Lady Rosabella's Ruse (12 page)

‘No,’ Fitzwilliam said grinning. ‘It is a draw. Stanford made it to his end before you hit the stump.

A tie. A perfect ending. Though she could have used winning some money, not losing any was nearly as good. They gathered bats and balls and stumps and returned to Lady Keswick. ‘Who won?’ she asked, opening her eyes.

‘A tie,’ Stanford said. ‘Which deserves a toast.’ The footmen quickly distributed glasses of wine.

‘To the ladies,’ he toasted.

They drank in high good humour.

The sun went behind a cloud. Rosa looked up. The sky which had been clear earlier, was now filled with ominous clouds coming in from the east.

‘Oh, dear,’ Mrs De Lacy said. ‘Do you think it will rain?’

Stanford studied the clouds for a moment. ‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised if we weren’t in for a storm.’

As if to confirm his words, they heard the roll of thunder in the distance.

‘We had best make haste,’ Rosa said, and hurried off to help the grooms get Lady Keswick into her carriage.

Chapter Seven

T
he clock had struck one in the morning before Rosa dared make her way out of the house and into a storm that seemed to have no interest in abating. The edges of her cloak whipped out of her fingers and flew apart. Driving rain soaked the front of her gown. She put down her lantern and retied the strings tighter. She glanced back. No sign of anyone following.

This really was her last chance. She wished she’d thought of the cellars and the attic yesterday. Going out tonight was a huge risk after telling Stanford she was done searching. All evening she’d been picturing her and her sisters out on the street, or, worse yet, in a debtors’ prison. If she didn’t find the will tonight, she’d have to make a new plan. Not even her dream of working in the theatre would help her. She needed money now, right away.

And she’d spent the afternoon playing cricket. Flirting with Stanford. Offering advice to a woman who had never lacked for a penny in her life. Could things get any more ridiculous?

Thank goodness Stanford believed her when she said she wasn’t going to look any more. Well, there was no reason why he would not. She had meant it last night. He certainly wouldn’t be looking for her to go out on a night like tonight.

She plunged into the forest. The wind dropped dramatically, though it howled in the canopy overhead. She picked up her skirts in one hand and, holding the lantern high, ran along the path, avoiding the mud as best she could.

The river sounded much louder than usual. She paused at the centre of the bridge, looking at the dark swirling water in the circle of light from her lantern. It looked angry.

She hurried on, flinching at each clap of thunder, blinking against the flashes of lightning. No light shone from Inchbold’s cottage. Nor did she expect it, but it would have been nice to see his cheerful face. She soon had the back door open and stepped inside. The wind rattled the windows and shrieked down the chimney. She shivered. An empty house in a storm was a lonely place indeed.

Cellars first, or attic? The thought of the cellars made her shiver again. Then that was where she must start or she might avoid them altogether, although she really didn’t think her father would have kept important papers down there. She really had her hopes pinned on the attic.

She took a deep breath. Cellars first.

A low arched door led to the cellars from the kitchen. She’d never been down the stairs, but she’d known of their existence.

She lifted the latch and opened the door and gasped at the smell of mould and damp. A set of stone steps twisted downwards into darkness. Holding her lantern high with one hand and the wooden balustrade with the other, she marched boldly down the steps.

A narrow passageway led past a series of archways, some of them with doors that were open, some with no doors at all. The cellars were ancient and the ceilings low. As she peered into all the empty spaces a feeling of hopelessness filled her chest. A fool’s errand. She had to stop hoping, it was just too painful each time her hopes were dashed.

Footsteps. Loud. On the steps. She whirled around, her lantern casting dizzying shadows. Another lantern twinkled at the far end near the stairs. Her stomach did a belly flop. ‘Who is it?’

‘Find anything?’ a cool mocking voice asked.

‘Stanford,’ she gasped over the sound of her pounding heart. ‘You scared me. What are you doing here?’

‘Thought you’d give me the slip, did you?’ He had to bend his neck to prevent hitting his head on the arching ceiling.

She bit her lip. ‘Yes.’

