As they climbed to the public floor, the scrabbling of rodent feet and the shrill cry of birds grew more noticeable, as did the angry roars of men. Olivia didn’t turn to look at Phoebe. There was no reason for Jameson to know who or what caused the commotion.
The elderly butler was muttering by the time he stepped into the main corridor. Olivia could swear the very proper servant uttered an improper curse as a squirrel raced over his polished shoe. She wasn’t particularly partial to the mice skittering in all directions as she joined him in the hall, but she swallowed her squeals.
“Where are the damned servants?” a male voice shouted from the front of the house. “We need to sack them all.”
“Glengarry,” Jameson whispered with a hint of resentment.
She supposed estate agents might sack servants. She didn’t know. She patted the butler on his stiff shoulder and ducked as a black bird darted over her head.
Phoebe giggled and scuffled down the hall, sweeping her broom back and forth and murmuring inanities like “dearie me.” Jameson stalked behind her, bearing the whisky decanter.
Olivia only followed as far as the study. When the shouting gentlemen in the foyer were distracted by sight of the decanter, she slipped through the doorway and closed it behind her. The room was completely dark. She leaned against the panel until her eyes adjusted.
“A rat!” a male voice shouted. “My word, that rat is bigger than me mother’s terrier!”
“Stomp them!” another man cried. “We’ll toast them over the fire.”
Imaginative. Phoebe wouldn’t like that. Not wanting to see what her cousin might do in retaliation, Olivia used the key in the lock to bar the door and pulled the sgian dubh from her garter.
“It ran up my leg!” the voice Jameson had identified as Glengarry cried. “Kill it, kill it!”
“Kill your leg, sir?” Phoebe asked in response. “Jist hold still a bit, and I’ll bash it with me broom, sir.”
Olivia smirked at her cousin’s antics. Then holding her breath, she jabbed the knife into the lock of the middle drawer. Simon would probably have a crisis of nerves seeing what she was doing to his precious knife.
“Ow, ow, that’s me you’re bashing,” a gruff voice shouted—the one she had mentally named Ramsay, the steward. “Stop it, you blind cow!”
His shouts and Glengarry’s, as Phoebe evidently began bashing more legs, covered the pop of the lock giving way. Hurriedly, Olivia found the pressure latch inside. Corroded and meant for a man’s hand, it didn’t give easily. She pounded it with the knife hilt until she heard the lower door crack open.
In relief, she carefully eased the middle drawer shut. Then she got down on her hands and knees and eased open the now-unlocked door in the kneehole. A package wrapped in oilcloth fell out.
The shouts and curses escalated, this time accompanied by coughing. Hastily, Olivia shoved the package into her apron pocket without looking at it. Boots pounded in the hall. Obscenities filled the air—so did soot. Black dust filtered beneath the door. Drew’s device was apparently working rather well. She hoped he stayed with the main chimney and not the smaller ones just yet.
She darted behind the draperies when someone tried the door latch. Whoever it was cursed and gave up, running off with the others.
Now, how did she escape?
With the snow falling harder, Simon left Drew on the roof, dangling his contraption down another chimney. The clamor below indicated they’d had some success in disturbing the card party. But not enough of them were running outside. Simon feared the women and children would not be safe, even if they obeyed and stayed in the kitchen. Which they wouldn’t.
Keeping his fury and fear at bay by imagining the puling cowards below covered in soot, he took the back stairs down to the bedroom floor.
“The place is cursed,” some fellow shouted from the far end of the corridor. “My man will never be able to clean this shirt!”
His man. Simon snorted. A fellow who couldn’t dress or take care of himself ought to be flung out in the snow.
He supposed the gents were running for their bags and whatever they’d brought with them. He hoped that meant they were leaving. Closing the oil lamp, he eased open the stairwell door.
Oddly, only one light seemed to be lit in the entire corridor—far down the hall near the main stairs. Men pounded up the shadowy steps, cursing and coughing. An unholy screech split the air over their heads. If the women had created that banshee cry, they were bloody good. The guests screamed and ducked.
Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Simon watched in astonishment as white fluttering—ghosts?—floated down the hall, creating a new volley of shouts and panic.
“Not cursed, haunted!” shrieked one bright fellow as ghostly linen brushed his head. He stumbled, then picked himself up and ran.
With disgust, Simon recognized the screech of a barn owl as it escaped the ghost. The formless white fluttered to the ground like a. . . sheet?
Once free of the encumbrance, the bird dived at the running men. Ducking and dodging, the lordlings practically ran backward to avoid angry predators and flying linen.
It took Simon a full minute to process the absurd scene that should have been on a stage parapet with Hamlet. Once he worked out the only way empty sheets could fly—he had to bite back an angry bellow.
This end of the hall, occupied mainly by the master suite, was relatively empty. Not caring if the milksops saw him, Simon stalked down the hallway. In the light of the single lamp, he discovered Aloysius lurking under a hall table. Pulling the boy out by the scruff, he demanded, “Where’s Enoch?”
The boy pointed at a partially open door across the hall. “He’s fine, sir. Anyone comes this way, he sends another sheet. If I could wear a pillowcase—”
“Both of you, downstairs, now!” Relieved the boys were safe, furious at the lot of fools running from childish mischief, Simon shoved the boys toward the empty end of the hall and the servants’ stairs. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Then, calculating where he’d seen the viscount emerge on a balcony earlier, Simon targeted Hargreaves’ room.
Twenty-two
A boot slammed into the study door. Startled, Olivia dashed behind the draperies again. The windowpane was freezing. She glanced out, and in the light from the small parlor, she caught a glimpse of light snow on the terrace. She might be able to slip out this window, but she still needed to check the hidden box upstairs—just in case.
The boot crashed again. Her ears were becoming inured to the obscenities on the other side of the door. She recognized the gruff voice she associated with Ramsay. Clutching Simon’s dirk, she feared she didn’t have the physical strength to defend the papers she concealed. She had to see the documents safe before she could do anything.
“Where's the keys?” the gruff voice shouted, banging again with his boot.
“For pity’s sake, Ramsay, there’s nothing in there. You took the last of the ammunition.” Glengarry’s educated voice chided the cruder steward attacking the door. “You can’t shoot birds inside the house.”
“I’m shooting whoever let the birds inside the house!” Ramsay shouted, kicking at the door again, with less vigor this time. “You don’t really believe ghosts did all this?”
“Of course not, although I might believe the witches did. If you’d just bought more liquor like I told you—”
“Lancaster never returned. He must have took the coins and made off with them. He’s probably sleeping it off at the tavern, where all our marks are headed. I’m gonna shoot the bitches—”
The men went silent, apparently waking up to the realization that the locked door might have a meaning. Grimacing, Olivia pried open the rusting latch on the window, climbed on the window seat, and lowered herself to the terrace outside. Using her broom, she swept at the light snow to conceal her footsteps and hurried back toward the kitchen. The packet in her apron weighed heavy on her mind. How did she conceal it, protect it? These papers migh
t be her future as well as that of no telling how many other people.
Or it could be a stack of old bills.
Praying she was doing the right thing, she hid the packet in the wagon box under a layer of old tools and proceeded on to the kitchen. The snow was falling faster now, covering her footsteps in the grass and gravel.
The kitchen was empty. Eyebrows rising to her hairline, pulse racing a little too fast, she hurried up the servants’ stairs. Where was everyone? Drew and Simon should have left the roof after the success of their soot remover.
She didn’t want to return to that chaos above, with evil men hunting for guns to shoot bitches. She’d hoped Simon and Drew had the viscount out of his room by now so all she had to do was slip in and find the box—although how she’d push the wardrobe was a mystery.
Just as she reached the public floor, the boys clattered down from above, excited and chattering. She hugged them both in relief.
