“The plants outside the hothouse?” Lance raised an eyebrow in an arch, intimidating expression.
Reluctantly, she admitted, “Every second day. They don’t require as much tending as the ones inside the hothouse.”
“Because my grandmother has been tending them herself.”
So she suspected. But she couldn’t do anything about that. Lady Belhaven would continue to fiddle with plants until the day she died. Her grandson would have to come to terms with that.
“Perhaps.”
The door opened and Catt stepped into the tense situation. A rush of relief surged through Rocky as Lance stepped back, out of her personal space. Without a word, he turned on his heel and exited the room.
Catt stared after him, his shoulders around his ears. When he turned back to Rocky, concern was etched across his face. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, mute.
He stepped closer nevertheless. When he raised his hand to her cheek, she yelped. His hands were cold.
“Forgive me.” He dropped his hand and took a step back.
She glared at him. “You’re cold as ice.”
He smirked. “I was just outdoors.” His smile faded as he glanced toward the shut door once more. “What was that about?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. She hugged herself. “He asked about the plants.”
Suspicion entered Catt’s face, a sharp edge. “Why?”
She shrugged, helpless. Whatever the reason, she doubted it was good. Why would he be asking about their regime with the plants? “Did you get a message?”
Catt nodded stepping closer. “He’s cracked the code.”
“That’s wonderful. We can decipher the next message!” Rocky tried to keep her voice low and her excitement in check.
Catt nodded. “And something else. He said that V was not here in the house the first night we came and the he will be traveling for a meeting within a fortnight.”
Rocky chewed her bottom lip. “Who wasn’t here that first night? Most everyone was here. Was the cook here? I remember Stefan and Lewis at breakfast the next morning. Stanley was, but not Lance. But he’s not really of the household. Could he be V?”
“I don’t know, but I remember that first night thinking that the house was very quiet after supper. Everyone seemed to go to bed very early. V could have slipped out and met with their contact then come back before sunup.”
“True. But you say they have another rendezvous soon?”
“Yes. Well, that was his plan as of when Morgan sent the message. But if V knows we are onto him or if our presence makes him alter his plans, that meeting may be called off.”
Had they foiled Monsieur V’s plans with their vigilance in checking the plants? Was that why Lance had come to the hothouse and was he now searching for an alternate way to send his messages, maybe through Lady Belhaven’s houseplants instead?
Rocky knew for certain that Lance was not in the house their first night. She’d never even seen him here until recently.
If his earlier interrogation meant their presence had foiled his plans, then Lance was either in league with Monsieur V…or he was the man they were looking for.
Chapter 20
Rocky was haunted by the phantom touch of Catt caressing her cheek. Only this time, his hands weren’t as cold as ice, they were so hot they set her aflame. And he didn’t stop with a touch—he kissed her again, too.
She’d spent years without thinking, wondering what Catt’s kiss would be like. Years at odds with him, their personalities grating on one another. But they didn’t fight as much since they’d kissed, did they? If she kissed him again, would she undo all the good that first kiss had done?
She couldn’t sleep. Tangled in the sheets, she thrashed until she freed herself. She fumbled for her spectacles on the nightstand. She couldn’t find her house slippers, so she tugged on her boots instead and donned a wrapper over her nightgown. At this hour, everyone was abed, asleep. Exhausted from the day, as she should be. No one would see her in her wrapper if she left her room.
Catt wasn’t the only thing on her mind—she’d spent at least an hour in bed mulling over the pieces to the puzzle that was Monsieur V—but he was by far the most prominent thing on her mind whenever she closed her eyes. She would be a beast in the morning if she couldn’t find a way to fall asleep, preferably without thoughts of him swirling in her mind.
She didn’t know how to do the second, but a glass of warm milk usually helped her to fall asleep on troublesome nights. Slipping out of her room, she moved quietly through the manor to the kitchen.
