Escaping Notice (16 page)

There had been so many guests that the room had felt overheated
and crowded, thrumming with laughter and the ever-increasing volume
of conversations competing to be heard above the small string
quartet hired to provide music. She could again feel the press of
bodies swirling round her, the brush of silken skirts and sudden
sharp wisps of perfume caught as a couple danced by. They had
jarred her or pushed her back with their elbows, before tossing
apologies over their shoulders as they twirled away.

There had been no room for the lonely.

Discomforted by all this, Helen had found a protected corner
between two French doors. Now, as she stood in the pre-dawn
darkness, she once more glided cautiously toward that spot. The
fastener on the necklace had always been weak. The foolish jeweler
had used too much gold, making the catch bend easily under the
heavy weight of the emeralds.

In all likelihood, it had slipped from around her neck when she
had been jostled. But now that the room had been cleaned …. She
couldn’t bear to think about it.

All she could do was search —
a
nd
long for a simple, quiet
life where she could be admired and loved for herself instead of
her appearance, her fashionable clothes, chic furbelows and
ribbons. Her feelings were irrelevant.

Sometimes she wanted to wear something awful just to shock them.
With a sudden jolt, she wondered if that was why Miss Leigh dressed
as she did, so people would see her instead of her clothing.
Unfortunately, it had just the opposite effect; instead of focusing
attention on Miss Leigh’s inner spirit, it made her look ugly and
foolish.

So perhaps dressing unfashionably was not the answer. And Helen
had to admit that she liked nice clothes and ribbons. She had also
enjoyed fashioning Miss Leigh’s dresses to look more flattering on
her. And much as it embarrassed her to admit it, Helen enjoyed
shopping, too. She loved the feel of silk ribbons slipping between
her fingers and the array of colors — brilliant scarlet, pale straw
yellow, deep, rich blue. She could not resist the sheen of silk
glowing in a shop window.

She signed and then sneezed again. Delaying served no purpose.
When she had found the necklace and returned home, she would speak
to her parents. She would inform them that she wished to retreat
from the social whirl, at least for a time. The missing necklace
and the circumstances under which she’d lost it, including her
social gaffe of neglecting to greet her host, convinced her that
this was necessary. She had lost the necklace because she had
needed to retire. It was a sign she intended to heed.

However, she had to find the necklace, first. With the smooth,
polished floor in front of her, she knew she only needed to search
the corner where she had stood. The corner itself did not seem
particularly promising, but there was also the retiring room on the
second floor. Those were the only two rooms she had visited during
her ill-fated time there.

Resuming her search, Helen moved the chairs and got down on her
hands and knees to feel along the skirting boards and in the
corner. Although the deep blue damask curtains with their heavy
gold trim and lining were magnificent, she started to hate them as
she searched. They kept brushing over her, enveloping her head and
shoulders in suffocating, heavy fabric, as she attempted to
search.

Growing more and more frustrated, she elbowed the folds aside.
She ran her fingers along the floor into the corner, feeling the
soft grit of dust trapped by the folds of the curtain.
Nothing
. She sat back on her heels, biting her lip.

If the necklace was not here, it had to be in the retiring room.
Or gone. Smoothing the curtains back into place, she stood up.
Something caught at the pins holding her hair. Twisting round and
feeling with her fingers, she found a loose loop of gold braid trim
trapping a tooth of the tortoiseshell comb holding the curls at the
nape of her neck.

She stepped backwards to give herself space to loosen the gold
trim. As she did so, the heavy folds of the curtains hit her back,
releasing another puff of stale air. Her eyes watered from the
dust. Finally, she released her comb and reseated it.

She absently ran her hands down the trim, pushing the curtain
back where it belonged, as she tried to remember when she had last
felt the weight of the Peckham necklace around her throat.

Then the weight of the curtain itself made her stop.

Was it not oddly heavy?

She ran her hands down the damask.
Nothing
. And yet the
folds moved as if weighted. She felt the edge of the lining. A
cold, hard lump swung from the gold braid.

