by Regina Scott
“Don’t they make a handsome pair?” she confided to Hannah with obvious pride. “I vow I will be happy to see my niece so well settled.”
So much for the theory that Priscilla was making it up. Hannah nodded in silence. Yet she could not help but wonder why Lady Brentfield had resorted to forcing the earl to walk with Priscilla if he were indeed enamored of her.
“I want you to know that I appreciate how you take your duty as chaperone seriously, Miss Alexander,” her ladyship continued. “But please do not stand on ceremony where love is concerned. If my niece and his lordship desire some time alone together, it is my wish that you allow them to do so.”
“She is your niece,” Hannah replied. As Lady Brentfield’s eyes narrowed, she realized she sounded critical. “That is, I would not presume to take your place in guiding Priscilla. I will focus my attentions on the girls whose relatives are not present.”
“That would be wise,” Lady Brentfield agreed. “And perhaps we might find something useful for you to do after all. I’m not sure we need any portraits painted, but I will speak to his lordship on your behalf.”
Hannah bowed her head in acknowledgment of the kindness, but inside she wondered just how kind Lady Brentfield could be, to Hannah and to the new earl.
Chapter Four
The following morning, five female faces gazed up at David expectantly. He had been surprised to learn that, in addition to granting him vast holdings and a country seat, being made earl had also gifted him with all knowledge of everything having to do with the Brentfield dynasty. When Priscilla had requested with nauseating adoration the night before that he take them on a tour of the great house, he had suggested that surely she and her aunt knew more about the place than he did. That suggestion had been met with such an outcry of denial that he had had no choice but to offer to lead the tour, even though he should be attending to estate business. Besides, he had thought, if he conducted it properly, he would be able to steal a little time alone with the charming Miss Alexander. He didn’t need an audience when he explained his concerns about the art treasures.
From the moment the art teacher had entered the blue room last night, it had been plain to him that her ladyship was not about to let David start a conversation that involved Miss Alexander. He had made several attempts and watched with amusement as the countess managed to turn every topic around to her dear niece. After a while, he had considered making a game of it, but Miss Alexander’s cheeks kept reddening, and he didn’t like to see her suffer so had allowed himself to be cozened and manipulated until he could decently retire for the evening.
Now he stood with the four girls and Miss Alexander in the portrait gallery of the east wing. It was ten in the morning, and even though the girls were dressed in white frothy things that couldn’t possibly keep them warm in the pale spring sunlight, they looked decidedly tired to him. He kept forgetting what Asheram had told him that Society in England went to bed late and woke late. This tour had probably forced them all out of bed hours early, with the possible exception of Miss Alexander, who looked quite presentable to him, even if she was relegated to that somber dress. Certainly Lady Brentfield was still asleep.
If he was any kind of host, he’d show them something better than the portrait gallery. But while there were a number of objects he was sure Miss Alexander if none of the others would find more interesting, the portrait gallery was the quickest way he could think of to rid himself of his entourage. There was nothing more boring, in his opinion, than staring at people you neither knew nor cared about. Even Asheram, the traitor, had refused to accompany him, keeping himself busy with household tasks instead. However, David was already beginning to think that he, and not the portraits, was on display.
“This,” he obligingly lied, pointing to the first picture, “is my great-great grandmother, Hortense, fifth Countess of Brentfield.”
Miss Alexander frowned, peering closer at the portrait of a silver-haired matron in a medieval gown that pushed her chest up to an unflattering height. As he was soon to be confirmed as the sixth earl, the fifth countess was unlikely to be his great-great grandmother nor reside during the Middle Ages. But if the art teacher caught him in his obvious falsehood, she politely did not mention it. The girls gazed dutifully up at the picture.
“She looks ill,” Ariadne ventured.
“She died of the black plague,” David offered. Lady Emily looked interested. Priscilla smothered a yawn.
“And this,” he continued with a wave toward the next gilt-framed portrait in the long sunny gallery, “is her husband, the sixth earl.”
“I thought he said she was the fifth countess?” Daphne murmured to her sister. Ariadne motioned her to hush.
Miss Alexander blinked, but still refused to comment. The man in the portrait was easily twenty years younger than his supposed wife and wearing the cassock of a priest.
“He must have given up his vows for her,” Lady Emily muttered to her friends. “They probably tortured him for it.”
“The torture would have been in marrying her,” Daphne answered with a shudder.
“And now we come to the maternal side of the family,” David went on determinedly. He nodded to a portrait on his right of a stiff-backed military fellow with a chest full of medals. “My grandmother, Lady Alice.”
Miss Alexander’s eyes twinkled, and she compressed her lips tightly together as if to keep from laughing. Daphne, Ariadne, and Lady Emily exchanged looks of bafflement. Priscilla turned as if to allow the sunlight from the nearest window to highlight her profile.
“Perhaps we’ve seen enough of the portrait gallery,” Miss Alexander suggested diplomatically. “There were a number of lovely pieces we noticed in the west wing, my lord. Perhaps we should start there instead.”
