The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  The clink sounded again and Ottilia realised she had woken once more to the chambermaid’s dawn wanderings. Recalling the last time, she took care to advertise her wakened state with a gentle cough or two before calling out.

  “Is that you, Sukey?”

  There was a brief cessation of sound. Then the girl answered. “Yes, miss.”

  Ottilia rose onto her elbow, groping for the break in the curtains. By the time she threw them open enough to let in the welcome light of day, albeit grey and dim, Sukey had risen to her feet and moved towards the bed.

  “Fire’s going nicely, miss,” volunteered the girl, bobbing a curtsy.

  “So I see. Thank you. How are you faring, Sukey? Is all well?”

  “Well as can be expected, miss, though we ain’t none of us as bad as poor Miss Candy. Sick as a cat she is, though that ain’t no surprise.”

  “No, indeed,” agreed Ottilia, pulling herself out of bed.

  “Mrs. Thriplow is that cross, miss, as she’d like to poison him as done it, she says, to be giving our poor Miss Candy such a heartache.”

  Ottilia reached for her dressing robe and tugged it on. “I take it Lady Candia is a favourite in the household?”

  “Oh yes, miss. There ain’t no one don’t dote on our Miss Candy. She ain’t toffee-nosed, she ain’t. Knows us all by name, does our Miss Candy, and she never forgets to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Nor she don’t like giving no trouble to anyone.”

  “With the result,” smiled Ottilia, “that everyone takes the greatest trouble about her.”

  Sukey nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, miss. Why, even yesterday when I went in to make up the fire in her chamber, for she come unexpected like and I hadn’t done it afore, and our Miss Candy were crying fit to bust herself, but she ups and greets me and says to me straight off, ‘Sukey, have you a cold?’ I said as it were nearly done now, but our Miss Candy says as how I should take care of myself, but I told her not to worry herself none over me for she’d enough trouble of her own, and she thanked me pretty like and you could see the poor dear were trying not to cry no more only she couldn’t help it.”

  The rush of words were delivered with the passionate effusion typical of the chambermaid, but the encomium impressed Ottilia. She replied suitably but could not help the sneaking thought that the demise of the marchioness might not prove uniformly disastrous.

  Meanwhile, she was itching to be up and doing. “Sukey, how long do you think it might take to have my hot water sent up today?”

  The chambermaid exhibited consternation. “Ooh, miss, I’m that sorry it took so long that day. Things is getting more like normal, for Mrs. Thriplow ain’t best pleased as the household is going all to pieces and she’s been a-chiwying like a regular lion she has.”

  “Ah, has she? Well then, may I hope to have hot water within, shall we say, the hour?”

  Sukey looked affronted. “The hour, miss? I should think Jane’d do better nor that.”

  “Half an hour then.”

  The girl nodded. “I’ll tell her meself, miss.” Then her eyes grew round again. “That is, if she ain’t still hollering about that there jewel box and crying out as we’ll all be taken for thieves and transported.”

  Ottilia’s mind jumped. Her instant thought was that Mary, despite her warning, had let the cat out of the bag. But it did not ring true, for she had formed a good opinion of Huntshaw’s reliability. Which meant someone had been listening at doors. The theft had been discussed both in the marchioness’s bedchamber and in the parlour. She gave the chambermaid a sharp look.

  “Who told Jane about the jewel box, Sukey?”

  The girl looked scared suddenly. “I don’t know, miss. I couldn’t say as anyone did, for it’s all as any is talking of this morning.”

  Smothering a spurt of annoyance, Ottilia let it go. Small chance of discovering who had begun such a tale, she knew well. Tongues wagged so readily in domestic circles, she doubted even the redoubtable Mrs. Thriplow could trace it down. But the notion revolving in her head was disquieting. Suppose it was the thief who had set the story going in a bid to divert attention? If so, the finger pointed inevitably to one of the staff, for the news could not have come from outside the house.

