by Corwin, Amy
Due to her vanity, however, any debt Uncle John had incurred was her responsibility. She had to see that it was paid. But not with the necklace. The emeralds had to be hidden so Oriana wouldn’t be tempted to sell them.
As she stood there, fingering the necklace, a plan emerged like a debutante freed from the schoolroom.
Helen would take the necklace to the Dowager Duchess as a gift. She would be so pleased with her that she would agree to pay whatever debt Uncle John owed. Then, they would all be safe. And Aunt Victoria would never know that Helen had failed in her duty to watch Uncle John and prevent his friendship with men like Mr. Dacy.
Putting the jewels back into the dusty bag, she slipped out of Oriana’s room. She completely forgot about the handkerchief she had desperately needed.
***
Down the hallway, John Archer watched, startled, as Helen glided out of Oriana’s room. He stopped in the shadow of his doorway, watching her move between the shafts of light with a curiously happy skip to her step.
What had she been doing in her sister’s room? He studied her, noting that she had something clutched in one hand. As she passed into the shadows between the windows and neared her room, she hesitated. Then, with a quick glance around, she opened the door.
As she stood there, light from her bedroom windows illuminated her pastel, blue muslin dress. Against that pale background, the lumpy red object she carried stood out in sharp relief. It looked like a small red pouch. A matching vermillion ribbon dangled down against her skirt.
He considered it. What would Helen carry around in a red pouch? Sewing materials? Not Helen. No. The odds were against that. Helen wasn’t the least bit domestic, unlike her older, more practical sister. The only things that brought smiles to her lips were fripperies such as ribbons and jewels.
He pulled his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. Jewels. That would certainly bring a smile to her lips. Jewels would bring a smile to his lips, too.
Waiting, he lounged in the shadow of his doorway. Helen wouldn’t stay long in her room. She grew bored easily and liked to be around other people.
Sure enough, before too many minutes passed, she flitted back out, shutting her door carefully behind her. Humming, she skimmed down the stairs as gracefully as an angel descending from heaven.
Again, he waited, counting to fifty-two—his favorite number. Then, he crept silently down the hallway and entered Helen’s room.
The red bag wasn’t hard to find. The chit hid it beneath the edge of the mattress, near the headboard. Archer smoothed the thick white coverlet back down and carefully replaced the blue pillows on top exactly as they had been. The light pats of his hand raised a cloud of lavender. The scent tickled his nose. He sneezed several times and then stood still listening.
The house was silent except for the gentle creaking of the wood. In the distance, he heard metallic tings coming from the kitchen and then a sudden murmur of voice.
He crept to the door and eased it open. The hallway was deserted.
Like any practiced thief, he waited until he was in his own room before he opened the bag.
The Peckham Jewels.
He whistled.
Helen and Oriana must have intended to pawn them to buy the silly gowns Helen had been squalling about for her Season in London. Luck was with him when he saw that bag in her hand.
The Archers couldn’t lose such a fine family heirloom.
Then he thought of how extraordinarily fine they would look around Lady Victoria’s long, elegant neck. She would be very pleased with him. And he would be pleased with her pleasure and perhaps he could persuade her to dally a few afternoons in the shady pavilion down by the pond.
Yes, indeed. The necklace would look extraordinarily fine sparkling around his dear wife’s neck.
***
Chilton saw Archer sneak into Miss Helen’s room as he was returning to check on Josephine. The dog had been acting oddly, but not as oddly as Archer. Chilton stood behind his door and watched through the crack. Mere seconds after Archer entered Miss Helen’s room, he came out again, pushing something into his pocket.
Whatever it was, it made Archer's pocket bulge. A red ribbon dangled outside, fluttering as Archer moved lightly back to his own room. After five minutes, Archer came out again and closed his door. He made his way down the staircase, whistling a very merry and naughty tune.