Three of the girls perked up instantly. Priscilla was turning back and forth as if to see if she could catch a glimpse of her reflection in the gilt frame nearest her.
David put on his sternest frown. “No, indeed, Miss Alexander. Asheram tells me that it is British tradition to start in the portrait gallery, and I am a slave to tradition.”
“Really?” she quipped, eyebrow raised. He wanted to laugh with her, but it would have spoiled everything.
“Really,” he insisted. “There are at least one hundred and eighty-three Tenants on these walls, and I will not rest until I’ve shown you every one of them.”
Daphne groaned, and her sister glared at her. Lady Emily scowled. Even Priscilla rolled her eyes.
“Of course,” he offered graciously, “if you ladies have something else you’d rather do, I’ll understand. Didn’t you want to go riding?”
Now they all beamed at him.
“Riding is a grand idea, my lord,” Daphne proclaimed.
“The fresh air is good for one’s constitution,” Ariadne agreed. “Any number of medical experts agree.”
“I find even the air of the stable invigorating,” Lady Emily added.
“I have the most darling riding habit,” Priscilla confessed. “I’ve been longing to show it to you, my lord.”
“Wonderful,” he said with a smile. “If you follow that stair at the end of the gallery, you should arrive in the rotunda. Yell and someone will show up. Ask them to lead you to the stables and tell a groom to escort you. I understand we have any number of horses.”
They obligingly turned and strolled to the stair, conversation once more animated. Miss Alexander started to go after them, but he caught her arm.
“Won’t you be joining them, my lord?” she asked, clearly confused.
“I don’t ride,” David told her, grinning. “I’ve never even designed a saddle. It’s a waste of good leather, if you ask me.”
“But the girls,” she protested, glancing toward the now empty stair.
“Will be just fine,” he replied, linking her arm in his. “They will be happier, and we will be happier. The grooms seem like nice fellows. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to take the girls out riding. I bet y
ou already know that you’re the only one who’ll really appreciate a tour of this place.”
“But Priscilla,” she tried, out of duty, he thought.
“Has most likely seen it all before. She visits often, I’m told.”
The frown on her face told him she was struggling with the idea of neglecting her duty. She sighed. “In truth, my lord,” she confessed, “I don’t ride either. If you truly think they will be fine without me, I should probably retire to my room until they return.”
“Nonsense,” David asserted. “I told you I had work for you to do, and since you find yourself free, I’d like you to start right away. There are several paintings that need to be identified. One’s by a fellow named Rembrandt.”
She gasped. “You have a Rembrandt?”
“It was hidden away. Come on, I’ll show you.”
The next two hours were some of the most enjoyable he had spent at Brentfield. He took her to a little-used room at the back of the west wing, carefully checking the corridor before he unlocked the door. She gasped again when she saw the pieces piled about the walls. The classical picture of a warrior and a sleeping goddess she identified with awe as being painted by Nicolas Poussin, apparently a rather famous French painter from nearly two hundred years earlier. The colorful piece of an open-air festival she told him was done by Antoine Watteau, another Frenchman who had painted in the last century. The fat females cavorting in their all together she claimed, with nary a blush, belonged to the Flemish painter Rubens. All were the masterpieces he had suspected.
She was just as interested with the other pieces in the room. While she rolled her eyes at the bust some long-ago Tenant had tried to cast himself, she caught her breath at the other bronze sculpture of a rearing stallion. He watched with pleasure as she dared to stroke the marble of a small statue one of his forebears must have stolen from a Greek temple and grinned as she gazed with wonder at the gold and lapis death mask that had surely been retrieved from an Egyptian tomb.
When she stepped away from the mask, her eyes were serious. “Priscilla said last night that the house should be opened to tours,” she told him. “As an artist and an art teacher, I must agree. These treasures should be shared with others, not piled up in a back room. You must put these on display, my lord.”
“Only if I can assure their safety,” David replied. Although he had only spoken of the matter to Asheram, he somehow knew that Hannah Alexander would understand as well. “I have some concerns about these treasures, Miss Alexander. I found them hidden.”
She blinked. “Hidden? Why? Where?”
David grinned at her, feeling as if she would enjoy the mystery as much as he had. “In a series of secret passageways.”
She did not disappoint him. Her dark eyes lighted. “The house has secret passageways? Who put them in? Where are they?”
“I don’t know who designed the passages,” David told her, linking her arm in his again and leading her out of the room. “But based on their location, I would say they were originally designed so that certain gentlemen could visit certain ladies unseen.”
“Really?” she murmured breathlessly.
He nodded. “But most recently, they seem to have become a storage place for every movable art treasure in the house. And I don’t think I’ve found them all.” He escorted her to the sitting room next door, where a large bronze bust stood on a pedestal along one wall. “Look at this piece, for example. Tell me, do you notice anything odd about it?”