His laugh echoed off the walls. ‘Well, I have bad news for you.’

‘You found me.’

‘That’s not the worst of it. The bridge is out.’

She stared at him, then, as he lowered his lantern, she saw that he was soaked to the waist and dripping water in a puddle all round him.

‘Oh, no. You fell in the river. You could have drowned.’

‘Wouldn’t that have solved your problems?’

‘Hardly. What sort of person would wish another drowned? Why did you follow me? I told you I was done here.’

He stared at her silently for a moment. ‘And like a fool I believed you.’

He sounded a little bitter. She recalled his opinion of women as liars with an odd sinking feeling that she’d proved him right in her case, too. ‘Oh.’

‘It’s a good thing I saw you from the library window, or you might have found yourself in the river on the way home.’

He was right, dash it. ‘Then I must be glad you are here.’ She did feel glad. Far happier than she had a moment ago. Because even though she’d found nothing in the cellar, the feeling of despair had receded, as if the light of his lantern had driven it back.

‘Did you find anything?’

‘There is nothing down here but some empty barrels, dust and a heap of coal.

He walked past her down the passageway, peering in the empty cellars much as she had. ‘Not much of a cellar.’

‘I think they were built for the original house. It burned down in the seventeenth century.’

He turned and came back to her. ‘You know a lot about this house.’ He sounded suspicious again.

She shrugged. ‘I told you. I lived here. You learn things about a house when you live in it.’

‘I suppose you do. Are you done down here?’

She sighed. ‘Yes. I can’t imagine anyone keeping anything of value down here. It is too damp.’

‘And cold,’ he said with a shiver.

‘Perhaps we should light a fire and get you dry?’

His eyes widened. ‘Why, Mrs Travenor, are you asking me to remove my clothes?’

Heat enveloped her. ‘Of c-course n-not,’ she stuttered.

‘Then you are thinking of parking me beside a nice warm fire while you go off and search on your own. I don’t think so.’

Horrid suspicious man. Dash it, let him think what he liked. ‘Suit yourself. But if you come down with the ague, don’t complain to me.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Shall we?’

He escorted her back up the steps into the kitchen.

‘The servants’ stairs to the attic is this way,’ she said.

‘After you,’ he said.

The sound of squelching followed her up the stairs.

‘Perhaps if you took off your boots,’ she suggested, imagining how uncomfortable he must feel.

‘I’ll keep them on,’ he said.

Stubborn idiot.

‘Did you say something?’ he asked.

Oh, Lord, had she spoken aloud? ‘No. Not a word.’ She continued the climb, past the first, second and third floors. The stairs came to an end on the fourth floor. She opened the small door at the top. ‘These are the servants’ quarters,’ she said. ‘At least, those of the lower servants—the housekeeper and butler have rooms on the ground floor since there is no room for them in the cellar.’

‘You think this picture is in the servants’ rooms?’

‘No. There is storage at the end.’ She walked quickly past the cramped chambers where the female servants would have slept in twos and threes. ‘Through here.’ Another small door barred their way.

She tried the handle. ‘It’s locked.’

‘Because the owner doesn’t want anyone going in there,’ he said drily.

‘Or because he doesn’t want the female servants sneaking through here to visit the men,’ she said equally drily.

‘Good Lord, is that how to keep them apart?’

He was laughing at her. This really wasn’t an appropriate topic of conversation, was it? ‘I need to get in here.’

‘Do you want me to break down the door?’

‘Do you think you could?’

‘No. It is solid oak.’

She gazed at the heavy wooden door. ‘Then why offer? Perhaps we should try from the other side.’

‘There might be a key in the kitchen.’

So there might. They trailed back down the stairs. A quick search through the drawers in the dresser beside the hearth revealed a bunch of keys.

‘The housekeeper must have left them here.’

‘How very obliging,’ Stanford drawled.

‘Are you insinuating I knew of their existence?’

‘You do have a key to the back door.’

‘Yes, I do. The groundskeeper gave it to me. He said nothing about this set of keys.’

‘Oh, yes, your accomplice.’

‘Accomplice? Oh, that is really too much. You still think I am here to steal.’