  Dismissing the chambermaid, she moved to warm herself by the fire. Sukey’s final revelation did not encourage her to suppose that the hot water would indeed make its appearance in under an hour, and in the meanwhile she was wasting precious time. She must get that key — if it was still there. There might be a few servants about, but the family would be abed for an hour or two yet. Besides, her mission was too important to be set aside for mere convention, Ottilia reasoned.

  The decision made, it was not long before she stood in front of the late marchioness’s chamber door with the key turning in the lock.

  Daylight spilled into the room from the unshuttered windows and the blinds were up. The chaise longue had been moved out of the way and several open trunks were set in a row along the wall to one side. Ottilia gave each a cursory glance, enough to see that Sybilla’s orderly hand was behind the organisation. Although she and Lady Dalesford had, with Mary’s help, made an excellent start on the disposal of Emily’s effects, there was still a great deal to do.

  The bed had been stripped, and the bare mattress had a poignancy that threw the loss of its former occupant into high relief. Ottilia was relieved she had insisted upon the doors remaining secured and the key in her possession. There was no chance Lady Candia might wander in to be ripped apart by this distressing scene.

  The bed-curtains were securely tied at each post, and as Ottilia came around, heading for the night table, she was struck by an oddity that had gone unnoticed when the curtains had been drawn about the bed. The back drapes behind the headboard had also been pulled back and tied, and Ottilia could clearly see that the four-poster was not flush against the back wall. Moving up to the head, she looked behind the near post. There was a gap of several inches.

  Distracted from her mission, she stared at it for several moments, a picture forming in her startled mind and filling it with question. If the possibility had any substance, it put a vastly different complexion on the whole premise.

  “Ottilia?”

  She looked swiftly across the bed. Lord Francis stood by the door, attired as she was in his nightclothes, a dressing gown over all. He had spoken softly and his look was questioning. It came to her belatedly that he had used her given name, and a cascade of warmth rushed into her bosom, throwing her off-balance.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  She knew she must sound foolish, but her wits seemed to have deserted her and she could think of nothing sensible to say.

  “What in the world are you doing in here at this hour?”

  A laugh escaped her at that, and her tongue leapt into action. “I might ask you the same question.”

  The smile lit his face and Ottilia’s breath vanished.

  “Touché!” He came into the room, casting a look over the trunks. “I was in my brother’s room and heard the lock turning.”

  “And thought I might be the murderer returning to the scene of the crime?”

  Lord Francis eyed her, his expression unreadable. “Something of the sort.” He glanced back at the open door. “Let us hope none of the servants takes it into his head to look in on us.”

  “Indeed,” she managed, breathlessness returning. “A highly improper encounter.”

  He cast a rueful glance down at his night clothing, and gave a sudden grin, which affected her not a little.

  “Then we had best keep the matter strictly between ourselves. But I am yet in the dark. Why are you in here?”

  Instead of answering, Ottilia gestured towards the back of the bed. “Do you suppose a man might conceivably conceal himself behind the back drapes?”

  An arrested look replaced the humour in Lord Francis’s face as his glance moved to the back wall. He did not speak, but moved to the head of the bed on his side and in his turn l
ooked behind it.

  “Shall we essay it?”

  “By all means.”

  Ottilia watched as he inserted himself, not without some difficulty, into the space behind the headboard.

  “It’s not particularly comfortable,” he commented, bracing his back against the wall.

  “I doubt comfort was the first consideration.” Ottilia moved to the bottom of the bed and turned to look again. “I cannot see if you create a bulge or not.”

  “That is easily remedied.”

  He pushed his way out again and began untying the bands holding the folds of the drape together. Ottilia immediately moved up the other side of the bed again and performed the same office. She was obliged to get onto the bed to pull the drapes fully across. Then she sat back on her heels and inspected the result.

  “Try now.”

  Lord Francis’s dark eyes raked her in a fashion oddly disturbing. Ottilia became doubly conscious of her unconventional attire and her hair lying unkempt and loose about her shoulders. Heat stole into her cheeks.