Praying it was not just a bit of lead fastened to the curtains
to keep them from blowing into the room when the windows were
opened, she fumbled at it. Her breath came in short, shallow puffs
as her fingers explored the ornate trim. She could not pry it
loose.

The lump might be lead. Her heart thudded as her fingers ran
along the object. A series of lumps, like a necklace. She had to
remain calm. She could be wrong, although it certainly felt like a
chain and stones, with a large stone in the center. However, it
could simply be a dull lump of lead weighting the curtain. Worse,
if it were a necklace, it could belong to another woman.

It could be anything, or nothing.

Her fingers worked it, but it refused to come free, and there
was not enough moonlight from the window at her back to let her see
what she was doing. She finally tugged at the largest lump. A
ripping sound seemed to echo through the empty room as the object
tore free from the curtains.

“Oh, dear.” A foot-long length of gold trim slapped her cheek.
She’d have to fix the loose braid. Nonetheless, she had the
necklace — or whatever it was.

She turned to face the window, holding the object up to the
moonlight. Hardly daring to peer down at what she clutched in her
hand, Helen squeezed her eyes shut, mumbled a quick prayer, and
then looked. Her breath fluttered. The Peckham necklace rested in
her hand. She slumped in relief.

Now, she could leave Ormsby and forget this dreadful adventure.
If she never experienced such excitement again, she’d be forever
grateful.

Her gaze drifted through the window. A faint line of rose light
stretched over the trees standing sentinel at the edge of the
formal gardens. She had wasted all night in her search.

Miss Leigh would be up soon.

As the light improved, she fumbled over the clasp. “Ouch!” Sharp
metal cut her finger.

She had bent the clasp when she had pulled it loose. One golden
wire had come loose, its point darkened with a drop of blood. She
would get it repaired and return it to Oriana before anyone was the
wiser.

And at least one mystery was solved. She had not dropped it. The
necklace had apparently become caught on the edge of the curtains
and slipped from her neck during the ball.

Turning to go, she was startled to find Mrs. Adams striding over
to her. In her relief at her discovery, Helen had not heard the
housekeeper’s stout shoes clomping across the bare floor.

“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Adams asked, her voice sharp
with suspicion.

Helen dropped her hands, holding the necklace in the folds of
her gown to hide it. “N-nothing. I, um, I thought I heard a noise
….”

“A noise?” The housekeeper flicked a quick look over Helen’s
shoulder. The patio and lawn beyond the French doors glowed with
pearly white patches of early morning mist, undisturbed. Mrs. Adams
continued, “I also thought I heard something earlier.”

“Mice, perhaps?” Helen suggested. “Perhaps a cat —”

“Cat? Miss Leigh doesn’t approve of animals.” Her brown eyes
studied Helen. “What are you holding?”

Helen stiffened. “I don’t —”

“Show me.” Mrs. Adams held out her hand.

Feeling like a recalcitrant child, Helen considering denying
that she held anything. However, her inconvenient conscience would
not allow her to speak the words. She stared at Mrs. Adams. Why had
she not remained in bed just one minute longer?

“Well?” Mrs. Adams lifted her hand a fraction, palm up.

“I, um, found this on the floor ….” She dropped the necklace
into Mrs. Adams hand, watching with resignation as the housekeeper
snatched it back, staring round-eyed at the rainbow glitter of
emeralds, fire opals, diamonds and gold.

“Where did you find this?” The housekeeper’s disbelieving tone
almost made Helen step back.

She should have run away through the French doors, never to
return. Instead, she had stood like a startled rabbit, waiting for
the hawk to grab her.

And the hawk had accepted the invitation.

“As I said, I heard a noise,” Helen stated, searching for a
reasonable answer. “When I came down to investigate, something
glittered on the floor near the French doors.” Undoubtedly, every
word she uttered was true. Or almost.

The necklace had not exactly glittered in the dark.

“I see,” Mrs. Adams replied in a dry tone. “And what were you
going to do with it?”

“I was going to take it to Miss Leigh, of course.”

“Of course.” If anything, Mrs. Adam’s tone was even dryer.

This time, Helen held out her hand, palm up. “So if you will
return it to me, I shall do that.” Her chest felt so tight she had
to make herself breathe after she spoke.

