A Lady of His Own (7 page)

“Wait!” She held up a hand. “I said initially—there’s more. After finding the boxes, I shut up the priest hole and put Figgs off. Amberly and Nicholas arrived; the visit went smoothly. Then, on the last day they were there, I heard from the grooms that Nicholas had been asking after Granville’s friends, those he spent time with in the neighborhood, where he went in the evenings when on his own, what taverns he frequented.”

“Maybe Nicholas wanted to find a place to drink?”

“Are you playing devil’s advocate, or are you just being difficult?”

He smiled. “The former, so go on.”

She cast him a repressive glance, then reassembled her train of thought. “When they left, I checked the priest hole. Someone had been examining the boxes. Many were out of line, turned around, that sort of thing.” She sighed. “I went down to dinner, trying to puzzle it out. Elaine was telling the girls how distinguished Amberly and his branch of the family were. She mentioned that Nicholas was following in his father’s footsteps—at the Foreign Office.”

“Ah.” Charles sat up, all expression leaching from his face.

“Indeed.” Feeling vindicated, she nodded. “So now you see why I started to seriously worry. And the further I looked, things only got blacker.”

“What did you find?”

“Not so much found as recalled. Papa and Amberly grew up together—they shared a schoolroom, went up to Oxford together, did the Grand Tour together. They were only distantly related, but very close friends, and the connection continued all their lives. Papa started collecting pillboxes when he was staying in Paris with Amberly, who at that time had a minor role in our embassy there.”

Charles said nothing; his eyes locked on her face, he nodded for her to continue.

“The other pertinent facts are that Amberly was Granville’s godfather, and his guardian after Papa died. And Nicholas and Granville knew each other, how well I don’t know, but Granville often visited Amberly’s house, so presumably Nicholas and Granville were frequently in each other’s company.

“And as I told you earlier, when Nicholas arrived unheralded in February, the week after Elaine and the girls had left for town, he spent five days contacting all the local smuggling gangs. According to Mother Gibbs, he was putting it about that in the matter of Granville’s activities with them, he was Granville’s replacement. Anything to do with Granville, they should see him—send word via the grooms at Wallingham Hall, and he’d come down and speak with them.”

“What did the local lads think of that? Were there any takers?”

“No.” She hid a ghost of a smile. “They see Nicholas as an outsider, almost a foreigner, but more than that, I don’t think they actually understand what fish he’s trawling for.”

“Very likely.”

Charles heard his voice, deep, resonant, cut across her lighter tones. She shouldn’t be involved in any of this, but she was. Leaning back in his chair, he caught her eye. “So you believe that Granville, possibly with your father’s connivance, was running secrets to the French via the smuggling gangs. He got said secrets from either Amberly or Nicholas, but regardless, Nicholas at least is involved.”

She nodded. “Yes. And—”

“You don’t think Granville enlisting to fight the French at Waterloo argues against his involvement? Or that perhaps he wasn’t aware of the nature of what he was doing?”

She met his gaze. “No. Granville…he was ten when you left to join the Guards. You didn’t really know him. He was a reckless, feckless boy, and he never grew up. Yes, he was spoiled, indulged in every degree, but as he didn’t possess a malicious bone in his body, everyone simply smiled, shook their heads, and let him be.

“Ferrying information to the French? He’d have considered that a great lark—the thrill, the danger, would have seduced him. He wouldn’t have really thought about what he was ferrying, that wouldn’t have been important. Pursuing excitement and thrills—
that
was Granville’s sole purpose in life. That was why he joined the army for Waterloo. Any contradiction honestly wouldn’t have occurred to him.”

He studied her eyes and thought she was wrong, but she’d pushed herself to accept what was for her a hugely painful interpretation. No hypothetical argument was likely to sway her.

And what she thought—the question of whether Granville and, the point she was trying to think of even less, her father before him had been knowingly involved in treason—was not of immediate importance. Not with her “cousin” Nicholas about, ferreting around, stirring up things even more effectively than he himself was.

She was watching him measuringly, lips and jaw set. Before he could speak, she did.

“If Granville is labeled a traitor, even posthumously, Elaine will be ostracized, to a lesser extent Constance—she’s now Lady Witherling—will be, too, and neither Emma nor Holly could hope to make a decent match. No gentleman of the ton will want to marry a traitor’s sister.”

She paused, then added, her gaze steady on his, “I would prefer not to be known as a traitor’s half sister, either, but at twenty-nine with my fortune my own, at least my future doesn’t rest so completely on society’s opinion.”