The light of a lantern glowed from the front closet. Not wanting to encounter anyone, Rocky pressed against the wall and peeked from the corridor. The light silhouetted the form of a large man as he pulled on his outer wear. Her breath caught. Was that Mr. Dowden? Why was he leaving the manor at this hour? He clutched a bouquet in his hand.
The message from Morgan echoed in her mind. Monsieur V would likely leave for a rendezvous within a fortnight. Maybe tonight.
Rocky had to get Catt. As silently as she could, she jogged down the corridor toward the men’s quarters. Thankfully, those were closer to the front door than the women’s quarters. If Mr. Dowden had been pulling on his greatcoat, she didn’t have much time to rouse Catt.
She counted the doors as she passed and didn’t bother to knock on his when she found it. The latch opened easily—it was unlocked. She slipped into the room, squinting so she didn’t bang into any furniture as she crept toward the bed. Although there was no light, the shades of darker gray silhouetted the bed and the lump in it.
She shook that lump, praying that she had the right room. “Catt.”
He caught her wrist, his grip like iron. After a heartbeat, he said, “Rocky?” His voice was gravelly. It shivered through her like a physical touch.
“Wake up.”
He released her and sat up, clutching the blankets to his waist. She danced from foot to foot, impatient. He wore a nightshirt—that much she’d been able to tell from shaking him—so he had no need to be modest. Even if he’d been unclothed, it wasn’t as though she was able to see anything.
“Why? What time is it?”
“Late,” she whispered back. “We don’t have time. We have to go. Get up and get dressed.”
Hesitantly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Why?”
“Mr. Dowden is about to leave the house.”
If Catt asked her why one more time, she would drag him from the bed and shove him out of doors regardless of if he cared to dress or not.
He didn’t ask why, but he made no move to stand. “Would you mind waiting in the corridor? I’m not wearing any breeches.”
Of course he wasn’t. It would be odd for him to wear breeches to bed. Though, now that he’d pointed it out, her gaze dropped to his lap as she pictured it.
Heat blossomed in her cheeks and she thanked her luck that the darkness covered her blush. She backed toward the door, stumbling over his boots in the middle of the floor. “Hurry,” she said. “I’ll get our things from the front closet.”
She would have to wait until Mr. Dowden had departed in order to do so, but hopefully they wouldn’t be too far delayed by the action. As he dressed, she slipped along the hall, pausing to listen to Mr. Dowden swear as he struggled to tie his boots. Finally, he gave up and stuffed the laces into the boot tops before he opened the door.
As it started to swing shut behind him, Rocky bolted for the front closet. The cook had taken the lantern with him as he departed, forcing Rocky to find her and Catt’s coats by feel. If she was wrong, hopefully they would return before the owners of the vestments realized they were missing. As she shut the closet door with her hip, Catt appeared at her side. She stuffed his coat into his hand and bolted out the door before donning hers. She shrugged it on as she descended the stairs, her boots crunching in a freshly-frozen inch of snow. Catt followed after, pulling the door shut behind him quietly.
Before the light faded entirely, she grabbed Catt by the hand and towed him in that direction. He came willingly, matching and then exceeding her speed as they raced along the icy street. When her footing wobbled, he steadied her and they continued. He slowed only when they drew near enough to the light source to make out the shape of the figure holding it.
Mr. Dowden led them down a maze of alleys in the neighborhood. They held back, waiting for him to vacate each one before they continued after him. Rocky’s ears burned from cold, but she didn’t say a word. She drew her coat up over her nose despite the way it made her spectacles fog. She followed after Catt’s indistinct form, shoving her hands into her pockets as she walked. It was a bit warmer that way, but not by much. She should have paused to find their scarves, gloves, and hats, but she might have lost Mr. Dowden if she had. Hopefully, he didn’t lead her too far.
Before long, Mr. Dowden opened a waist-high iron gate and strode into a cemetery. Rocky balked. When she would have turned back, Catt slid his bare hand onto her elbow and guided her onto the premises. The moment she tugged her coat down from around her mouth to speak, her spectacles began to clear of fog. As she passed him, he caught her gaze. He shook his head, his mouth a grim line. The light from Mr. Dowden’s lantern stretched tendrils over Catt’s face, darkening the color of his eyes. His breath fogged in front of his face.