Mrs. Adams smiled a tight little smile. “We shall go up
together.”

For a supposedly adult woman, Helen felt remarkably like a child
in leading strings being paraded down to her mother for punishment.
Her hands tingled with ice. She crossed her arms at her waist and
pressed her palms against the warmth of her body. Head down and
silent, she followed the housekeeper.

Mrs. Adams knocked on Miss Leigh’s door, ignoring Helen. She
stood dutifully behind her, shoulders slumped, wondering if she had
enough nerve to hit Mrs. Adams over the head, steal the necklace
and run away.

Too late.

“What is it?” Miss Leigh called, clearly annoyed.

“It’s Mrs. Adams, Miss Leigh.”

“Well, come in!”

Pushing Helen along in front of her, Mrs. Adams followed with
the necklace dangling from her hand.

“Where have you been, Helen?” Miss Leigh rubbed her face. “I
have been up for at least thirty minutes and wished to dress.” She
sat stiffly in a chair by her window, a rough gray wool shawl
draped round her shoulders. “What are you doing here, Mrs. Adams?
Has something happened?”

“No,” Helen answered hastily. She moved forward and tried not to
wring her hands. “I heard a noise and went downstairs to
investigate. And I, um, I found something.” She turned and glanced
at Mrs. Adams. “We thought we should bring it to your
attention.”

“An intruder?” Miss Leigh stood abruptly, pulling her shawl more
tightly over her thin shoulders and crossing the ends over her
chest. “Did you get the footmen after him? Has anything been
stolen?”

Mrs. Adams shouldered past Helen and held up the necklace. “She
says she found this.”

“What is that?” Miss Leigh took the necklace and studied it
before giving Helen a sharp glance. “You found this?”

“Yes, in the ballroom — near the French doors.”

“I made sure she brought it to you. It may belong to one of the
guests from his lordship’s ball,” Mrs. Adams said, her tone rich
with virtue. She crossed her hands over her stomach, holding her
wrists before flashing a condescending glance at Helen.

“You may be right,” Miss Leigh replied. “Thank you, Mrs. Adams.
You may leave now.”

After another triumphant glance at Helen, Mrs. Adams left,
closing the door behind her.

“Shall I put that away for you?” Helen asked, still hoping she
could somehow regain custody of the necklace.

A crafty look narrowed Miss Leigh’s eyes. “I would like hot
chocolate and a roll before I dress.”

“The maid —”

“
You
will fetch it for me.”

Despite the sun shining through the window behind Miss Leigh,
the morning suddenly turned dreary. Helen trudged downstairs. She
had to get the necklace back. There had to be a way. Things were
not going at all as she had hoped. It had seemed so simple in
London. It had
been
so simple until Mrs. Adams had walked
into the ballroom.

Why had it all gone so horribly wrong?

“
There is seldom a lad of this description kept ….” —
The
Complete Servant

Edward stared at the row of boots on the table in front of him.
His arms ached from rubbing blacking on the shoes, and he’d only
gone through half of them. Eyeing the small pile on his left, he
felt tears of frustration burn his eyes. Less than half, really.
That meant Mrs. Adams kept coming in to check on his progress.

He was never going to finish, and Mrs. Adams was never going to
let him go.

This was not at all what he had had in mind when he ran away
from his aunts, although from what the old witches had said, this
was probably preferable to what he would have suffered at the hands
of the earl, if they’d had their say in the matter.

He giggled and spat on the worn pair of shoes which belonged to
Mr. Symes. He rubbed them with his cloth and whistled — or tried
to. A secret, thrilling feeling of satisfaction quivered through
him. The aunts would never think of looking for him, here.
Never
. They had intended to send him here and here he was,
and yet they knew nothing about it. Not even the earl, who
supposedly knew everything, had the least notion that Edward was
here. He grinned, bending over his work. The earl would never
realize that his missing nephew was actually at Ormsby, right under
his nose, living in the lion’s den.

No tutors, no Latin, no mathematics and no canings. It would
have been perfect except for the blasted — no,
bloody
—
shoes cluttering the low table in front of him.