He waited, but she didn’t ask for any promises or assurances that he would keep her family safe, that he would find some way to protect them from the consequences should the truth prove as dire as she thought.

All of which made him even more determined to do so.

She’d trusted him with all she knew; he was tempted to ask what in their conversation last night had tipped the scales, but he wasn’t sure he truly wanted to know. She saw through him, to the real him, more easily than anyone save only his too-perceptive mother.

“I should mention that my commander, Dalziel, has investigated thoroughly but could find no evidence of any sensitive information from the Foreign Office actually reaching the French.” He grimaced. “Indeed, until I realized you’d already stumbled on something illicit, I was half-inclined to think the affair might prove to be all smoke and no fire.”

He caught her gaze. “However, even if we prove that what you suspect is true, and Nicholas is apprehended, the details will not be made public. Nicholas won’t stand trial, nor, indeed, will most of England even know of his apprehension or his crime, and even less of any others he might name as coconspirators.”

She frowned. “You mean it’s simply buried? Not”—she gestured—“paid for?”

“Oh, no—if he’s been involved in treason, he’ll pay.” He smiled one of his coldly dangerous smiles. “It’s just that no one will hear of it.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

While she digested that, he rapidly reviewed all she’d told him, all he now accepted, all he now suspected. “The first thing to do”—he looked up as her eyes snapped up to meet his—“is to take a look at this pillbox collection.”

“M
Y APOLOGIES
. I’
D THOUGHT YOU WERE EXAGGERATING
.”

The look Penny threw him wasn’t difficult to interpret. She turned back to her self-appointed task of counting the dozens of pillboxes ranged on shelves in the ancient priest hole concealed behind a wall panel in the master bedchamber of Wallingham Hall.

She’d been right; this wasn’t a collection it was easy to explain away. Row after row of superb examples of the jeweler’s art glowed and winked and tempted. Charles wondered if she’d realized there were too many boxes to have been amassed over only a decade of spying. Too many boxes for the collection to have been Granville’s work alone.

He glanced around, mentally orienting the six-foot-by-twelve-foot chamber within the walls of the old manor. They’d ridden over, arriving midmorning, prepared to engage Nicholas in a discussion of the estate if he was there and they couldn’t avoid him. He was there, but in the library. As the house was Penny’s home, there was no reason to announce her arrival, or, therefore, his; regardless of his years away, the staff knew him as well as the Abbey staff knew Penny. She and he had walked upstairs, straight to the master bedchamber, to this hidden room.

One tiny window high on one wall let in a shaft of light. The walls themselves were solid stone. As in many priest holes, there was a second door, a narrow wooden one set low in the wall opposite the main entrance, by the corner with the outer wall. An old key sat in the lock. The escape route of last resort for any priest trapped there.

They’d closed the door to the master bedchamber, but left the hinged panel wide open. Charles caught the sound of footsteps plodding up the stairs. Penny continued counting, unaware. More out of instinct than real concern he moved to the priest hole’s threshold; Nicholas was not yet master there—he wasn’t using the master bedchamber.

He was, however, heading for it.

Charles cursed beneath his breath, caught the edge of the panel, and hauled it shut. Penny looked around, straightened, but blessedly made no sound as the panel dully clicked into place.

He looked at her; she stared at him. Beyond the panel they heard the sound of a boot step on the floorboards.

If Nicholas wasn’t using the room, then why had he come there?

Charles grabbed Penny’s arm and drew her to the small door. Grasping the key, he turned it, trying to be careful, but eventually had to force it; the lock hadn’t been used in years. It grated, then the bolt clunked over.

Just as the faint whirring of the panel’s mechanism reached them.

The panel popped open. The catch to release it was concealed in the ornate mantelpiece surrounding the fireplace farther down the bedchamber.

Charles wrenched the narrow door open, unceremoniously thrust Penny through, and followed on her heels. He pulled the door shut, fast and silent, rammed the key into the keyhole, turned, and heard the lock fall home.

Just as the panel hinges squeaked.

They held their breaths. Nicholas took a few steps into the priest hole, then stopped.

Penny closed her eyes, then opened them. There was no real difference in what she could see. Blackness.

The…corridor?—wherever they were was narrow, musty, and dusty; the wall against which Charles had crammed her was cold, hard stone. The space hadn’t been designed for two people; they were jammed together, his shoulder wedged against hers, her back to the wall opposite the wooden door.

She could hear her own breathing, shallow and rapid. Her senses were in knots, reacting to the black prison on the one hand, Charles’s nearness on the other. Her skin started to chill, then flushed, prickled.

