Winter Garden (20 page)

T
hey left the masquerade ball just before one, deciding it best to take the shorter route home by walking the lake path due to the lateness of the night and the frigid air. Although muddier than the village streets, Madeleine didn't care about staining her gown when she would likely freeze to death if she went the long way home. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but even with her fur-lined pelisse-mantle embracing her head to foot, she still felt the chill. Thankfully, though, the wind had died completely, and darkness prevailed now as the full moon of earlier had become hidden beneath a low cloud cover.

Thomas seemed overly pensive, and she didn't want to interrupt his thoughts until they were a rather good distance from the baron's home. He had, in fact, been quiet since he'd returned to her side nearly two hours ago, speaking only briefly about superficial things
like the deliciously rich chocolate soufflé, of which she herself had eaten two large servings, and the remarkably high quality of Rothebury's chosen champagne. She'd drunk almost a full glass of that as well, far more than she normally consumed at a party, and it had soothed her to the point where she'd actually enjoyed herself after being nearly accosted in the library by her host. Still, aside from a few meager words of a casual nature, Thomas had said little to her through the evening, regardless of the fact that he'd remained at her side at all times except when she danced.

Now they were nearing the eastern edge of the baron's property, where the path narrowed considerably, and the very still air and thick darkness made the going slow. She had to walk in front of him but decided they were far enough away for her to break the silence and discuss what she had learned in Rothebury's home.

“Did you have a good time tonight, Thomas?” she began ever so perfunctorily.

She thought she heard the faintest snort.

“I don't know if I'd call it a good time,” he answered brusquely, reaching across her shoulder with his arm to shove a cluster of leaves from an overgrown bush out of her way. “But I will say it was somewhat enlightening.”

She ignored his staid tone to remark agreeably, “I thought it was enlightening, too.”

“Did you.”

His statement was matter-of-fact, but Madeleine detected a hint of caution in his voice.

“For a book dealer, or trader, or whatever he wants to call himself,” she carried on when he offered nothing more, “Richard Sharon certainly doesn't have many of them.”

“He has no books?” Thomas asked in disbelief.

She ducked her head from an overhanging branch. “He has a few but not what you'd expect for a dealer, or even someone who only takes a mild interest in them. His library instead is filled with unusual antiques and some very lovely artifacts. I'm not sure how this all ties in with smuggling but I'm certain it does.”

“Interesting.”

For moments she heard nothing more than the crunching of twigs and pebbles beneath their feet. Then finally the path widened again as they rounded the bend, heading in a northerly direction toward the cottage.

“The house is smaller inside than outside,” Thomas mentioned very slowly, as if piecing together an intricate puzzle while he thought about it. “Did you notice that?”

Madeleine paused in her own musings to consider what he was implying. “Very briefly, I suppose, when we first entered, but I haven't really given it much thought. What are you suggesting, Thomas?”

He inhaled deeply of the crisp, night air, moving up to walk at her side again. “I'm not sure. Just thinking aloud for now.”

A drop of rain hit her cheek, then another, and Madeleine lowered her head and raised her muff to her neck. “Maybe the rumors are true, then.”

“Rumors?”

“The rumors of it once having been a refuge for those not afflicted with the Black Death,” she expounded. “Maybe the structure is so old that the house has been closed in somewhat on its foundation, and there are spaces between rooms.”

He chuckled at that, lightening the mood, for which she was grateful.

“Usually, I'd consider that the stuff of fantasy,” he replied, “but in this case you may actually have a valid explanation. Don't forget, though, that the entire house can't be built that way. The ballroom, for example, is clearly open to the structure walls, and there are windows to other parts of the home that can be seen from the outside.”

She slowed her pace and brought her muff higher, to her nose, to warm it for a second or two. “Yes, but windows to what? I remember looking at the house from behind the cottage in the early night and not seeing one blessed light on. That did seem very strange to me since it was only just after ten.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps he retires early.”

She scoffed. “Does the Baron Rothebury strike you as the type of man who would retire early, Thomas?”

“I see your point.”

They were quiet for another minute.

“Let's assume,” she continued solemnly, “that his home has been remodeled to accommodate certain…What shall we call them? Passageways?” She tossed him a swift glance even though she couldn't see much of his expression.

“That seems an adequate term,” he concurred.

The notion of secret passages in Rothebury's home both confounded and fascinated her. “Why would he do that? For what purpose?”

Thomas hesitated before replying. “To smuggle? To move from room to room unnoticed so he can observe his indolent servants? To…bring young ladies into his bedroom at night without them being observed?”

She gradually stopped walking, pulling one hand out of her warm, sable muff to grasp his coat sleeve. He halted a pace ahead of her, pivoting to look down at her in question.

With increasing awareness, she whispered reluctantly, “He said that to me, Thomas.”

Even in nearly pure darkness she saw him frown.

“Said what?”

“That he wanted to bring me in at night. For a lover's tryst, although he didn't use those words. And when I protested by saying something he probably expected me to say as a cultured lady, about how I couldn't possibly meet him because I might stumble into a servant and speckle his reputation if I were caught, he quite casually informed me that there are other ways of getting inside the manor house than using the front door.”

Thomas wiped his face with his gloved hand. “He said this while you were alone together?”

“In the library,” she admitted, releasing his sleeve and inserting her hand back inside her muff, feeling only a trifle guilty for not immediately telling him about her and the baron's little escapade. She would get to that in a moment. “He wanted my…undivided attention, and I wanted to get him alone to talk, only suggesting that room because I'd get a good look at his book collection, which, as I just said, did not really exist.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head in disgust. “Of course, he never mentioned a concern for
my
reputation, but then he's not the type of man who would.”

Thomas smiled slightly at that.

