Last Night's Scandal (27 page)

A familiar rustling came from nearby. He looked away from the misspelled taunt. Olivia approached, candle in hand. She paused at his elbow and studied the wall.

“I must say, it does disturb me, their creeping in while the entire household is awake,” she said. “They’re strangely bold.”

“Or strangely stupid,” he said.

“Step-Papa always says that criminals tend to be men of low intelligence and high cunning,” she said.

“I know. I’d far rather deal with clever ones. At least one can understand their thinking.”

“Bagpipes are harmless enough in themselves,” she said.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” he said.

“It’s the harassment that worries me,” she said. “It upsets the servants.” It bothered him, too. They needed servants to function, and servants didn’t stay in bad
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situations unless they were desperate.

“Unfortunately, one can’t keep a garrison here to protect us from invaders, as they did in the old days,” he said.

“I doubt they’ll actually try to harm us,” she said. “That would bring the authorities into it—

and what they clearly want is for everybody to go away so they can continue their treasure hunt.”

“I’m not going away,” he said. “I’ve started, and I’m not giving up. I’ll restore this useless damned antique, and then I’m going back to Egypt if I have to row myself in a dinghy.

Meanwhile, I’m going to booby-trap the basement. Those morons will have to find another way in.”

“If we found the treasure first, they’d have to stop looking,” she said.

He was tired and it was hard to look at her and be sensible when he was being stabbed to death inside. He was furious with himself for not being able to master feelings that could only lead to unhappiness. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “There is no treasure,” and to tell her to stop being a romantic idiot—and to put on more clothes, and not stand so close, where he could smell her.

The warning voice spoke in time.

Think.

Treasure. There wasn’t any but she’d never believe that.
She wants to look. Why not let
her?
It would keep her busy, and if he presented it carefully, it would keep her out of trouble.

“Very well,” he said. “Let’s look at this logically. Even deeply stupid men wouldn’t work so hard without very good reason.”

“That’s it, exactly,” she said. “They’ve been at it for years, if we measure from when the haunting started. There must be
something
behind it.”

“If we knew what that was, then we’d know what to do,” he said. “Maybe there’s something in Cousin Frederick’s papers. Or something he said. The trouble started after he left the castle and moved to Edinburgh.”

His mind was already gnawing on the puzzle. It was easy enough to set the lures for her without telling an actual lie.

“It’s intriguing, I admit,” he said. “But I haven’t time to think about it. I haven’t time to study his papers and books and talk to the people who were close to him. I’ve got this heap of stones to ‘restore to its former glory’ to appease my deranged parents.” He saw her face fall, and he felt ashamed. Worse, the mad part of him—the part she could summon so easily—wanted to drop everything and pursue the mystery. That part of him wanted to hunt with her for treasure, the way they’d done before. Oh, it was tempting. He recalled the excitement of breaking rules and surviving by one’s wits.

He could feel himself being drawn in, and he knew he ought to fight, but the mad part of him didn’t want to.

Then, “You’re right,” she said, her expression brightening. “Treasure or no treasure, the castle must be restored. I did promise you’d return to Egypt by spring. Which means we’ve not a minute to waste. I’ll tackle the mystery. Now that Herrick’s taking charge, I’ll have plenty of time on my hands—and I daresay the ladies would adore collecting gossip from your
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cousin’s friends.”

She stepped closer and patted his chest. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” she said. “Your loyal knight Sir Olivia will do what’s needed.”

When I grow up, I’m going to be a knight
, she’d told him the day he met her.
The gallant
Sir Olivia, that’s who I’ll be, setting out on perilous quests, performing noble deeds,
righting wrongs.

She hurried away then, and he stood watching, until she was out of sight and the rustling faded.

He turned to stare at the wall.

BE WERE.

But of course he didn’t believe in presentiments or omens. Or warnings from imbeciles who couldn’t spell.

He turned away and went back upstairs.

A
s he’d said he would, Herrick had ridden to Edinburgh on Wednesday. By Thursday, they had a housekeeper, Mrs. Gow. By Friday, Herrick and Mrs. Gow had hired a full Scottish staff. That day, Olivia gave all of her London staff except the personal servants permission to return to London.

Only Aillier insisted on remaining. The others couldn’t pack fast enough. They were gone by mid-afternoon.

Meanwhile, she spent hours poring over Cousin Frederick Dalmay’s books, pamphlets, and periodicals. Wherever Gorewood Castle was mentioned—in an article, say, by Sir Walter Scott for an antiquarian publication—Frederick had placed a paper marker and written notes in pencil in the margin. The notes were illegible for the most part, but no matter.

The printed material told her about all the ghost legends: Different ghosts, she found, were popular in different eras. She learned, too, about curious doings at banquets and bewildering legal matters. Frederick had kept records of all the property disputes. He’d kept a set of journals as well. As far as she could make out, these dealt mainly with Gorewood Castle and its history. They seemed to refer occasionally to annoyances pertaining to the castle. But she couldn’t be sure, because the small, spidery handwriting was nearly impossible to read.

She thought Lisle would have no trouble making sense of it, being more accustomed to deciphering strange scripts, some of them partly defaced by time or vandals. She would have to ask him if he could spare a little time for that.

Then, on Monday, she was turning a page, debating whether to beg Lisle to explain it to her, when the piece of yellowed, partly burnt paper fell out.

“B
ut it’s a
clue
,” Olivia said. She waved the creased, brown-edged paper in Lisle’s face.

Reluctantly, he took it from her.

His plan had been working so well. He did his job and she did hers. Their paths crossed at mealtimes, when the ladies were there as well, and they couldn’t help but be a distraction.

