Never to Part (9 page)

The baron turned his gaze back to the door. “Is the key in your care, Mr. Tailor?”

“It was not among the keys I was given when I arrived. I did not realize that for some time, but when I did I presumed you would have it.” Tailor wrinkled his brow. “’Haps the Clandon family has it in their keeping.”

“If you will give me their direction,” Richard told him, “I shall pay a call.”

“If you wish, you may accompany me this eve. I am to dine there,” the vicar offered. “Mrs. Clarendon would be delighted to have another male at table.”

“Excellent,” the baron said. “I am obliged to you.”

Tailor smiled. “Meet me at the rectory. That house,” he pointed it out, “at four. Early dining in the country. Now if you will excuse me, I must call on Mrs. Spenser. Good day.”

Richard watched Tailor stride across the cemetery. When the vicar turned out of sight, the baron tried the door again. It didn’t budge. Frowning Richard stared at the door, and then an idea formed.
Just in case the Clandons don’t have the key, I’ll have to see about getting the proper tools
.

Not wishing to overlook any clue, Richard next paid a visit to the church. Inside it the comforting odour of years of melted beeswax and incense greeted him. Sunlight beamed through the six stained glass windows, three on a side.

A cursory assessment revealed one major difference in the windows. The one in the centre on the right had a box as part of the stone ledge beneath the window. Above it sat an odd stone figure.

Inspecting it Richard was surprised to find an etching of what looked to him to be a pair of identical dryads on the front of the box. Between them was a five-sided depression as if for a key. He drew his fingers carefully along each edge and pressed on the edges of the box. It appeared seamless and apparently only for decoration.

For all that I know I’m on the right track
, Richard thought.
I can almost sense something . . . someone guiding me
. Realizing what he had just thought, the baron grimaced. “If that’s so,” he said aloud, “perhaps you can explain the verse?”

When no one answered, he shook his head and left.

“He’s the right idea,” Lord Ricman told his wife.

“I doubt he’s surmised what the “Gemini” in thy verse means,” Lady Laurel fretted.

“But the dinner invitation—”

“That was well done of thee,” she admitted. “I wonder how Miss Stratton fares?”

The note of concern in his wife’s voice unsettled Ricman. “Thou couldst have gone with her.”

“Separation ‘tisn’t acceptable, my dear.” Lady Laurel caressed his bearded cheek. “We shall do well enough this eve when they are together. Besides, ‘tis it not rather romantic being in my home.”

“From which thy father’s servants tumbled me down the steps—on his orders,” said Lord Ricman with great asperity.

 * * * *

Daphne and Mary returned from their visit to Nelson’s house in time to change for supper. On their way up the stairs to their chambers, Mary’s younger sister ran to greet them.

“I didn’t think you would e’er get home,” seventeen-year-old Amelia exclaimed. “The vicar sent word that he’ll bring a guest this eve,” she prattled. “You’ll ne’er guess who.”

“Unless it is John, I don’t care,” Mary chided her.

“But ‘tis a baron. Mama says a very eligible one. Isn’t it exciting, Miss Stratton,” Amelia asked earnestly.

“He may be as old as Methuselah,” Daphne warned. “A title doesn’t guarantee that the gentleman be handsome or pleasant.”

“Let your sister and her friend dress for dinner,” Lady Clandon ordered from the top of the stairs.

All three young women hurried to do as bid.

After washing up Daphne studied the contents of the wardrobe. The only stylish gown she had brought was the one she had worn that devastating evening at Heart Haven.

“My luck is not such that the
baron
coming to supper would be the
heartless
one I have come to . . .” Daphne’s heart constricted. She could neither force the word
hate
out of her mouth nor bear to think of its opposite.

With stern resolve she took the gown and pulled it over her head.
Concentrate on what you must do after supper. After everyone has gone to bed
.

When the maid assigned her had finished buttoning her gown and hurried out to help the younger sister, Daphne re-examined the verse. She had ferreted out as much information on it as she could from the Clandons.
‘Morpheus’ arms’ must mean the mausoleum. Could the treasure be there? If only
. She picked up her gloves and hurried to join the family in the salon.