“They’re running aboot like hens with their heids off,” Aloysius crowed in glee—the first time Olivia had seen him enjoying himself. “Enoch blew out the lights, and they were bumping and cursing—”
Alarmed, Olivia halted him. “He blew out the lights—how?”
“I thought real hard,” Enoch said proudly. “I didn’t know I could do that.”
Blowing out a gas flame without turning off the gas—Olivia tried not to have hysterics. “I need you two to do something very important for me. There are valuable papers in the wagon. I need you to guard them. If anyone tries to take the wagon, do you think you can drive it back to the house?”
They solemnly agreed they could. Olivia had her doubts. They were big, but they were just boys, and the snow was tricky. But she needed to clear everyone out of the house—now.
Wishing she had some means to shriek a warning, she waited until the boys left before peering out to see that the lights on the public floor were still lit. Men dressed in overcoats and scarves hauled luggage down the main stairs and out the front. They shouted about ghosts and bats and rats and roundly cursed their hosts.
She wanted to wish them good riddance and lock the door after them. She’d have to leave that to Jameson, who held the door and his hand out at the same time. She hoped the beasts had coins left to tip him.
Where was Phoebe?
A rook swept out the open door, over Jameson’s head. A squirrel scampered out between the feet of the guests, causing them to stumble and curse on the icy stairs outside. Phoebe must be directing the animals to openings.
She’d have to go upstairs alone. Her plan had all seemed so reasonable when she’d been with people she trusted. By herself, she wanted to hide.
Did she smell gas? Did gas have a smell?
The noise was dying down. Men still shouted an occasional curse as they stumbled across one of Phoebe’s creatures. She heard a rumble of male voices but couldn’t discern their location. Ramsay and Glengarry were evidently still here.
Where was Simon? With Hargreaves?
Not daring to test the hidden stairs in the withdrawing room, she continued up the servants’ stairs, heart pounding in terror. But she had to reach those gas lamps. How many were there? Not many. They hadn’t had the money for many. Three. She thought there were three on this floor. Most were downstairs, and they appeared to be on.
Enoch had been in the linen closet. He’d have blown out the one by the master suite. Choking back terror by planning one step at a time, Olivia peered into the dark upstairs hallway. She’d have to risk men with guns over being blown up.
Simon glared at the skinny viscount in disgust. Hargreaves had been pulling his trousers on over his drawers when Simon burst in. Apparently frightened by the din and confusion, his lordship almost looked relieved to see him—until Simon ordered him to put his boots on and hurry up about it.
“It’s snowing out there,” the viscount whined. “Just tell me what the devil is happening, and why you’re here. I’m sure I didn’t invite you.” He started to look terrified as he recognized Simon. “You! You hit me!”
“And I’ll do it again if that’s what it takes to move your puling arse out of here. Your hired thieves will be setting the place afire soon.” Simon threw an overcoat at him.
“Why would they do that?” the peevish lord asked, shrugging into the coat but not his boots.
“Maybe because they believe the lady when she says she owns this place and can prove it.” Simon made that up. He wasn’t great at lying, but this was half solid truth and part wishful thinking. The rest was pure codswallop to set the dolt moving.
Not arguing, the coward looked nervous as he finished tugging on his coat. “Where are we going?”
A tapestry by the hearth blew outward, letting in a stench of mold and musty air. The viscount shrieked.
“Can I punch him now?” Simon asked in disgust as Drew stepped out of the hidden stairway.
“Sure and why not?” Setting down his oil lamp, Drew dusted off his filthy coat and glanced around at the disorder of what might once have been a comfortable room until the lazy sod wrecked it. “I tested the stairs. They’re safe enough. Knock him out, and I’ll carry him down.”
The viscount grabbed an umbrella and held it defensively like a sword.
Simon ignored him. “The women?”
Grinning at the umbrella, Drew taunted, “Phoebe is muttering incantations down below. The last she saw of Olivia, she was locked in the study, destroying a desk.”
“That’s my desk!” the viscount protested.
“Then you should have used it for more than a tea tray,” Simon retorted. “Now it’s too late. They’re hunting your head.”