With no more than a look, Catt reminded her of why they were tailing the cook. He might have killed his wife. He might be Monsieur V. She couldn’t turn away simply because she felt as though she were intruding on a private moment.
He might only be using the cemetery as a screen to pass through onto his real destination. She squared her shoulders and nodded to Catt. They continued on, stepping in Mr. Dowden’s large footprints to keep from making too much noise. Catt approached first, with Rocky trailing after him.
The cook meandered along the tombstones until he reached the far corner. When he set down the lantern, the light suddenly grew dimmer as it was partially blocked by the slabs of granite. Rocky took one more step, brushing the back of Catt’s coat as he hung back to watch Mr. Dowden. The big man knelt to wipe the snow from the tombstone in front of him before he left flowers on the grave. Whose grave—his wife’s? Rocky couldn’t read the chiseled lettering from here.
If he’d killed her, why would he leave flowers on her grave? Perhaps he suffered from remorse.
But that didn’t sound like the kind of behavior a traitor might exhibit.
Rocky waited, shivering in the bitter cold, as Mr. Dowden murmured in front of the gravestone. His voice was too soft to carry. She warmed her hands with her breath, then tucked them as far up the sleeves of her jacket as possible. The chill tightened around her, seeping through the thick wool and into her bones. Her wrapper and nightgown beneath were little barrier. The cold air gusted underneath, chilling her legs.
After a time, Mr. Dowden straightened. He rubbed his eyes and gathered up his lantern. He didn’t turn around, but continued to stare at the grave, his posture defeated.
Softly, he murmured, “Eliza looks just like her, you know.”
Rocky jumped. Was he talking to them?
With a gusty sigh, the cook turned around. Rocky took a hasty step back, her foot crunching in the snow and announcing her presence. Catt didn’t budge. He didn’t seem overly worried that Mr. Dowden had caught them spying.
The yellow glow of the lantern played over Mr. Dowden’s face, making his eyes look bloodshot. Or had he been crying? Rocky’s gut pinched. She shifted from foot to foot. Why were they out here? She shouldn’t have entered the cemetery.
When she groped for the back of Catt’s greatcoat, silently begging for them to leave the cook in peace, Catt caught her hand in his. His fingers were cold, but still warmer than her own. He held her tightly, but didn’t look at her.
Mr. Dowden confessed, “It’s the anniversary of her death tomorrow. Or is it today already? I’m not sure of the time.”
Rocky didn’t own a pocket watch, let alone carry one with her, so she could neither confirm nor deny that.
“Did you kill her?” Catt asked, his voice as hard and cold as diamond.
Rocky squeezed his hand. Was the direct route the way to go? They didn’t have the truth serum that Gideon and his wife had made for the Crown. They wouldn’t be able to confirm whether or not anything the man told them was true.
Mr. Dowden hung his head. Softly—so softly, Rocky didn’t at first know whether or not she’d heard correctly—he confessed, “I might as well have.”
What was that supposed to mean? Rocky squeezed Catt’s hand. He returned the gesture, a reassuring tightening of his grip rather than the vice she had him in.
In the same calm, unflappable tone, Catt said, “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”
It didn’t take much prodding for the bigger man to confess his sins and sorrows. Soon, he began to babble, telling them of the way life in Lady Belhaven’s house used to be, before her business grew to the point where she could afford multiple servants and carriages.
In the beginning, there had been only Mr. Dowden, his wife Rosemary, and Lewis.
“We were like a family. Lady Belhaven, her son and daughter were grown, both moved out of the house though her daughter never married. Her son would bring his two boys, barely knee-high, over every week for Lady Belhaven to watch. But the lady, she was busy in the garden most of the time, so the boys would be underfoot in the house. Eliza minded them, though she’s but a handful of years older than Lance.”