Sir Clandon turned to Miss Stratton when she entered.

The smile Daphne gave him when she saw the approval in his eyes froze in place when she noticed the man to one side of the fireplace.

“Miss Stratton,” Clandon boomed, “let me introduce Lord Dremore.

“Miss Stratton’s a right good sort—friend of my daughter,” he told the baron.

Richard’s bow was curt and stiff.

Daphne dipped into the slightest curtsy possible.

Clandon took Daphne by the arm and drew her between him and the baron. “You two have like interests,” he told her. “Lord Dremore was just asking me about the mausoleum at St. George. Built by his ancestor, as you know from our visit about it.”

Daphne’s heart scudded to her throat. She did her best to maintain nonchalance in the face of this dire news.
Have you grown tired of fleecing innocent lambs and are now bent on treasure?
she wondered.

Blazing with disapprobation Daphne glared at Richard and asked, “A recent interest, my lord?”

When the baron seemed taken aback for a moment Daphne was startled. Could he possibly care for her good opinion? For a moment there was no one in the room but the two of them. The appearance of displeasure in his eyes answered her.

“I am most anxious to hear about why you are interested in my family’s mausoleum.”

“Ahh, our guests have come before times,” Lady Clandon said as she sailed into the room, daughters in tow. With a commanding general’s skill, she manoeuvred Amelia and Mary to either side of Richard. Miss Stratton she relegated to the vicar and last as they went to the dining room.

Throughout the meal Daphne could feel Richard’s gaze on her. She was glad to escape it when the ladies withdrew to the salon. There she joined Amelia at the piano and happily consented to turn pages for her. In far too short a time the gentlemen joined them.

Clandon entered at their head with Richard. To Daphne’s dismay he led the baron straight to the pianoforte.

“Ahh, Miss Stratton, ‘haps you could let Dremore here turn the pages,” Clandon said. “Mary must find it dull going with only her mother and the vicar.”

Daphne flashed the baron a false smile and nodded. When she walked past him he caught her elbow. Her heart lurched at his touch. Her senses reeled under the assault of that mixture of leather and bay rum and his unique scent that had haunted her since Heart Haven.

“I will speak with you,” Richard said in an undertone, his mouth inches from her ear.

The baron’s warm breath coursed a chill through Daphne that coalesced into heat. She dared neither to look at him nor to linger. Walking forward, Daphne called lightly, “Mary, let us play piquet.”

“Have I been given the wrong impression, Miss Stratton?” Richard dryly called after her. “Aren’t games of chance your brother’s forte?”

Daphne whirled to face him. Anger tinged her cheeks. “Look not to shear another sheep, my lord.”

“Take that sentiment to heart, Miss Stratton.”

Shaken by Richard’s words Daphne hurried to the table where Mary sat with cards in hand.

Her friend leaned forward. “What was that about?”

Not trusting her voice Daphne shook her head. After the first game of piquet she pleaded a headache and asked to be excused. “Good eve,” she nodded to Mary but didn’t dare look to Richard.

“Lady Clandon. Sir Clandon. Mr. Tailor.” With a dip of a curtsy, she continued to ignore the baron and strolled unhurriedly out of the salon.

Once in her chamber, Daphne paced and furiously plotted what to do. A plan selected from those she had considered during the journey from London, she quickly began to implement it. After changing into a dark merino gown of simple cut, Daphne climbed into bed. She blew out her night candle and settled in to wait until the house was quiet.

Glimpses of moments at Heart Haven loomed in the dark like lightning in an approaching storm.
Why can I NOT see his aura
? she lamented.
Surely there has to be a reason
. She thought of her father and mother, of Saddie and her brother—she had never seen their auras. Maddeningly no answer came.

“
Turned him murderous and blind with rage
,” Daphne quoted from the verse and shivered. “I will not think of what could have been,” she vowed, but a tear slowly slipped down her cheek.

His unusual preoccupation with the moon-cast shadows annoyed Richard but also made him uneasy. He ignored the urge to lengthen his stride and hasten his steps as he walked towards the cemetery beside the church of St. George. When a dog barked, Richard raised the hooded lantern he carried and slowly swung it in an arc. He saw nothing but the village draped in shadows in the shades of grey and black.

