve stolen from him, taken something valuable. What if someone else is blamed? A servant, perhaps, someone who could lose their position over this.”

  “That won’t happen,” she said, taking a step towards him, her expression fervent. “I admit I was looking for something. A document—something that doesn’t belong to Lord Dunsmore—but I didn’t find what I was looking for. I swear on my life, I did not find it!”

  He met and held her earnest gaze, saying nothing. Her eyes were that cool, watery green. Transparent. It was difficult to believe they hid anything.

  “Please,” she added, pressing her hands together in a beseeching gesture. “I will leave this house at this moment if you wish. There is no need to—” She broke off in the face of his continued silence and exclaimed, “You promised you would not hand me over!”

  Nathan laughed, an abrupt gust of disbelief. “You dare to hold me to my foolishly given promise, when you have defied my express command?” He shook his head, his hands clenched in tight fists at his sides.

  “I did not promise not to go in there.”

  He gave a harsh laugh and she flushed scarlet.

  He stared at her for long moments, torn as to what to do. He was blisteringly angry that she had disobeyed him. But in truth he balked at the prospect of hauling her up before Dunsmore. Dunsmore would call the magistrate. She would be charged—probably with attempted burglary, a serious crime. She would be tried. He would have to give evidence against her—he was the only witness, after all. She had given him no reason to believe she was anything other than untrustworthy, but for some reason he believed her. Her protestations of innocence held the ring, not only of truth, but of outrage. There was a defiant, angry glint in her eye now, a faint belligerence firming her jaw. His gut told him she was no criminal. But there were secrets here, ones she was not prepared to divulge.

  “Will you tell me what you were looking for?” he asked.

  “I cannot,” she said with apparent regret, anxious eyes fixed on him.

  He made an inarticulate noise of mingled frustration and admiration. Her hand in this game was as poor as it could be and yet she looked him in the eye and called his bluff? Did she realise the strength of the card she played? His desire to find her out and persuade her to yield her secrets to him was irresistible.

  “I daren’t leave you to your own devices in this house,” he said, turning from her to cross the room and ring for a maid. “I will plead a megrim and ask for a supper tray. You will tend me, as befits my devoted valet. We will leave for Camberley tomorrow morning, as early as can be managed.”

  The tension went out of her. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t thank me,” he replied. “If I discover you’ve lied to me, I will come after you—wherever you may be—and drag you before a magistrate myself. Do I make myself clear?”

  There was a pause then she nodded once. “Perfectly, my lord.”

  Chapter 15

  27 December 1810

  “Can you get the other side, Bert?” Georgy said.

  Bert was an outdoor servant who’d been sent up to Harland’s bedchamber to help take the orrery down to the coach. He stood in the doorway, his greasy grey hair clinging to his scalp, a faintly resentful expression in his rheumy eyes. At Georgy’s words, he slouched forward to take his place opposite her.

  “Right, up we go, one two…three.”

  They heaved the crate up together. Bert didn’t seem to be putting in much effort. Georgy felt as though she was taking most of the weight.

  They shuffled to the door.

  “Tilt to the left,” she gasped. They lugged the crate through the dressing room door and into the bedchamber. A bit more shuffling took them to the bedchamber door and out into the hall.

  “Right, downstairs we go, then,” Georgy said. “You first.” Bert looked resentful at that but she didn’t care. He’d let her bear all the weight till now and already her arms were burning. The orrery crate was perhaps four by four feet and its contents were not precisely light.

  “What on earth are you doing, Fellowes?”

  Harland. He stood at the top of the stairs, glaring at them.

  “My lord! I was just taking the orrery down to—”

  “Where are the footmen? This is not your responsibility! Put that crate down instantly!”

  Georgy glanced at Bert, gesturing to the floor with her eyes. They both squatted down to rest the crate on the floor. Harland turned to Bert. “Go and fetch a footman to help you with this, there’s a good chap. My valet has other things to do.”

  Bert tugged his forelock at Harland and mooched off.

  Harland turned his attention back to Georgy. “Why didn’t you call for the footmen?”

  Pointless to try to explain the complex little games of power and control of servants. She’d asked for two footmen to come and help her and had been sent a sullen gamekeeper.