The chance was too good to pass up and Chilton's interest was aroused. He edged out of his room and slipped into Archer’s, shutting the door behind him. Despite his curiosity, he didn’t really care what Archer had stolen from his own niece. He just wanted to find his stepmother’s vowel and depart as swiftly as possible.
Then he paused at the thought of never seeing Oriana again. When he held her in his arms the other night, he felt as if he had come home. He wanted her, but she would be the first one to slap him across his scarred face and tell him to “hie thee hence,” if she knew what he was about. And he wasn’t too sure about Josephine’s reaction, either.
He lived on sufferance at The Orchards.
However, despite Josephine's peculiar behavior, there was no way he was going to leave her behind. The dog had insisted on returning to his room today, and although he had barely had time to check, it appeared as if she had stolen one of his best linen shirts. She had made a bed for herself on it in the corner of the room, next to the wardrobe.
Joshua would have a temper tantrum, thought Chilton irritably. What was this problem he had with valets, anyway? They were always insisting on telling him what to wear and what to do, as if they thought him a nodcock without the ability to come in out of the rain.
While he ruminated about what he was going to do with not one, but two irascible valets when he returned to London, he noticed the red ribbon again. It hung, barely visible, over the edge on top of the wardrobe. A few millimeters of the satin ribbon cast a very light shadow over the wood.
His curiosity got the better of him. He reached up and brought it down. The bag smelled faintly of lavender and curiously, old, dusty leather. Shaking the contents out into his hand, he stared at the intricate strands of gold embracing one of the largest emeralds he had ever seen.
The Peckham Necklace.
He had no doubts about what he dangled from his fingers.
“You old devil,” he swore. He replaced the necklace in the bag and thoughtfully put it in his pocket.
The old miscreant was clearly going to pawn the family’s jewels. Then he thought of presenting the necklace to Oriana. He suddenly wanted to see it around her neck, brushed by her lush brown curls and resting on the creamy skin. It was more than he could resist.
He would return the necklace to her. And while he was at it, he would reveal what he was doing here.
Maybe the necklace would be enough to earn her forgiveness for all his lies.
***
John, having forgotten his walking stick and finding a need for it, returned upstairs. He arrived in time to see Dacy exiting from his room. John paused.
What was Dacy doing in his room?
Then he smiled. The young man must have seen his stealthy exit from Helen’s room and his curiosity had been piqued. This wasn’t the first time someone had tried to pull a card from the bottom of the deck in a game with him. However, John Archer couldn’t be duped quite so easily. Not by amateurs.
He went to his room and pulled a chair next to the door, leaving it open a crack. Then he sat down to wait. A few minutes later, Dacy left his room with his dog trailing at his heels. John listened to them, the dog’s toenails clicking on the polished wooden floors and then receding down the stairs.
Again, he waited, counting to fifty-two before he entered Mr. Dacy’s room. He was a dab hand at searching. In less than five minutes he found the red bag tucked under the mattress in a similar hiding place to the one Helen had used.
Curious how so many people thought of the mattress as a sort of bank vault.
John laughed at his cleverness
and absconded once more with his wife’s emerald necklace.
Chapter Seventeen
Slow Play - To play a strong hand weakly so more players will stay in the pot.
The next afternoon, Chilton walked into his room to find Joshua in a tug-of-war with Josephine.
“What the devil are you doing?” he asked, already irritated because of Oriana’s avoidance of him.
Every time he walked into a room, she got up and left unless her uncle and sister were also there. Under the latter circumstance, she would stick her nose into a book, or pick up some suddenly critical mending, and utterly ignore him. He hadn’t been able to catch her eye once.
As a result, his temper wasn’t at its best. He glared at his valet.
Joshua let go of his end, jerking upright in surprise. His blue eyes widened and a flush of red crept over his cheeks. Taking advantage of the situation, Josephine pawed at the white fabric she had between her teeth and shoved it behind her into the corner. Then she sat down on it and faced the men. Her pink tongue lolled out of her mouth in tired triumph.