  His eyebrow quirked. “Are you going to stay there? You are bound to see me if you are on the bed.”

  “Very true,” Ottilia agreed, conscious of an inexplicable feeling of disappointment. She banished it, concentrating on the task in hand. “Also, I imagine the bed’s occupant would already know that you were there.”

  By the time she had managed to drag herself off the bed and resume her position at the foot, Lord Francis had inserted himself into the place of potential concealment. His voice came to her muffled.

  “Well? Can you detect my presence?”

  She surveyed the drapes, a pulse beginning to thrum as excitement mounted. “If I stare intently, I think there is a bulge. But I doubt I would notice anything at all if I was not expecting to see something.”

  “And some of the other curtains might well be drawn,” came the indistinct response, “which would —”

  “— undoubtedly make you far less easy to detect.”

  Lord Francis’s head reappeared around the side. “Have you seen enough? Can I come out now?”

  “Pray do.” She watched him force an exit. “You realise what this means?”

  He was busying himself with pulling the drape on his side open again and retying it, but he looked up at that. “I can hazard a reasonable guess.”

  “I had not before considered the notion that a lover might already have been in the chamber when your brother and his wife quarrelled.”

  Lord Francis finished his task and looked at her with a gathering frown. “Without witnesses, how the devil could we prove it, Mrs. Draycott?”

  The resumption of her title caused Ottilia’s spirits to slump, but she answered with composure. “We can’t prove it, not without discovering who it might have been.”

  He let out a groan. “Impossible.”

  Ottilia clicked her tongue. “Must you give up before we have even made the attempt?”

  He stiffened. “I am hardly likely to give up with my brother’s life at stake!”

  Ottilia instantly backtracked. “Of course not. I spoke without thinking.”

  The spark in his eye lessened. “It makes no matter.”

  Feeling awkward and self-conscious, Ottilia tried for a softer approach. “There is hope, my lord. I have already three names.”

  The effect was immediate. He looked at once alert and incredulous. “Three names? How in the world did you come by them?”

  Ottilia could not resist. “Did not your mother stigmatise me a genius?”

  To her delight, his lips twitched. “Don’t tease, Ottilia.”

  Her heart swelled, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. To cover it, she broke into rapid explanation. “I had them from Miss Venner last night. The only one of real use is Quaife. The other two are merely Christian names, and uncertain at that.”

  But Lord Francis’s brows had drawn sharply together. “Quaife? Then rumour does not lie.”

  Ottilia lost all shyness in immediate interest. “His name has been coupled with Emily’s?”

  He nodded. “Frequently. I know he was at one time her most assiduous cicisbeo, but it was never certain whether it had gone further than that.”

  “According to Venner, he came in and out of favour over time. She called him a bully.”

  The dark eyes burned. “Did she so?”

  Ottilia put up a warning finger. “Do not let us leap to conclusions. What sort of a man is he?”

  “The Baron Quaife? I am barely acquainted with him. He is years older than I.” Lord Francis shrugged. “He is a heavy-set fellow, not a bonhomous type, but courteous enough.”

  “A large man?”

  He eyed her with question, and then glanced to the shallow place behind the bed he had lately occupied. “You are thinking he would not fit the hiding place? It is a consideration.” He sighed in a disappointed fashion. “Who were the others?”

  “She mentioned Theo and Jeremy.”

  Lord Francis cast up his eyes. “That is no help at all. Unless you choose to pore your way through the peerage.”

  Ottilia laughed. “I do not so choose. However, a little enquiry may elicit something.”

  He was looking at her with a frown in his eyes.

  She raised her brows. “What is it?”

  “How was it you thought of this hiding place?”

  She smiled. “I didn’t. I came in here to fetch a key.” Recalling her mission, she clicked an impatient tongue. “If I had not forgotten all about it again!”

  “What key?”

  Ottilia made a face. “I am afraid you will not like to hear it, but there is no point in keeping it from you.”

