Escaping Notice (3 page)

She knew better.

When she looked in the mirror, she realized the falseness of
that glittering impression. Her features adequately served their
purpose, but did not add up to beauty. As for her wits, well, if
she could lose the necklace after wearing it only once, then
perhaps they were right about that part.

“I could write, ask for its return —”

“And have them gossip about how you foolishly lost it — when?”
He cocked his head to the left and eyed her with a suspiciously
amused gleam in his gray eyes. “Where, precisely, did you lose
it?”

“At the ball. At Lord Monnow’s ball.”

“Then you will have to sneak back and retrieve it.”

“I cannot do that!”

“Of course you can. It is the only way to avoid the humiliation
and embarrassment. Can you imagine the tales if you do not?” He
raised his voice to a tittering falsetto. “Miss Archer lost her
family’s most priceless heirloom, the famed Peckham Necklace, at
the Earl of Monnow’s ball. One can only imagine what she was
doing
at the time to be insensible of the loss of such a
magnificent item —”

“Uncle John!” She wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously. He
sounded precisely like Lady Hereford, the worst and most vicious
snob in the
Ton
. “You’re positively cruel to remind me. Can
you not help me to get it back?”

He drew himself up. “Am I the one who lost it?”

“No —”

“Then I fail to see why I should involve myself in its
retrieval.” Despite his words, his face fell with disappointment.
“Besides, your aunt has p
lans.
Otherwise, I would gladly go
in your stead.”

Helen smiled and hugged her uncle. “Oh, I know you would. You
could never resist an adventure.”

“Well, this time you’ll be the adventuress and bring home the
coveted treasure.” He patted her shoulder lightly. “And no one will
be any the wiser. I shall keep them befogged and befuddled as to
your whereabouts.”

“I’m sure you will.” She laughed and shook her head, wishing she
had not agreed to do something so terribly wrong.

Her uncle was well-known as the instigator of far-fetched
schemes that invariably landed those involved in them in
difficulties. Despite that, once one got through the messy middle,
his adventures often worked out for the best – at least for
him.

But despite her wariness, part of her longed to stop being
modest Miss Archer for a few days. She was tired of everyone
treating her like a pretty, empty-headed child; tired of
condescending comments that implied she did not possess even the
smallest particle of intelligence.

The loss of the Peckham Necklace was the last straw. They would
frown, sigh and then pat her on the shoulder as they shook their
heads. They expected such things from a girl like Miss Helen;
they’d predicted just such a tragedy when her elder sister had
allowed the irresponsible girl to wear the necklace.

“Then you will search for it?” her uncle asked, his slender hand
on the doorknob.

“But I am traveling in the opposite direction today!” she
protested. “Back to London.”

“True.” He pulled his long upper lip. Then he snapped his
fingers. “Go to satisfy your sister’s expectations and then return.
The dowager duchess is in Cheltenham. You may say you must visit
her. Even Oriana cannot refuse to allow that.”

She nodded. “I suppose so.” She would find the necklace and no
one would ever know, except Uncle John.

“Excellent.” He smiled. “And try to enjoy yourself, kitten.”

“I will be perfectly miserable,” she muttered to the closed
door. Sudden doubts washed around her, as if she had just stepped
into an icy stream.

Dispirited, she sat on the bed, staring at the maelstrom of
clothes she had torn through in her search for the necklace. As she
moved, she heard a crackling noise under her shoe. She glanced down
and winced. The edge of a newspaper protruded from under her heel.
She did not have to pick it up to remember verbatim the article
about the jewels.

The famed Peckham Necklace, found after being
missing for nearly fifty years, is again gracing the fair necks of
the Archer family. The new Lady Dacy was seen wearing the fabled
emeralds to several recent events, including the ball celebrating
the return of His Grace, the Duke of Peckham, to England with his
new wife, the American heiress and former Miss Haywood.

Will the necklace bring misfortune once more to the
remaining members of the Archer family who dare to wear it? Or has
the curse finally been laid to rest? Only time will reveal ….