Chilton studied the dog. When Josephine’s remaining brown eye focused on Joshua, he could have sworn her lips curled into a sneer.
He bit the insides of his mouth to keep from laughing.
“Sorry, sir, but she’s got your best linen shirt!” Joshua stepped closer to the dog.
“Not my best any longer,” he commented, trying not to think about this yellow-haired idiot kissing Oriana. Even if they had been children at the time, the thought still annoyed him. “Leave the dog alone.”
Frowning, Joshua grabbed the back of the dog’s neck and reached behind her. She whimpered and tried to wedge her rump into the corner to secure the shirt.
“I said leave her alone!”
“But sir...”
“Let it go, Joshua.”
“But it were your best shirt!”
“Do you like your job?” he asked in a dangerously calm voice.
“Sir!” Joshua straightened and backed away until he bumped sharply into the wall. “I’m sorry, sir. Yes.” He swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat. “I’m sorry, sir. Yes, I like my job. I didn’t mean no harm. Honest, sir.”
He felt ashamed of himself for threatening the lad, but he couldn't seem to accept that Chilton meant what he said. He eyed his valet, thinking now might be a good time to be truthful with him. At some point, he needed to tell him that he already had a valet in London who would, no doubt, appreciate neither Chilton’s dog nor the young man standing before him.
Settling back, Josephine pawed her hard-won prize into a comfortable puddle. She circled several times before curling up on it. Then she settled her nose on her paws and yawned, her single brown eye gazing up at him adoringly.
“Good dog.” He moved over to pat her on the head. When he looked up, Joshua was eyeing him and the dog with a great deal of apprehension. “You’re a good valet, Joshua. Just leave Josephine alone, will you?”
“You aren’t going to dismiss me, then?”
“Not if you leave the dog alone. She’s fine. And it’s just a shirt.”
“But, sir—”
“She is not doing any harm as far as I can see. After all, it’s our fault for not providing her with a bed.”
“But, sir, you don’t realize—”
“Just keep the rest of my clothes out of her reach.” The dog rubbed her head against his knee.
“Yes, but sir, just look—she’s making herself a nest.”
“I see that.”
“Yes, but I don’t think you realize—she’s getting ready to birth. I’m sure of it. You’d best let Miss Archer know—she’ll know what to do.”
“What?” He studied Josephine more closely.
She stared up at him, her eye losing focus and drooping heavily with sleep. Her belly did look suspiciously plump. Then there was a sort of ripple through her body. She licked her nether regions, whimpering slightly. The muscles in her body flexed and relaxed again.
A wave of nervous panic hit him. He struggled for air in the hot room. “Is she going to give birth now? For God's sake, get Miss Archer!”
Joshua went running. Chilton sat on his bed, staring at his dog. He was about to become the owner of not one, but a pack of mongrel hounds. And yet he felt absurdly proud.
He got up and paced, stopping every few feet to stare at Josephine. Her sniffling worried him. Was it normal for her to whine in that fashion? Was she in pain? Shouldn’t he do something?
Minutes later, Joshua came back laden with an armful of old rags. Oriana followed hard upon his heels.
“Mr. Dacy!” She stopped short in the doorway. She rubbed her hands over her apron before she straightened her shoulders and entered with a firm step. Her plump lips compressed slightly as she stared into the corner where Josephine lay.
Distracted, he focused on her soft mouth, remembering the way it felt. He shouldn’t have taken advantage of her by kissing her. He would be gone as soon as he found his stepmother’s vowel. He should not tease her. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Her humor and warmth attracted him like a roaring fire on a blustery day.
“Well, Mr. Dacy. You're about to become a papa, I see,” Oriana said at last. She crouched on her knees and ran a hand over Josephine’s back. The dog licked her hand and whimpered as her belly rippled again. “Perhaps you ought to leave if you are squeamish.”
