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Thank heavens for the lack of a moon, though he could have done without the rain.
The lantern danced ahead like a glow worm. Or a naughty little wood sprite of children’s stories. Except there was nothing of the wood sprite in Mrs Travenor. Far from it. She looked like an innocent and sang like a siren, an erotic siren. As exotic as an eastern princess.
The lantern stopped bobbing.
Damn. She’d heard him. He remained still, not breathing, staring into the dark, listening to the sound of the rain splattering on leaves, on his hat and his shoulders. The rain itself was of the fine drizzling sort, a kind of irritating mist, but the leaves harboured the foggy stuff, releasing it in big fat drops.
The twinkle moved on. Faster this time. He increased the length of his stride, determined not to lose her. In his mind’s eye, he tried to guess her destination. There was nothing out here, except woods. He’d checked with the gardeners.
A new sound, the sound of running water, overpowered the pattering of the rain on the leafy floor. A small stream, if he recalled the map, with a narrow footbridge. It defined the boundary of the neighbouring estate.
The progress of the lantern slowed to a crawl. He drew closer, catching glimpses of ancient wooden rails in the swinging circle of light. Why would she risk life and limb crossing such a rickety structure?
He waited until she was clear and approached the stream. Feeling the slick boards beneath his feet and the shake in the timbers in his grip, he crossed slowly.
Wherever she was going, it had to be important to risk traversing this bridge.
By the time he reached the other side, all sign of her lantern had disappeared. Cursing under his breath, he wandered around seeking a path. Without her light to guide him, it took him a good few minutes to find the track, only to discover he’d gone in a circle ending back at the bridge. This time he used his brain and sparked his tinderbox. In the brief flash it provided, he found her footprints in the mud, heading off to the right.
He pressed on through the tangle of brambles. A wet branch slapped him in the face. He grabbed for his hat. He cursed at the trickle of chilly rain running down between his collar and his skin. Any owner of a property who let his woods grow wild ought to be shot.
The woods ended at a lawn. And beyond the lawn there had to be a house.
Got you!
He frowned. Why so much secrecy? He couldn’t imagine
Lady Keswick caring if her lady companion had a special friend at her neighbour’s house. He could even imagine the old girl encouraging the lass.
Perhaps she had. Then why not admit it?
He forged on. The house was there, he knew, he’d seen it on the map, but strangely, it was utterly dark. Even if all the occupants were abed, which they couldn’t be if she was meeting someone there, then there ought to be some light in the corridors and stairways.
The house must be empty.
The crunching of gravel beneath his feet signified he’d reached a drive, albeit a rather weedy one. And at the end of the drive, he found a house. Of Mrs Travenor there was no sign. How far ahead of him was she? He must have lost sight of her at least a half an hour before. He went around to the back of the house and stopped.
Here were the lights he sought. A lantern hanging beside a back entrance to the house. It bounced off slick cobbles.
Of Mrs Travenor there was no sign.
He crossed the courtyard, searching for a clue to her whereabouts. He scanned the back of the house. There. A light. On the second floor. It wasn’t very bright, but it had to be her.
She’d gone inside. It was the only explanation.
What in hell’s name was she doing?
He walked carefully up to what was clearly the kitchen door and put his ear to the crack at the jamb. Nothing.
Slowly, he depressed the latch. The door opened silently. He stilled, breath held. No cry of alarm. No footsteps coming his way. He opened the door enough to allow his body to slide through and closed it behind him.
Now he really was in the dark. In the pitch-black, with the echoing sound of footsteps somewhere deeper in the house.
It seemed Mrs Travenor was up to no good.
A sense of disappointment slid through him, bitter edged and sharp. He hesitated. He could just walk away and forget what he’d seen. Or he could catch her in the act and, damn it, see her brought to justice. Clearly she’d been using Lady Keswick as her dupe to gain access to this empty house and now was about to make off with some sort of loot. His gut knotted. He almost preferred to think of her in the arms of a lover than this.