Through the darkness, Charles found her hand and gripped reassuringly. She gulped and fought down a mortifying urge to grab him, to cling and burrow against his solid warmth.

He shifted; releasing her hand with a gentle pat, he slowly crouched, his shoulder and back sliding down her.

Her legs weakened; mentally cursing, she stiffened them.

A pinprick of light glowed faintly. She blinked, blinked again, realized Charles had extracted the key from the keyhole.

He moved. The light vanished; absolute darkness once again reigned. He was peeking through the keyhole.

She bit her lip, trying not to form any mental image of their surroundings. Cobwebs, bits of stone, lots of dust, insects, and small creatures…not helpful.

Charles moved, then smoothly, carefully rose. His hand found hers, squeezed, then followed her arm up to grip her shoulder. He leaned nearer. She felt his breath brush her ear, felt the reactive shiver to her marrow.

“He didn’t see us. He’s studying the boxes. Doesn’t look like he’ll leave soon.”

He paused, then added, his voice the faintest thread of sound, “Let’s see where this goes.” He stepped away.

She clutched at him, caught the back of his hacking jacket.

Halting, he reached around and caught her hand. He pried it free, but didn’t release it; he drew her arm around him, then flattened her hand on his chest, over his ribs. He reached back and caught her other hand, and did the same, bringing her close—very close—behind him.

Leaning his head back and to the side, he breathed, “We’re going to move very slowly. Hold on to me—I think there are stairs a little farther along.”

How could he tell? Could he actually see anything? To her it was as dark as a sepulchre.

Regardless of the abrading of her senses, she wasn’t about to let him go.

He was right about the stairs. They’d only shuffled a few feet when she felt him step down. He stepped down again, then waited. Feeling with her toes, she found the edge and stepped down behind him.

In tandem, one step from him, one from her, they slowly descended. With every step, the hard strength of his back shifting before her, the steely muscles of his chest flexing beneath her palms, blatantly impinged on her senses. Although the air was growing cooler, she felt increasingly warm.

It was a long, steep, straight but narrow stairway; rough stone walls caught at her arms, her skirts. Charles reached up, moved his arms. An instant later, ghostly fingers trailed caressingly over her cheeks.

She jumped, valiantly swallowed a shriek.

“Just cobwebs,” he whispered.

Just
cobwebs? “If there are cobwebs, there must be spiders.”

“They’ll leave you alone if you leave them alone.”

“But…” They were destroying the spiders’ webs. By the feel of it, dozens of them.

She shivered, then heard a faint sound. A scratching…her fingers spasmed on his chest. “Rats! I can hear them.”

“Nonsense.” He descended another step, drawing her on. “There’s no food here.”

She stared at where she knew his head must be. Were rats that logical?

“We’re nearly there,” he murmured.

“There where?”

“I’m not sure, but keep your voice down.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs. He took a longer step. Reluctantly, she let her hands slide from him. It was unquestionably safer to have greater space between them, yet…

Dragging in a breath, she reached out, and found more stone walls. They were in a tiny chamber, barely wider than the stairway. She couldn’t tell how much farther it went, but she sensed the answer was not far. The atmosphere was different, the air cool, damp rather than dusty; although she still stood on stone, the smell of earth and leaf mold was strong.

“There’s another door here.”

She could sense Charles reaching about, examining the walls.

“The lock’s an old one, but our luck’s held—the key’s in it.”

She heard him working it. After a moment, he muttered, “This isn’t going to be easy.”

A good many minutes and a number of muffled curses later, the lock finally groaned and surrendered.

Charles lifted the latch, set his shoulder to the door’s edge, and eased it open. In the end, he had to exert considerable force to push it open enough to see out. He looked, tried to place the spot.

Penny stepped nearer. He gave ground so she could look out. “It’s the side courtyard, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Her voice was full of wonder. She reached through the narrow gap, caught and turned a leaf dangling beside the door. “This is the ivy covering the west wall.”

She tried to push the door farther open. It didn’t budge. She looked down as did he; the door was blocked across its base by earth and leaves piled outside. He sighed. “Step back.”

Ten minutes and considerable effort later, she slipped past him and escaped into the bright sunshine. “Stay close,” he hissed as she pushed past.

Eventually, he widened the gap enough to follow her.

Gratefully inhaling fresh air, he walked the few paces to where she waited and turned; side by side, they studied the wall and the door. Even ajar and with the accumulated detritus of decades banked before it, the door was difficult to see, screened by the thick curtain of broad-leafed ivy.