But today Olivia had cornered him in the basement well room while the workers were
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outside, eating their midday meal. She was practically dancing with excitement because she’d found a CLUE.

She wasn’t supposed to find any clues. She was supposed to keep searching and searching until he got the work done and came to his senses about her or, if that was impossible, until he solved the problem of what to do about her.

“What does it say?” she said.

He looked down at the uneven grid with its random marks. “It doesn’t say anything,” he said. “It looks like a child’s scribbling and drawing. One of Cousin Frederick’s early efforts, perhaps. My mother kept all my drawings. Keeping this sort of thing isn’t an act of judgment but one of sentiment, apparently.”

“Are you
sure
?” she said.

He gave it back to her. “It isn’t a treasure map,” he said.

“Perhaps it’s a coded message.”

“There is no code,” he said.

“Those little symbols,” she said. “In the little boxes.” He looked from the paper to her.

She’d collected cobwebs on her dress and in her hair on her way into the well room. She’

d apparently dragged her hands through her hair while trying to decipher the Secret Message, because a number of pins dangled drunkenly from the thick curls. Her blue eyes shimmered with excitement, and the sunrise color had washed into her cheeks.

He was so tired of this hideous castle and the hideous weather and so tired of digging holes to bury feelings only to have them slither out, like snakes, and sink their fangs into him.

Why had he come back to England?

He knew it wasn’t good for him to be near her.

But he’d returned because of the Carsingtons—and it wasn’t fair. Why should he keep away from the one family that meant anything to him, because one member of that family turned him inside out and upside down?

“It’s rubbish,” he said. “The sort of scraps elderly people keep about for no earthly reason.”

The flush in her cheeks deepened and crept down her neck. A warning sign.

“He wasn’t like that,” she said. “If you’d look at his journals, you’d see. He’s meticulous. If he kept this, he had a reason.”

“It could be any reason,” he said. “Senility comes to mind.” Her blue gaze narrowed as it lifted to meet his. “You told me to look for clues,” she said.

“You told me to get to the bottom of it. I haven’t bothered you for days. Now I ask for your help, and you dismiss me out of hand. You know perfectly well that this paper means something.”

“I doesn’t mean anything!” he snapped. “There’s no treasure. There might have been once, but any rational person would know it’s long gone. Even the ghosts have lost interest.

Haven’t you noticed? No wailing bagpipes in the middle of the night? No sign of them, since they scrawled on the basement wall.”

“It’s been raining,” she said. “They don’t want to trudge through a downpour carrying their
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bagpipes and the rest of their collection of ghost tricks.”

“The basement is booby trapped,” he said. “I made no secret of it, and they’ve heard, the way everybody hears everything.”

“And you think they’ve given up, just like that? You think your traps scared them away?”

“Well, no one’s set any before, have they?”

Her flush darkened. “Lisle, you are not—”

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I’m not going to argue with you about ghosts.” She waved the paper at him. “You could at least—”

“No,” he said. “I’m not going to waste time on worthless scribbles.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d look at the journals.”

“I’m not looking at the journals,” he said. Not with her peering over his shoulder. Her scent. The curst rustling. It wasn’t fair. She knew they needed to keep apart.

“You told me to look!” she cried. “I’ve spent hour after hour, searching through mountains of papers and books and journals and letters. Hour after hour, trying to read his tiny handwriting. You were the one—”

“To keep you busy!” he burst out. “To keep you out of my hair. I have this idiotic, pointless task—a great waste of time and money—in this miserable place, where I never wanted to be—and I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

“I was
helping
you!”

“Oh, yes, a great help you’ve been. If not for you I should have told my parents to go to blazes. I’d be happier starving in Egypt than living here. What do I care about their damned money? Let them spend it on my brothers. I can make my own way. But no, here I am, trying at least to do the accursed job, and do it properly, and you must nag and harass me to run off on another wild goose chase.”

“Nag and harass? You were the one—”

“It was a
diversionary tactic
! You of all people ought to know what that is. You do it all the time. Well, I’ve used it on you. How do you like it? How do
you
like dancing to someone else

’s tune?”

“You—you—” She grabbed his hat, pulled it off, and hit him in the chest with it. She flung it down and stomped on it.

“Well done,” he said. “So mature.”

“If you were a man, I’d challenge you to a duel,” she said.

“If you were a man I’d shoot you happily.”

“I hate you!” she cried. “You are
despicable
!” She kicked him in the shins.

It was a hard kick, but he was too angry to feel it. “Splendid,” he said. “So ladylike.” She made an obscene gesture and stormed out.

One o’clock in the morning

Tuesday 25 October

Tonight was clear, and the moon, though past its full, offered sufficient illumination for
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mischief makers, ruffians, and anyone who wanted to spy on them.

The only “anyone” at present was Olivia, creeping out of the castle after everyone else had gone to bed. She wore men’s pantaloons, with flannel drawers underneath. A waistcoat, coat, and a hooded, thick wool cloak offered the next layer of protection against a Scottish autumn night. She’d brought with her as well a wool blanket to protect her from the night damps.

Not that she needed it. She had her boiling blood to keep her warm.

The ghosts had gone, had they?

“We’ll see about that,” she said under her breath.

She should have bet him, that’s what she should have done, after their icily polite dinner.

They’re not gone, and I can prove it.
That’s what she should have said.

And he’d say,
You can’t prove anything.

Can’t I? What will you wager?

How about Castle Horrid? You can have that.

It isn’t yours to give. I’ll tell you what: If I prove the ghosts haven’t gone, you’ll stop acting
like a thickheaded—oh, sorry, I forgot. You can’t help that.