He fumbled around as quietly as possible until he found the stub of a candle. Taking his time in order not to alert her to his presence, he lit the wick. The light revealed an abandoned kitchen. Clean. Tidy, but definitely not used recently. A narrow set of stairs led upwards. Perfect. He’d take the servants’ stairs to the second floor, where he’d seen the light, and catch her in the act.
This was impossible, Rosa thought, staring around the library at chairs and tables covered in sheets and walls lined with empty bookshelves. Where did she start?
She set her lantern down on the red-leather-covered rent table in the middle of the room. It had a keyhole within its central circular section. Would her father have hidden his will in there? It seemed unlikely. Any fool would look there first, and Grandfather wasn’t a fool.
She pulled on the knob beside the keyhole. It lifted easily. She groped inside, feeling nothing but dust under her nails. Ugh.
Walking around the table, Rosa pulled open the three drawers beneath its top where Father would have kept his records of rents paid and collected. More emptiness.
She turned in a circle. This room still had all of its pictures. Perhaps they disguised a hiding place.
She pulled one of the straight-backed wooden chairs underneath a hunting scene adjacent to the hearth.
She hopped up on the chair. The picture shifted easily enough to reveal blank plaster painted blue like the rest of the walls. Disappointed, but not surprised, she slid the picture back in place. Something gave way with a snap. The picture slid through her hands. It was going to smash to the floor. She clutched it, wobbling on the chair.
‘Blast!’
‘Well, well,’ a menacing voice said from the doorway. ‘I had no idea you were an art lover, Mrs Travenor.’
Rosa gasped and almost dropped the picture. ‘Lord Stanford?’ Oh, no. What was he doing here?
He strolled to her chair and looked up at her. ‘It seems a call on the magistrate is in order.’
‘You followed me.’ Gripping the picture frame, she stared at the cynical twist to his mouth and the suspicion rampant in his dark eyes.
‘As well I did,’ he said. ‘Or you’d be making off with someone else’s property.’ He moved in close, too close, and grasped the picture by the frame. ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you to steal this.’ He took the frame from her grasp and set it down, one edge on the floor, the other leaning against the wall.
He put his hands around her waist and lifted her. His hands were large and warm; he smelled of rain and cigars, and sandalwood. He set her down lightly, as if she weighed nothing at all. ‘Now then, madam, what are you up to?’
How to explain without giving too much away? ‘I know this doesn’t look good, but I am looking for something that belongs to me. I did not intend for the picture to come down off the wall.’
Stanford laughed. ‘Smooth, Mrs Travenor. Very smooth. You must think I’m an idiot.’
‘Then why do you think I have the key to the door?’
He frowned. Looked a little nonplussed. ‘Perhaps you have an accomplice.’
Her heart sank. She certainly did not want to implicate Mr Inchbold. Brazen it out. It was the best way—she’d learned that during her long years at school. And more recently in dealing with the doctor who had come to attend her sister, Sam. ‘I have the key, my lord, because I have every right to be here. I used to live here with my father and I believe he left something behind.’
If anything, the curl to his lip increased. ‘Money? Of course. You are looking for a safe. Expecting to find the family jewels, perhaps?’
‘There are no family jewels here.’ They had all gone to her stepmama. Even those her father bought for her mother. Blast Lord Stanford—why couldn’t he just stick to playing cards instead of chasing after her?
It was that business with Hapton in the linen closet, no doubt. A blush crept up her face. He thought she was no better than she should be. Apparently in more ways than one. ‘This really is none of your business.’
‘It is every man’s business to protect his fellow from thieves and burglars.’ He gave a rather nasty laugh. ‘Indeed, I’ll have you know I am sworn to uphold the law in my role as a member of the House of Lords.’
She gave him a sour look. ‘God help England.’
He cracked a laugh. ‘Indeed.’
Dare she trust him? She heaved a sigh. ‘Perhaps if I explain …’
He nodded, his eyes wary. ‘I’ll listen. But stick to the truth. I will know if you are lying.’
Not telling everything was not lying. All she had to do was convince him she wasn’t a thief. ‘As I said, I lived here once.’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Mrs Travenor, you are the most outrageous female I have ever met.’
‘It’s true. There is a servant here who can vouch for me.’
‘Where is this servant?’