  She gave him an unvarnished account of her conversation with Venner, and secretly rejoiced to see how his disgust increased with every word. It was not uncommon for gentlemen to condone the sort of intrigue in which the marchioness had indulged. Whether his disgust was due to an offence of his moral sensibilities, or whether it was merely because Emily had been related to him by marriage, Ottilia had no means of knowing. But she was cheered nevertheless.

  “I came in here because I remembered I had found a key in that drawer,” she finished.

  She moved to the bedside table as she spoke and drew open the top drawer. To her relief, it had not yet come under notice in the attempt to dispose of the marchioness’s effects.

  As she rummaged within for the key she had seen, she suddenly recalled the scrap of paper she had removed from this very drawer. Her hand stilled.

  “Q230. Q for Quaife.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She found, to her consternation, Lord Francis just behind her, and she half turned, conscious of a spurt of speed in the rhythm of her pulses.

  “I found a note among others in here. But this was the only one that looked to be significant. Just the letter Q, and the numbers two, three, oh. I think now it must have been an assignation.”

  His eyes widened. “Quaife at two and thirty? In the early morning, one supposes.”

  Ottilia nodded. “It seems likely.”

  “And the key?”

  Turning again, Ottilia hunted about the drawer with a hand that was not quite steady. Her fingers closed on the coldness of metal. She brought them out, a large key clutched within them.

  Lord Francis took it from her and examined it. “It looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t know what door this might fit.”

  “Then we must try them all until we find the right one.” She would have moved to begin, but Lord Francis stayed her, one hand resting lightly on her arm.

  “You can’t wander all over the house dressed like that.” Acutely aware of his touch, Ottilia’s brain froze and she could not answer.

  “Besides, there is no saying this fits into a door to the outside. It does not look heavy enough to me.”

  Ottilia swallowed on a dry throat. “Nevertheless, we must try. We know Emily used a door secretly, for Venner told me so.”

  He removed h
is hand, shifting past the bed and out into the room. “It will keep. You would be better employed at this moment in helping with my own search.”

  Ottilia was breathing more easily, but this last arrested her attention. “What search is that, sir?”

  He looked at her, a glint in his eye that Ottilia strongly suspected to be ironic. “You have not asked my purpose in being up at this hour, and so improperly dressed.”

  Ottilia laughed. “I rather had my attention elsewhere.”

  “I was searching Randal’s room for something to tell us why he went away.”

  Interest burgeoned in Ottilia. “Did you find anything?” He shook his head. “I had only begun when I heard you. I should be glad of your help.” An eyebrow quirked. “Assuming you dare to continue to risk being compromised?”

  Ottilia hoped the heat did not show in her face. “Oh, I hardly think a widow of my years need be troubled by such fears,” she said lightly. “Besides, our purpose is sufficient, should anyone call our activities into question.”

  He said no more, but merely nodded and crossed to the door. Slipping the key into the pocket of her dressing robe, Ottilia began to follow, and then her eye fell on the bed. She checked.

  “One moment, sir. I forgot to retie the drape on my side.” She went up to the headboard again as she spoke and leaned to pull the velvet drape back. It eluded her grasp and Lord Francis came back and knelt on the mattress, reaching over to flick it towards her. A fold of his dressing gown fell away, and Ottilia was treated to a glimpse of bare leg. Flustered, she lost her grip upon the tie and it slipped to the floor behind the night table.

  “Drat!”

  Dipping down to her haunches, she felt about behind, her pulse out of kilter and a resurgence of burning in her cheeks.

  “Here, allow me.”

  Ottilia looked up to find Lord Francis directly above her on the bed, his untied lush hair falling about his face. Unable to move for an instant, she stared up at him, conscious of fluttering in her stomach. He grinned down at her and her mouth went dry.

  “Are you going to get up? I don’t wish to tread on you.”

  She threw herself to her feet with more haste than elegance and moved quickly aside as Lord Francis dropped lightly off the bed and swept a long arm out of sight by the night table.