The necklace had not brought Helen good fortune. She had worn it
once,
once
, and lost it. The scandalmongers would be
delighted. There was nothing they — or Lady Hereford — liked better
than misfortune or a good curse, and they particularly appreciated
the two combined. Lady Hereford would be positively salivating to
discuss it with the
bon ton
.

Helen was not going to allow it.

Her resolution made, she finished packing and left the sanctuary
of her room. Considering and rejecting dozens of plans for
retrieving the missing jewels, she nervously bid adieu to her uncle
and cousins, and climbed into the carriage with her maid.

The servant settled into her corner and promptly fell asleep.
Helen eyed her enviously, almost wishing she were a maid, too. If
she were, she could lean her head against the squabs, close her
eyes, and proceed to snore without a care in the world.

Her gaze ventured longingly towards her cousin’s stolid, gray
house, rapidly receding in the distance. If only her uncle had
agreed to go with her to Ormsby, in lovely Gloucestershire.

Well, she was an Archer, after all. She could manage it, alone.
And she would not quit before coming to her first challenge. She
forced herself to straighten.

She would return to Ormsby at the first possible opportunity,
find the necklace, and claim victory.

Unfortunately, as she chewed on a fingernail and stared out of
the window, she could not help thinking of a more unpleasant and
likely result: death by mortification.

“
You
now know all the inconveniences that attend your present situation
….” —
The Complete Servant

Standing on the steps outside his lawyer’s house in Bath, Hugh
stared at the front door. He shifted feet and hummed under his
breath. He looked like a beggar, but he could not find the will to
care about his appearance.

The glossy black paint of his lawyer’s door and the gleaming
brass knocker mocked him and his disheveled state. As he raised a
fist to knock, he felt the curious gazes of pedestrians brushing
his back. One or two laughed at the sight of such a ragged specimen
standing on Mr. Petre’s stoop.

Damn you all!
His anguish and fury struck out, uncaring.
Let them laugh.

Hugh thumped the door with his fist. To his surprise, it opened
so quickly he barely had time to lower his arm.

A rotund little man stared up at Hugh. Despite the man’s
unprepossessing appearance, the butler knew his job.

He shooed Hugh away like a stray tom-cat. “Here now, get away
with you. You can’t come begging here.”

“I must speak with Mr. Petre.” Hugh stuck his foot in the
door.

The butler ignored his request and tried to jam the door shut.
When Hugh’s toes proved an impediment, he frowned and tried to
crush them beneath his heel. Hugh winced and put his weight against
the door. He forced it open and shouldered his way past the
butler.

“Here! You can’t do that! Get out or you’ll get a bloody good
thrashing!”

“Get Mr. Petre!”

“I shall not. You’ve no business here, you filthy scoundrel. Now
out, or I shall send for the constable!”

He shouldered Hugh toward the door. But Hugh had the height and
weight to remain like a boulder in the center of the hallway. “I’ve
a message for him. If you value your job, Mr. Jarvis, you’ll tell
him I’m here.”

The butler stared at him, his mouth working as he tried to
puzzle out how Hugh knew his name. Finally, in a strangled voice he
asked, “What message?”

“Bring me paper and something to write with, if you won’t bring
your master.”

“Paper? Ha!” The butler snorted, but he took a moment to study
Hugh more closely, a shrewd gleam in his eyes. Hugh’s appearance
did not reassure him, but he remained unsure enough to acquiesce to
the visitor’s request. “Wait here. No moving, or you’ll receive the
beating of your life before they take you off to gaol.”

“I am not moving.” Hugh leaned a hip against the table in the
center of the hall.

After a final unsympathetic look, the butler hurried down the
passage.

Shifting his weight from one sore foot to the other, Hugh tried
to control the impatience simmering inside him. The trip had not
been as easy as he expected, and all through it, he kept thinking
about Lionel and the deliberately damaged rudder.

How could he have let go? He might have been wrong; Lionel might
have been alive, might have survived if Hugh had not lost his grip
on him and relinquished him to the storm.

The butler returned just before Hugh decided to go in search of
him. He puffed, sweating and red-cheeked, as if he had run all the
way for fear that Hugh would be stuffing his pockets with the fine
pastoral paintings lining both sides of the hall.