  “You said you wanted to be off as early as possible. I couldn’t get anyone straightaway so I decided to do it myself.”

  “Well don’t. I don’t want you—doing things like that.”

  She frowned, puzzled. “Like what?”

  “Lifting things. Heavy things.”

  She stared at him, astonished. “But—my job. You said you wanted me to continue. And this is part of what I do. When we get to Camberley I will have to help get your luggage in.”

  “Nonsense. You are an upper servant. The coachmen and footmen can deal with that.”

  She couldn’t help it—she laughed. “Oh, they will love me,” she murmured. “To act like that, and me a mere youth and new to the house. They will be spitting in my food!”

  He didn’t even smile. He just kept frowning at her, his dark eyes troubled. “You will do as I say,” he said at last. “I am the master.”

  Her smile faded. And didn’t she know it? She’d spent half yesterday and the whole night locked in his bedchamber with him. He’d been so silent and moody she’d been on tenterhooks the whole time, wondering if he might drag her before Dunsmore after all.

  Harland walked past her to stand in the doorway of the bedchamber and survey the interior.

  “Everything else has been taken down?” he asked.

  “Yes. Once this crate is strapped in place, we’ll be ready to go.”

  “Good. I want to reach Camberley before dark.” He consulted his watch. “We will leave in ten minutes. I’ll see you downstairs.”

  Bert returned a minute after Harland’s departure, with a footman in tow this time. Georgy watched them heft up the crate and begin to manoeuvre it carefully downstairs. She followed them out of the house and down the front steps to where Nathan’s carriages waited. The coachmen were securing the other crates and valises in place.

  “Hullo, Mr. Fellowes!” John called out. “Is that the last of it, then?”

  “Yes, once this is in place, we can be off.”

  “Put it down here,” John instructed the two men. Bert dropped his side a couple of inches from the ground.

  “You idiot!” Georgy cried as it clunked down. “That’s a fragile object!”

  Bert muttered an apology, sounding not the least bit sincere, and shambled away.

  The footman tutted. “Don’t mind him. Monk’s like that with everyone, he’s a right moody bugger.”

  Monk?

  Georgy stared after the departing servant, her heart galloping. “Monk” was the name used by her uncle in the letter. The man who’d been sent after her mother.

  “Don’t fret yerself, Mr. Fellowes,” John said, in
terrupting her thoughts. “I reckon the thingy’s all right. I didn’t hear anything break. He just bumped it. Moody bugger is right, eh?” He grinned at Georgy, then turned away. “Arthur! Help me get this up on the roof.”

  Georgy tore her gaze away from the diminishing figure of Monk. It would have to be enough to know where he was for now.

  “I’ll help too,” she said, in defiance of Nathan’s orders.

  She was in the middle of the job, supporting the lowest side as John and Arthur heaved it up to secure it in place, when Nathan appeared again.

  “Fellowes, what are you doing!” She nearly dropped her corner when she heard his voice but managed to keep hold until the coachmen had it in place.

  “My apologies, my lord,” she murmured a moment later. “I was just helping the coachmen.”

  He gave her a long, hard look. “They are quite capable of securing that crate without your assistance. Come with me now. I wish you to travel in my carriage today. I have important matters I wish to discuss with you.”

  Having delivered that order, he turned on his heel and stalked over to the travelling carriage, climbing inside.

  John cast her a sympathetic look from his position on the roof of the luggage coach. “Never off the job, eh?”

  “Too right,” Georgy said, with feeling. She followed Harland to the other carriage and got in beside him.

  He lounged in the far corner, his booted feet propped up on the crimson velvet seat opposite. Georgy selected the corner nearest the door she had just climbed in, diagonally opposite from him. She sat as close to the wall as she could, her body rigid with tension as she tried to keep herself from even brushing against his boots. But there was no getting away from him. Harland seemed to take up all the space, his legs stretching right across the carriage interior. I am the master. The man was a bloody tyrant.

  Unwilling to look at him, she stared instead at the seat opposite. It was plush and comfortable looking. She let her left hand drop away from her lap to rest on the fabric of the seat she sat on, brushing the short dense pile of the velvet with knowledgeable fingertips. She could tell its quality from the mere touch.