The man shuddered. He swiped a hand over his face as he collected his thoughts.
Rocky shivered. Her ears burned with cold along with the tip of her nose. Her cheeks were numb. “Maybe you’d prefer to have this conversation where it’s warm.”
Catt looked sharply at her, his eyebrows knit together. What, was he afraid the cook would have a change of heart in the ten minutes it would take to walk home? Rocky tugged her hand free and slipped it into her pocket. She was frozen to the core. If they remained out here much longer, they might catch a chill or worse.
Mr. Dowden didn’t appear to hear her. When he dropped his hand, he continued his tale.
“I suspected her affair with Lewis long before I learned the truth of it. I shouldn’t have been so shocked, but the moment I had it confirmed, I—” His voice broke.
Rocky exchanged a glance with Catt, suddenly more alert. Mrs. Dowden had had an affair with Lewis? Grimly, they both turned their gazes to the cook. Catt coaxed out more information.
“You were angry.”
The big man nodded his head. “I lost my temper.”
Had he killed his wife, after all?
“We got into a fight. Eliza wasn’t far and Rosemary begged me to keep my voice down so our daughter wouldn’t hear, but I was too far gone. She snapped. She left the house, racing into the cold without even taking her coat.”
When he fell silent, the night air wrapped around them like a shroud. Was that the truth of the story? Mrs. Dowden left the house, never to be heard from again? If so, Rocky couldn’t understand why Lewis had been so adamant that she was dead, killed by her husband. He had no proof.
Though, he had confessed at the time that he didn’t have proof. Only a suspicion.
But his suspicion, if indeed he’d had one, had been born from the fact that he had once been lovers with the deceased woman. Had he killed Mrs. Dowden and simply wanted to throw the suspicion onto her husband?
“What happened next?” Catt asked. His voice was soft and gentle, t
he same voice he’d used on Lady Belhaven and on Eric, the scullery boy. Catt had a gift for calming people, getting them to open up.
Hunching her shoulders against the cold, Rocky tried her best not to be noticed as she waited for the story to unfold.
Mr. Dowden’s shoulders trembled. He covered his face in his hands and slowly collected himself. His voice was thick with grief when he continued. “She came back hours later, but the damage was done. Pneumonia, the physician said. By the time she was sick enough to warrant calling a leech about a mere servant, it was too late. He could do nothing to help her.”
Mr. Dowden wept openly. Rocky winced, afraid the tears would freeze on his face.
Catt stepped forward, patting the man on the shoulder by way of comfort and murmuring something too soft for Rocky to catch the words. She stepped aside as the men passed. Falling into step behind them, she mulled over the information.
The troublesome part of the story was that Mr. Dowden seemed genuine, at least to her. If what he was telling her was true, then he didn’t kill his wife. No one had. She had died from a terrible, unfortunate illness. Perhaps he had, as he seemed to think, driven her to it and been its cause peripherally, but she hadn’t been forced out into the cold. She could have taken the time to collect her coat. In fact, there was no proof that was the day she had contracted pneumonia. She might have already had it and no one known.
At Lady Belhaven’s manor Mr. Dowden paused in the entryway. He seemed a little less sad now that he’d unburdened himself. He looked at Catt and Rocky questioningly.
“But what were you doing out in the cemetery in the middle of the night dressed like that?” he asked.
Rocky’s heart skipped. What would they tell him?
But Catt was a quick thinker. “We have relatives buried there, too.”
Mr. Dowden nodded apparently satisfied with the lie. Then he turned and walked toward the servants rooms.
Shoot! Rocky didn’t like the bent of her thoughts at all, because she was inclined to remove Mr. Dowden as a suspect. They still hadn’t decided what to do about his poppy plant, short of throwing it out or barring his use. But if it helped Lady Belhaven with her nerves—or worse, if she was addicted to the opiate without realizing it—that course of action could do more harm than good.
Charming the Spy (Scandals and Spies Book 4) Page 16