‘My dear Mrs Travenor. I don’t think, I know. You already told me you are.’

‘I only want what belongs to me. Nothing else.’ She glared at him and saw that he still didn’t believe her. ‘Oh, never mind. Come on, let us see if one of these keys work, but quite honestly you would be better off making a fire and getting yourself dry.’

She stomped out of the kitchen and back upstairs. He followed in silence.

Blast him, she hoped he froze to death. It would serve him right.

After a few tries, she found the key that fitted the lock and the door swung back. The room was stuffed full of tables and chairs and carpets.

Over against the wall where the roof came down almost to the floor, almost buried by a huge rug and behind an assortment of pictures, she spotted her father’s desk. The one that had once been in the study. ‘There,’ she said. ‘The desk.’

‘Wouldn’t the miniature more likely be with the pictures?’ he asked.

‘It’s small. He would have put it somewhere safe.’

‘And I suppose you want me to move everything so you can rifle through the drawers.’

‘It would give you a purpose for being here.’

He laughed and set his lantern down. The first thing he grabbed was the rug. A cloud of dust rose. They both started coughing.

Stanford flung it to one side. More dust flew. He picked up a portrait, the frame gilded and heavily carved. ‘It weighs as much as a pony,’ he grunted, setting it up against the rug.

Rosa moved some of the smaller pictures and set them on one side and moved a lamp out of the way.

The desk was clear, but the drawers were obstructed.

‘We’ll have to pull it out.’

Stanford heaved the heavy oak piece as if it weighed nothing, though he did make a grunt in his throat.

‘That’s far enough,’ she said. Quickly, she opened the lid. It had assorted drawers and little pigeon-holes, but as she felt around with her fingers she discovered nothing like the catch in the escritoire. No secret compartments.

She pulled out the drawers each side of the knee hole. The desk was completely empty.

She felt around again, hoping against hope she had missed something. Not a knot or indentation did she feel.

Her stomach slid sideways. Her knees felt weak.

It wasn’t here. A lump formed in her throat. Hot moisture stung the backs of her eyes. Grandfather was right. Father hadn’t cared.

All hope fled.

She’d have to write to Grandfather again. On behalf of the girls. She didn’t care about herself.

She glanced up to find Stanford watching her intently.

‘It’s not here,’ she said, trying to sound casual, and failing miserably as her voice broke.

‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded sorry. And uncomfortable.

She turned to put back the drawers and surreptitiously wiped her eyes. He didn’t need to know how hard this blow had hit. ‘I suppose we should put this back where we found it.’

‘I doubt anyone will care. Is there anywhere else you want to look? There’s a chest over in that corner. I could dig it out.’

Surprised, she darted a glance at his face. For once he looked genuinely concerned. Almost as if he believed her.

She looked at the chest, brown leather and bound in brass. It wasn’t something she recognised. ‘I suppose we could look inside.’

Once more he cleared a path through the items piled up in the room. Dust flew up in clouds while the rain drummed on the roof, inches above their heads.

Thankfully the chest wasn’t locked and she easily lifted the lid.

‘Oh,’ she said, realising instantly what she was seeing. The tools of her mother’s trade. Wigs and feathers and face paint. Even a costume or two.

Stanford leaned over her shoulder. ‘Any luck?’

It was possible her father had hidden the will in here. Of all the places her grandfather was likely to look, this would be the last. Anything to do with her mother’s lowly profession made him shudder with revulsion.

Carefully she lifted out a pair of old-fashioned green leather shoes with paste buckles, faded ribbons and paper stuffed in the toes.

‘I say,’ Stanford said, leaning over her. ‘Look at this.’ He pulled out a mask. The kind revellers wore in Venice, turquoise, with fancy embroidery, a pointed beak and feathers. A peacock’s face.

‘It is beautiful.’ She set the shoes aside.

He dropped the mask on top of them. ‘Hah, what about this one?’ He placed the scary devil mask against his face, his eyes gleaming through the eyeholes. ‘Am I a handsome fellow?’

‘Much better looking than usual.’