“Nonsensical to be so on edge,” he said and continued walking towards the cemetery.
‘Tis a bloody damnable coincidence Miss Stratton is visiting here on the same day I arrive, but is that all it is?

It’s nonsense to wonder about it. There is no way she could have come into possession of the second verse.

A slight rustle of swirling leaves sent an unexpected chill up the baron’s spine. Richard looked over his shoulder and then chuckled derisively. “Miss Stratton is safely tucked in bed at Clandon Hall. There is little else to fear in Biddleage.”

The words conjured up a vision of the young woman, not dressed as she had been this eve, but lying atop the coverlet of a large bed wearing a diaphanous gown. Blood surged to his groin.

Swearing under his breath, Richard sought for anything that would banish the persistent longing that pulsed in his veins at the mere thought of Daphne. The image of Blanchard yesterday in the library rescued him.

If only he hadn’t come into the library silent as the proverbial cat on mother’s heels. For all his nonchalance and innocent posing I swear Eldridge saw the verse long enough to read it. He has always been a sly devil. I’d put naught beyond him
.

“Could Eldridge have figured it out and followed me?” Dremore wondered aloud.
Does he believe in the treasure
?

With a stern reminder that only dislike of his cousin made him suspicious and that the legend was more myth than truth, Richard put aside any concern from that corner. He turned his thoughts to the problem of the lock and the lack of a key.

 * * * *

Daphne halted behind a tree at the edge of the green opposite the church and cemetery. She checked in all directions as well as she could in the darkness. Nary a creature was astir. The sudden bark of a dog startled her. Daphne pressed close behind the tree and waited.

Jaw clenched and grip tightened on the piece of firewood she had purloined on her way from Clandon Hall, Daphne counted ten after silence returned. She eased away from the tree and looked in the direction of the cemetery. At the edge of the green the looming church blocked sight of the mausoleum.

To weaken a sudden bout of trepidation Daphne stoked the anger Richard had aroused by his implied insults. She fisted her skirt to calf length and dashed haphazardly across the green.

The stone wall on the edge of the church’s grounds rasped against Daphne’s palm when she reached out to it on the other side of the green. But that and the cold damp of dew-wet slippers were forgotten as she edged around the front corner of the wall. Sight of a glimmer ahead roused a wave of panic.

Was that a lantern? Who would be about this time of night?
A hand to her hammering heart, Daphne swallowed hard. She tightened her grip on the branch she held.

A night watchman? ‘Haps that ‘tis all
. She breathed a sigh of relief.
I’ll slip to the back of the church and wait until he is gone.

The dark shadows cast by the church enveloped her like a shielding cloak. But the rustling of leaves close by alarmed Daphne. She looked about but could see nothing in the gloom.

Your imagination
, she scolded. After what seemed an eternity she edged to the opposite corner and peered across the graveyard.

“Drat,” she whispered, annoyed that the door of the mausoleum was hidden from view. Spying an intricately carved tombstone at least as tall as she and four times as wide, Daphne tiptoed hurriedly to it. Crouching behind it, she peered around the corner, then edged carefully to other side.

Not a glimmer of a lantern, thank goodness
. Daphne glanced up at the black velvet sky with its spatter of patches of clouds. The moon and a few stars twinkled in the lighter areas.

The regret that it was not a completely moonless night stifled, she ran on tiptoe to the next large tombstone. From it Daphne could see one of the columns at the front of the mausoleum. She patted the reticule that hung from her forearm. The iron pick she hoped would open the lock and her candle and flint were still safely stowed. With a glance about she stole forward.

Half way to the rear of the mausoleum a loud thunk nearly sank Daphne to the ground. With a fearful gasp she hurried to the mausoleum’s rear wall. Once there, relieved, Daphne sank her head against the cold stone and listened. She wondered if the noise could have been a hand slammed against the iron door.

The rustle of dry leaves stirred again. Unable to see what caused it Daphne heard the crackle move away from her towards the front of the crypt.