He moved nearer. “I am not squeamish. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Perhaps the look of shocked horror on your face?” she replied dryly. “Really, she doesn’t need any of us here. And it’s a shame you gave her your shirt. It’ll be quite ruined, I’m afraid.”
“She needed it more than I.”
She gave him a surprised look. Her brown eyes glinted with an emotion suspiciously like respect. He shrugged and shook his head, thrusting his hands into his pockets, wishing he didn’t feel like he’d been awarded another idiotic, useless medal of honor.
When Josephine whimpered softly, Oriana examined the dog, seeming to forget his presence. He walked to the window and glared out at the barn. The other dogs were occupied chasing each other. Periodically they stopped to stuff their noses into clumps of grass and straw, searching for rats.
“What is she doing?” he asked, turning back.
“She’s getting ready to give birth, Mr. Dacy. Why don’t you go and find Uncle John? You can occupy yourselves with a game of cards. Or you could go to town, perhaps? I believe we may be running short of brandy—”
“And you think I need it?”
“The thought did cross my mind,” she replied dryly.
“I’m not sure I should leave.”
She sat back on her heels and glanced at him over her shoulder. “This will take some time. There is really very little for either of us to do. You must have other things to occupy your time.”
“You’ll stay, though? In case she—well, just in case?”
Golden glints sparkled in her brown eyes. A shaft of late afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows and surrounded her. Her soft hair, pinned up in thick ringlets under a lace cap, glowed. He stared at her, transfixed.
He had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.
She looked like a lush, Medieval illumination lovingly drawn with rich highlights of gold leaf gilding her eyes and hair. Men would fight for such a woman. Even die for the right to protect and care for her. He would gladly die for just the chance to stay here and gaze into her warm face.
Then she grinned, breaking the spell. Mischievous dimples crinkled her rounded cheeks. “Yes, Mr. Dacy. I’ll stay. Now please, if you'd give us some peace and privacy…”
He moved away and shut the door, feeling bereft. Glancing up and down the quiet hallway first, he knocked on Archer’s door, hoping for distraction. There was no answer, so he wandered downstairs.
The blue drawing room was empty except for a maid polishing the furniture. The scent of beeswax and la
vender filled the room. He smiled at her when she raised her head.
“May I help you, sir?”
“No, no. Thank you, Rose.” He turned on his heels, searching the other rooms for his host.
The library was more rewarding. Archer sat near the fire, and Chilton was surprised to find him engrossed in a book. Many of the shelves were partially empty of volumes and looked depressingly bare. He supposed the books had been sold over the years to pay unavoidable debts.
However, there were still two shelves holding a variety of leather-bound books. A row of well-worn gardening manuals leaned drunkenly against one side, and he instinctively knew they were Oriana’s. Of even more interest were several swashbuckling novels tucked next to them.
“Archer!” He strode over to the fire.
He went over to the shelves and picked up a few books, studying the inside covers. He grinned. He was right. Oriana's neat, elegant handwriting identified them as hers. She had included the date the books were received and surprisingly, in a few of them, what appeared to be the cost.
She seemed to have quite interesting tastes in literature, he concluded. Then he picked up a heavy horticultural tome he would have expected to see on a scientist’s shelf. Again, her name was inside. Small scraps of pink paper were inserted between the pages. He pulled a few out and studied them curiously.
Errata, one of the scraps was labeled. Her neat hand indicated the page where there was a discrepancy, and she wrote a long explanation of the error. A second slip was tucked into a section on roses. He read through it, smiling at the conclusion: Rosa canina as a rootstock for roses is better grown from seed than cuttings. Healthier despite the time required to raise the seedling. See notes from 1809, 1810 and 1811. Oriana Archer, 1812.
Chilton had long been aware she wasn’t as lack-witted as she apparently believed, mostly because of her uncle's encouragement. Her cogent, sometimes humorously scathing, notes found amongst the pages of the gardening book merely confirmed his earlier observations.