She winced. ‘He had to go to Rye, but he will be back and he will confirm that my father was a tenant here before he died. We had to leave in a hurry.’
The laughter left his face, replaced by a swift frown. ‘Debts?’
Well, there were debts. Just not her father’s. ‘Yes.’
His mouth twisted in that cynical smile. ‘And what do you expect to find behind the pictures?’
He didn’t believe her. She swallowed. She couldn’t tell him about the will because then he would want to know the names of her relatives. If any word got back to her grandfather about her search, he would no doubt ban her from the house and Inchbold would be in terrible trouble.
She clasped her hands together, a prayer for his trust. ‘A miniature of my mother. It was only after he died that I realised it was missing from his effects.’ It wasn’t completely a lie. Change the word miniature for will and it was as close to the truth as she dared get.
He looked unconvinced.
‘In two days the house will be rented again. This is my last chance to search.’ She couldn’t stop the pleading note in her voice. Not that she thought pleading would do any good, judging by his forbidding expression.
‘Are you sure it is here?’
‘It cannot be anywhere else.’
‘Why sneak about in the night? Why not just ask the owner for permission to look?’
Did he have to be so logical? ‘The owner is unlikely to grant me permission, given the cloud we left under. Surely you won’t stop me from looking for what is mine? It has no value to anyone except me and my sisters.’
His expression remained doubtful.
She swallowed the dryness in her throat. ‘You can stay and watch if you wish.’
‘Good God, woman, it is long past midnight. A time when honest people are heading for their beds.’
‘I have other duties to perform during the day, as you know.’
He muttered something under his breath. ‘All right. Search. But you will not remove anything from the property without the owner’s express permission.’ He folded his arms across his chest and leant against the wall.
It was the best she could hope for. Besides, if she did find the will, she would be able to put paid to his suspicions in an instant.
She stared at the picture on the other side of the fireplace, another hunting scene. She dragged her chair around the hearth and stepped up. Taking care not to put any pressure on the cord, she pushed the picture aside. Nothing here either. Skirts in hand in preparation of jumping down, she glanced over at Stanford. He was staring at her ankles. When she didn’t move, he raised his gaze to her face. She glared. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
Heat flooded her body at his lazy mocking smile. They locked gazes for a moment and then finally he shrugged and looked away. She leapt from the chair.
There was another picture, this time a Scottish scene, complete with a gillie and his dogs out amid the heather. A console table stood beneath it. It looked sturdy enough to hold her weight, but she needed the chair to climb up. She turned to pick it up.
‘Allow me.’
The velvety voice in her ear caused her heart to leap into her throat. She drew back. ‘Certainly. Over there by the window, if you please.’
‘That is not the kind of wall where one would locate a safe.’
‘I want to look.’
‘Well, we don’t need the chair.’ He strode to the picture, reached up, grasped the frame and shifted the picture at an angle. Nothing. His expression was long suffering. ‘As I said. Can we now put an end to this nonsense?’
Damnation. He was going to try to rush her out of here. ‘If you don’t want to help, sit down and leave me to it.’ She walked over to the bookshelves and tried twisting and turning any ornate projection she could see.
He let go a heavy sigh and did the same for the ones above her head. Lord, but the man was tall. When they were finished there, she peeled back the large rug covering the middle of the floor and started on the floorboards.
‘What is so important about this picture anyway?’ he grumbled while he tested the boards at the other end of the room.
‘It is the only picture we had of my mother.’
‘Why would someone hide it away?’
The man just couldn’t leave well alone. ‘My father couldn’t bear to look at it after she died. He put it away in a safe place for us. When we left, it was forgotten.’
‘It sounds like a very bad play,’ he said. ‘Who can’t bear to look at a picture?’
‘My father loved my mother very much.’
‘As I said, a very bad play,’ he scoffed.
She frowned at him. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but the smile on his lips was not merely mocking, it was bitterly cynical.
‘I suppose you are one of those men who does not believe in love,’ she said, flipping down one corner of the rug and moving to another carpet corner on her side of the room.
‘Love is a fairy tale created by females with nothing better to do than create fantastical events in their heads.’