“I suppose he could have meant the servants' entrance,” she reasoned matter-of-factly.

“And chance meeting one of them? I doubt it.” He stroked long, leather-covered fingers over his whiskers, slowly. “Do you want to know what I think?”

She grinned. “You have to ask?”

More droplets of rain tapped her hooded mantle, and Thomas glanced up to the dark night sky. “It's getting heavier.”

“And I'm about to freeze to my death.”

Without thought or comment he stepped toward her and wrapped a strong, comforting arm around her shoulders, pulled her tightly against his thick, broad chest, then began walking again with her at his side.

“I think this,” he disclosed contemplatively. “I think that house is very old, perhaps even as old as local rumor suggests. Because of its age the inside has been remodeled through the years—to renovate it, to change the interior style for decorative reasons. I think there are hidden passages behind the walls that connect some of the rooms, maybe many of them, and that there are entrances into that house from the outside property.”

It was all beginning to make sense to her, too. “Tunnels underground,” she said in a quick breath.

“Maybe. Maybe only one. I'm beginning to suspect that's how he's getting crates of opium inside his home without anyone the wiser, including, perhaps, even his own servants.”

“Servants would never talk, Thomas,” she reminded him. “Not if they need their jobs.”

“True,” he agreed. “But remember that with a timely, illegal operation like this one he couldn't possibly take such a risk if he could help it. He's far too clever to chance bringing crates of stolen opium through the front
door in the middle of the day.”

She looked up to study the bold, rough edges of his facial features as he continued to stare straight ahead.

“He'd bring them in at night,” she theorized aloud as amazing conclusions began to dawn on her. “He'd do it quietly, by lantern light, through tunnels that led into passageways in his home.”

“That's precisely what I'm beginning to believe.”

“And there he could hide everything from visitors and the authorities if he had to.”

“Right again.”

“Which is why he's cautious about inviting neighbors into his home socially.”

“And probably why he holds the Winter Masquerade each year.”

Her brows drew together. “That I don't understand.”

“Think about it, Madeleine.” He cleared his throat as he shook his head minutely. “If one looks at the house closely, as I did tonight, it can be deduced that the outside is larger than the inside, if only slightly and at certain observable angles. However, when he's filled it with people it would only
seem
small to someone who, although might notice a difference, would disregard the apparent size variation because it's crowded.”

An incredible presumption, and perfectly plausible under the circumstances.

“So,” she concluded for him guardedly, “he has to host a social event from time to time, or villagers would begin to wonder why they are not receiving invitations from the Baron Rothebury.”

“Exactly. What better way to stay in the villagers' good graces than to invite them all to a masquerade ball
each year, where the food is excellent and the expensive drink flows. Everybody has a marvelous time, he mingles with the local gentry, and the rest of the year he's busy. It's actually very clever on his part.”

Madeleine plainly heard the disgust dripping from his voice at that remark, but because she knew Thomas liked the baron less with each passing week, she brushed over that as another thought of much more significance occurred to her.

“That's what Desdemona has seen.”

He squeezed her once and pushed a branch covered with wet, clinging leaves out of her way with his free arm as they finally neared the clearing behind the cottage. “I imagine she's seen something, but fortunately for the good Baron Rothebury, he doesn't have to worry about a woman who can't say a word about it to anyone without ruining her family's fine reputation.”

Suddenly Madeleine understood, and felt nauseated by it. “She was his lover.”

“I would not be in the least surprised,” he said coolly.

“So that explains the lights in the night that she mentioned,” Madeleine surmised as her own mind began to bubble with possibilities. “But how much do you think she really knows?”

He shook his head again and slowed his stride as the bench came into view. “Impossible to say unless she talks, and it's doubtful she would help us if she could.”

He guided her toward the entrance to the small tunnel of foliage that led to the cottage, but Madeleine pulled herself away from his grasp and continued strolling toward the water.

“I thought you were cold?” he maintained, confused.

She ignored the comment, hugging herself against the chill and sprinkling drops of icy rain, her hands in her muff at her chin as she stared out across the lake. “I think I know how he's getting the opium out, Thomas,” she murmured at last.

Immediately intrigued, he followed her to the shoreline, stopping when he reached her side. “How?”

She tilted her head to glance at him sideways. Just as she did, the clouds in the western sky parted where the moon could shine through, illuminating his ruggedly handsome face in a hazy, blue glow. An eerie sight with the baron's darkened home silhouetted in the distance.

With a crooked lift of her lips, she quietly revealed, “When I was dancing on the line twelve years ago, I had to save my money somewhere, but didn't want my mother to find it. She would only have used it to fund her opium or alcohol habit. The first little bit I earned I stuck in my shoes, but found out fairly quickly that I wouldn't be able to save it there because my mother often wore my shoes. I then stuck it in books—my English reading books that Jacques had purchased for me—because I knew my mother would never open them when she didn't speak the language. But I still had the problem of the money piling up. It was stuffed inside and began to show.” Her eyes sparkled as she dropped her voice to a murmur of intrigue. “So I cut out the pages.”

That stumped him for a moment. Then the image of all she was implying hit its target and his shaded expression turned to one of astonishment. “You think Rothebury is hiding the opium inside Lady Claire's
books?”

Madeleine nodded succinctly in a manner of clarifying her jumbled ideas before she explained what she was starting to suspect. “I think he buys them for a fair price, as any good dealer might, opens each book individually, cuts or saws a square or circular insert out of the pages—probably a good twenty or thirty pages within and ten to fifteen pages deep—then places the opium inside for shipment. Then he stacks the books in crates and sends them to a distributor in London, who is waiting patiently with a client list for disbursement.” She laughed into her muff with excitement she could no longer contain. “And think about it. Who would look
inside
a book? Especially if the baron isn't suspected of anything.”