She peered more closely at the bust. “The lines are a bit smudged, but perhaps that was the artist’s style.” She frowned. “And I don’t think this was the original base. It is actually rather small for this bust. Look, you can see cracks here under the lintel where the pedestal is beginning to strain under the weight.”
She was as sharp-witted as he’d hoped. “Precisely! Something else once rested on this base, something much smaller. Something that has been removed elsewhere.”
“Someone redecorated?” she suggested.
“Lady Brentfield hardly seems the type to notice such things as the placement of statuary. And from what I hear of the hunting-mad Lord Brentfield, he was more likely to be found on horseback than playing with the estates’ art treasures. Besides, I’ve noticed a number of pieces like this. Wallpaper squares less faded than what’s around them where a painting has been removed. Cabinets with a circle in the dust showing where a vase or statue once stood.”
“The russet painting in the Blue Salon,” she guessed.
He nodded. “Yes. In general, inferior objects like my ancestors’ bust replacing what I imagine were finer pieces.”
She blanched. “You suspect theft, then?”
“I did at first, until I found the secret passageways. While it’s impossible to match things perfectly, by the coloring or the decoration scheme, I can sometimes tell where those treasures you saw used to reside. I bet the rest are still somewhere in the passages.”
“Just how many passages are there?” she asked with a frown.
“They honeycomb this place.” He grinned at her. “There’s even one starting in your room.”
“There is?” She looked puzzled. “I can’t imagine where it could be. The room is huge.” She glanced at him suddenly, then lowered her eyes, a blush creeping to her cheek. “Where does it lead?”
She had every right to be suspicious. Here he was admitting he knew an illicit route to her bedchamber. But being the proper earl wasn’t going to solve the mystery of the misplaced artwork. “It connects with other passages at the corner of the west wing,” he explained. “I admit I haven’t been through all of them. But in each one I tried, I found at least one art treasure.”
“I don’t see why anyone would hide such work away,” she protested. “Were they caching the pieces to come back later and remove them from the house?”
“Or protecting them from someone else who wanted to steal them?” David countered. “I don’t know. Sometimes things are tucked into corners or slid behind beams. Sometimes they’re lying abandoned right in the center of the passage. But I could use help in searching, from someone who understands what to look for and the potential value of the pieces. Are you willing?”
As she considered the matter, he led her back down the west wing, stopping before the door of the room she had been given. He could tell by the way she bit her lip that she was torn. Already she understood why the pieces must be found and preserved, but he wasn’t sure she trusted him enough to wander about in the dark unescorted. Perhaps he should prove his trustworthiness.
Before she could protest, he swept open the door and strode to the wall between one of the wardrobes and the dressing table. Pressing the center of the engraved panel allowed him to slide it to one side. She followed him and peered past him into the darkness beyond. Snatching up a candle from the bedside table, he lit it and held it before him to step into the hidden corridor. “Come on. Perhaps if you saw the passages, you’d understand.”
She cocked her head as if considering his motives, and he gave her his best grin. “I won’t bite, I promise. Think of what you could experience for your next painting.”
“I paint people, not dark corridors,” she replied, but she stepped into the space beside him. He slid the panel shut and motioned her to follow him.
The corridor was tight; they had to go single file. He was used to the pale plaster on either side, the dust that piled along the floor, the feeling of clamminess that came over him even though the passage could not have been any more humid than the rest of the house. He wondered what she was feeling, seeing it for the first time. Glancing back at her, he found her gazing about, almost as awed as when he had showed her the masterpieces. He grinned and led her on.
The passageway ran along the south wall of her room for a short distance, ending in a set of narrow stairs.
“Watch your step here,” David advised, balancing the candle so that he could reach back to help her. “As we go up over the rooms, you have to walk on th
e beams.”
“Over the rooms?” she questioned, taking his hand to help herself up.
“As I said, it’s quite a honeycomb.” As they reached the top, he pointed to a two-foot-wide beam that ran into the darkness. “Make sure you walk on that and that only. Stepping off on either side puts you directly on the plaster. You aren’t very big, so it might not matter, but I’d hate to see you fall through.”
She swallowed. “Is this dangerous?”
“No, as long as you know what you’re doing. This way.” He could feel her reluctance growing as they walked the short distance to the corner of the west wing. There the passage opened up into a cross. She blinked at the branching corridors before her. David gestured with his free hand.
“There’s one of these at the corner of each wing,” he explained. “If you go steadily south along that corridor, you’ll find yourself up near the rotunda. Each wing has a spy hole, I assume for viewing arrivals without their knowledge. If you go steadily north along this one, you’ll eventually find yourself connecting with the servant stairs at the end of each wing. The servants don’t seem to know about this maze, but I can’t afford to believe that until I’ve recovered all the treasures and perhaps learned why they were spirited away. Going east or west leads you to the descending stair for that wing.”
“Amazing,” she murmured, eyes wide in the light of the candle. Her concern was obviously lost in the excitement of the unexplored. “I wondered why the ceiling was so low in my bedchamber. The box bed nearly touches it. It made the room seem out of proportion.”