“Here.” Jarvis thrust out a pencil and torn scrap of brown-edged
paper, twisted into a corkscrew as if in preparation to light a
fire. “Now if you can write, scratch out your message on this
paper. Then leave.”

Hugh took the items and bent over the delicate pedestal table.
It wobbled a bit under his fist so he braced a foot against it to
keep it steady. Licking the tip of the pencil, he considered what
to say.

The butler sniffed loudly and stepped around to watch him. A
smug look grew over his pump face.

With a slight smile, Hugh smoothed out the paper. Then he wrote
a simple and direct message.
There has been an
accident. I must speak to you
.
He signed his name,
Monnow
, with a flourish before folding the
paper carefully into a small square and handing it back to the
butler.

The butler took it and snatched the pencil away before Hugh
could even lay it on the table. “There, now be off with you.”

“I believe I’ll wait. Mr. Petre may have questions.”

“Well, he’s not here. I’ll see that he gets your message.”

“He
is
here. He is making preparations to remove to
London next week. Now take that to him before I lose what is left
of my good humor.”

“Good humor?” the butler snorted, eyeing him askance. “I cannot
imagine a worse disposition.”

“Then you have very little imagination,” Hugh replied shortly.
He returned the butler’s gaze and held it.

Flushing, the man turned away, repeating his admonition to Hugh
to stay where he was. He hurried off, clutching Hugh’s note.

This time, when the butler returned, his master was hard on his
heels.

“Where is Lord Monnow? What accident?” Mr. Petre asked, his
sharp eyes taking in Hugh’s tattered appearance.

“I’ll tell you in private.”

“Very well. Jarvis, bring us some refreshments in the library.”
Petre gestured for Hugh to follow him back down the hall. “Were you
involved in the mishap? Is Lord Monnow injured?”

“Yes,” Hugh replied, entering the library after Petre, leaving
his now-familiar trail of bloody footprints on the marble floor
behind him.

The library was a small, square room with an arched doorway
leading out to a terrace. Oak bookcases and several glass-fronted
cabinets, crammed with books and long scrolls of legal papers,
lined three walls. Another shelf ran above the door through which
they’d entered. This shelf sported a bust of Homer and several
thick volumes bound in green leather tooled with gold.

As usual, Petre’s desk was a mass of papers, strewn with red
ribbons and unrolled scrolls kept open by an odd assortment of
items including half a brick, a brass figurine of a horse and a
china bulldog.

Hesitating a fraction of a second, Petre gestured towards the
two brown leather wing chairs flanking the fireplace. Embers
smoldered there from an early morning fire, set to take the chill
off the room. The only windows flanked the door to the terrace and
faced north, making the library feel cold and draughty, despite the
low-burning fire.

“Now, what was that about an accident?”

Hugh grimaced and settled back, relieved to be off his feet.
After a moment, he moved his legs a little closer to the fire,
although he knew the warmth would only make his extremities swell.
His toes were numb with cold. He would probably regret his action
when the heat made the feeling return, but the warmth felt good for
now.

“Don’t you recognize me, Petre?” Hugh asked at last.

The lawyer leaned forward and studied him keenly, but finally
shook his head and sat back in his chair. His slim hands rubbed the
armrests with nervous energy. “I’m sorry, I do not. There is
something familiar about you, I must admit, but I can’t associate
you with a name. I apologize. Have we met before?”

“Many times. And on a few occasions, in this very room.”

“Here?”

“I’m Lord Monnow.”

“Lord Monnow!” Petre leaned forward and studied Hugh’s face
again. “Well, you’re certainly the right size. But ….” He leaned
back. “Yes, I suppose it’s possible, if you had a mishap ….”

“I —” Hugh was cut off by the arrival of Jarvis with a tray. He
sniffed when he saw Hugh sitting comfortably in the chair opposite
his master, but when he glanced at Petre, the lawyer shook his head
with a grin.

“Leave it there.” Petre flicked his hand at the low, square
table next to his chair.