He turned to Drew. “If you can shove the lad out of here, I’ll be checking the study.” He clenched the hilt of his dirk to indicate his intention of fighting his way down if necessary.
“Ramsay and Glengarry are stalking the halls, carrying rifles and aiming at shadows,” Drew warned.
As if to confirm his admonition, a rifle blast echoed down the corridor. Shouts of “I got him!” followed.
Drew gestured. “Phoebe’s rats are big enough to hunt. I don’t recommend confrontation. Help me haul this half-wit down, and we’ll fight our way to the study together.”
His nerves and his temper already on edge, Simon had no intention of entering that narrow dark stinking hellhole. It had to be worse than a carriage. He’d rather face guns.
“I’m not done here,” he announced. “I just sent the lads down to the kitchen. Haul them all to the wagon and be ready to move.”
Drew shot him a sharp glance, but holding his sgian dubh, he picked up the lamp and indicated the dark doorway. “They mean to murder you, my lord. This is the safest way out.”
Hargreaves warily studied Simon, then the dark opening in the paneling. Apparently preferring escape to Simon’s glower, he slid on his slippers. “Put down the cutlery,” the viscount ordered, as if accustomed to command.
“You want me to be pulling it out of my belt if Ramsay comes after us?” Drew retorted, dropping his knife hand to his side. “This and our wits are all we have if we’re to escape with our lives.”
Scaring the fellow seemed to work, Simon noted. Hargreaves reluctantly ducked into the hidden stairwell, letting the tapestry fall and conceal it once again.
Worried about Olivia in a house full of fools with weapons, Simon eased open the bedroom door and listened to the dying commotion. He couldn’t see to the far end of the corridor. He heard a straggler clatter down the steps, cursing, and apparently swinging his valise at scampering creatures.
He had a choice—take the servant stairs down and traverse the well-lit corridor below. Or take this dark hall to the main staircase and come out by the study where he prayed Olivia hid.
Well, he could stay in here and hunt for the hiding place she’d mentioned, but he’d rather know she was safe first. She was a reckless fool and another intractable witch, but the world wasn’t losing another good woman to these bastards.
“There’s no one in there,” a voice he recognized as Glengarry’s shouted below. “You just ruined the door for naught.”
“Someone bloody well was in here,” a rougher voice retorted. “The desk is open.”
Simon pressed his back to the wall. His tension dangerously escalated to hurricane proportions, but this was no time to reach for his flask. Olivia wasn’t in the study? Where was she? Did he dare hope she’d gone back to the kitchen where she belonged?
“Will that be all for the evening, gentlemen?” Jameson’s best plummy tone carried up the stairs.
“You want us gnawed to death in our sleep?” Rough Voice asked caustically. “Put everyone to work clearing out these rodents.”
“I regret to say, there is no one left to clean up, sir. The maids fled just as the gentlemen did. Perhaps you would be more comfortable at the inn? The snow is not yet thick.”
“Not yet thick,” Glengarry repeated with sarcasm. “It’s howling up a blizzard out there.”
Howling maybe, but not necessarily snowing, Simon knew from experience. He took a hasty sip from his flask to steady his furious energies while trying to decide which way to go.
“Who will take Hargreaves his toddy?” Glengarry asked.
“I’ll see to his lordship, sir,” Jameson said stiffly. “Although there is none of the whisky left.”
Tucking away his flask, Simon eased toward the servants’ stairs. No point in starting a confrontation now. Where was Olivia?
“What about me?” an unfamiliar female called from below. “Is anyone taking me back to the inn? I have a little boy who needs me.”
Not staying to listen, Simon hurried toward the servants’ stairs, praying Olivia was in the kitchen.
He almost knocked her down in the dark corridor. She gasped, released the lamp she was fiddling with and caught her broom before it fell. Simon gripped her elbow. And because he couldn’t hide his relief, he tugged her into his arms and kissed her.
A Bewitching Governess Page 19