“It’s built into the outer wall, isn’t it? I never knew it was there.”

“If we smooth out the leaves and earth, then rearrange the ivy, there’s no reason anyone would guess.”

Returning to the door, he retrieved the key, pushed the door closed, locked it, and pocketed the key, then kicked back the disturbed earth and leaves enough to disguise their passage. Stepping back, he studied the ivy; a touch here, a trailing branch untangled there, and the door had disappeared.

He walked back to where Penny stood, still staring.

“Amazing. I wonder if Granville ever knew of it.”

He glanced back at the now innocent wall. “I doubt it. Those locks hadn’t been used in years.”

She looked up at the corner of the building. The master bedchamber didn’t have a window facing the courtyard; only lesser bedchambers overlooked it. “I wonder if Nicholas is still up there?”

He’d followed her gaze. “Regardless, I believe we should pay him a visit.”

“Hmm…I’ve been thinking.”

Always dangerous
. He swallowed the words.

“You’ve told him the outline of your mission. He didn’t want me staying at the Abbey, where I’d be talking to you, even though until then he’d been perfectly happy for me to leave him alone here. So perhaps we ought to prod him a bit.”

“How?”

“If you want to investigate the smugglers along this coast, a set of excellent maps would be particularly helpful, don’t you think?”

“As you know perfectly well, I know this stretch of coast rather better than the back of my hand—I don’t need any maps.”

She smiled. “Nicholas doesn’t know that.”

He considered. “Not a bad idea. What exactly did you have in mind?”

“Well, obviously, staying with you, we’ve been chatting over the breakfast cups and, keen to help with your mission, I’ve volunteered a set of detailed maps Papa had in his library. We’ve come to fetch them.”

“Excellent.” He meant it; he could see just how to make the scene play out to put, not just the wind but a definitely chilly gale, up Nicholas.

Penny nodded. “Let’s go.” She spun on her heel.

“Wait.” When she turned back, he simply said, “Cobwebs.”

She blinked, then her gaze trailed over him. “Oh—I didn’t notice.”

Stepping nearer, she reached up and plucked cobwebby lace from his shoulder, then, scanning up and down, she circled him. He felt her fingers plucking here and there. He waited patiently until she’d worked her way back to stand before him, close, face-to-face, but not focusing on his eyes.

She picked cobwebby bits from the hair framing his face, then rapidly scanned his features. “There. You’re done.”

“Now for you.”

Her eyes flashed up to his. Widened. “If you find a spider anywhere on me, I’ll never follow you anywhere again.”

He laughed. Plucked a long tendril of soft gray from above her left ear. Briefly met her eyes. “If I find one, I won’t tell you.” He started to circle her, fingers lightly touching, brushing to free the fine wisps from the velvet of her riding habit. “What is it about spiders and females anyway? They’re only tiny insects much smaller than you.”

“They have eight legs.”

An unarguable fact. He debated asking the obvious, but doubted he’d learn anything. Removing the clinging webs from her skirts took time; she stood silent and still while he bent to the task.

Penny concentrated on breathing, on trying to ignore the way heat seemed to flare wherever he touched. It was nonsense; she couldn’t truly feel his fingers through the layers of velvet and linen, just the fleeting pressure, yet…every time his fingertips brushed, she felt it to her bones.

Witless, wanton nonsense. Even if he did still desire her, that was one road she definitely wasn’t following him down. The price would be high, far too high for her to contemplate. Her misguided senses would just have to grow inured. Deadened.

His fingers brushed her shoulder, once, twice. Sensation streaked down her arm, across her chest. Tightened her already tight lungs.

Clearly her senses weren’t deadened yet.

She glanced at him, watched him peel a long trailing web down off her shoulder. And farther, off the velvet covering the side of her breast.

The thought of him touching, brushing there, flashed into her mind. She quivered, felt her flesh react—closed her eyes and prayed he’d put it down to her fear of spiders.

When she lifted her lids again, he’d circled to face her; she could read nothing beyond concentration in his face as he picked fine wisps from lower on her jacket, then crouched, scanning her skirts.

At last, he rose. She exhaled in relief—then sucked in a breath as his gaze fixed on her face.

“Hold still.”

She did, frozen as he raised one hand to the side of her face, fingers lightly tracing as he teased a thread of cobweb from the fine hair at her temple. Then his eyes tracked across her face. With his other hand, he delicately untangled a last fine strand from beside her ear.

His eyes locked with hers. Midnight blue, his gaze was sharp, sure. His hands were still raised; if he moved both an inch inward, he’d be cradling her face.