Chapter 6
The south lawn of Oakford Hall buzzed with anticipation.
Chairs were arranged in semicircles, servants glided by with trays of lemonade, and at the center, Crispin stood beside a small table, a silver bowl glinting in the afternoon sun.
Alice took a glass from a passing footman and settled near the ornamental hedge, watching the gathering unfold from a careful remove.
The morning's encounter in the garden would not quit her mind, leaving her unsettled in ways she wasn’t ready to confront. She had retreated to her room for lunch, citing a headache, and since then, she had struggled to reclaim her usual calm. The effort had yielded only modest success.
Now, she observed Crispin as he prepared for the event, his demeanor sharp and commanding.
He wore his hosting duties as if they were a tailored suit, fitted and crafted to elicit a specific reaction.
The silver bowl before him held neatly folded slips of paper, and his expression suggested he had shuffled them with meticulous care.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, his voice resonating across the lawn, "welcome to what I have modestly titled the Grand Oakford Treasure Hunt. The rules are simple, deceptively so, according to those who designed them."
Clara, perched near the terrace steps, beamed like a co-conspirator savoring the moment.
"Each pair will receive a sealed envelope containing your first riddle," Crispin continued, gesturing to a stack of cream-colored envelopes beside the bowl.
"Solve the riddle, locate the designated token, and you will find your next clue attached.
Five tokens in total, scattered throughout the gardens.
The first pair to collect all five wins the honor, some might call it a burden, of leading the first dance at tonight's musicale. "
A ripple of excitement swept through the crowd. The twin sisters exchanged eager glances while Mr. Davenant adjusted his cravat, anticipation etched on his face, and the baroness appeared ready to forfeit and retreat to her chair.
"Now, to the pairings." Crispin reached into the silver bowl with a flourish. "I shall draw the ladies first, then their partners. Fate is unpredictable, as we all know, and I am merely its instrument."
Alice stifled a laugh into her lemonade, earning a disapproving glare from the dowager beside her.
The first slip revealed Miss Winters, who flushed with nerves, paired with the dark-haired gentleman who had spent most of the party feigning boredom.
The second pairing matched one of the twin sisters with an elderly baron whose hearing was questionable.
The announcements continued, each pairing met with varying degrees of enthusiasm and resignation.
Alice began to entertain the foolish hope of escaping selection entirely, though Crispin’s evident determination for amusement suggested otherwise, when her name rang out.
"Lady Alice Pickford," Crispin announced, his eyes locking onto hers with an innocence that was anything but convincing.
She stepped forward, glass still in hand, forcing her features into a mask of polite interest.
Crispin reached into the bowl once more. The pause that followed felt deliberate, and when he unfolded the paper, a knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth.
"Viscount Crewe."
Alice's pulse quickened. Not from surprise or anticipation but from the realization that fate had conspired once again to bring them together. She turned to see Crewe already approaching from his position near the fountain, his expression carefully blank.
He looked like a man calculating the safest way to dispose of a live serpent.
"How fortunate," she said as he came to stand beside her. "Destiny seems determined to educate us in each other's company."
"Destiny," he replied, his voice flat, "has poor judgment."
Yet something flickered behind his words. A memory, perhaps, of their walk through the rose arbor, mingled with roses, grief, and shared confessions. Alice noted it for later consideration.
Crispin distributed the sealed envelopes with the ceremony of a priest dispensing sacraments. When he reached Alice and Crewe, his smile sharpened into something knowing.
"Do try not to murder each other before the third riddle," he murmured. "Clara has worked hard on these clues, and I would hate to see them wasted on a corpse."
"Your concern for our welfare is touching," Alice replied.
"My concern is for the entertainment of my other guests." Crispin pressed the envelope into her hand with a wink. "Good hunting."
He moved on to the next pair, leaving Alice and Crewe standing together under the warm afternoon sun, the sealed envelope resting between them.
Alice wasted no time. She broke the seal with a decisive motion, unfolding the paper to reveal Clara's elegant handwriting.
Where stone lions guard their silent post,
And morning shadows fall at most,
Seek the tears that never dry,
Beneath the gaze of a watchful eye.
"The fountain," Alice declared immediately. "The east fountain has lion heads, and the water flows continuously."
Crewe remained silent, standing beside her with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. She sensed his reluctance like heat from a forge, igniting something contrary in her chest. The urge to crack that composure and uncover the man she had glimpsed in the garden.
"Well?" She folded the riddle and tucked it into her reticule. "Shall we stand here contemplating our misfortune, or shall we give our host the satisfaction of watching us attempt to cooperate?"
His jaw tightened. "The east fountain, you said."
"Unless you have a better interpretation." She tilted her head, watching him. "Do you?"
For a moment, he met her gaze, and she saw a flicker of something behind his gray eyes, a hint of the man who had spoken of his mother's roses with quiet grief. Then his expression closed off, and he gestured toward the garden path with stiff courtesy.
"After you, Lady Alice."
She gathered her skirts and walked, keenly aware of him falling into step beside her, of other pairs dispersing across the lawn, and of the strange certainty that something more than tokens was at stake.
The treasure hunt had begun, and despite her better judgment, anticipation tingled in Alice's chest as she looked forward to the chase.
The east fountain announced itself before they reached it.
Water fell in a steady hush, the faint spray catching the light and scattering rainbows across the weathered stone.
Two lion heads jutted from the central column, their mouths perpetually open, weeping into the basin below.
Alice circled the structure, her eyes scanning for the promised token.
"There." She pointed to a small brass disc tucked into a crevice where one lion's mane met the stone. "Beneath the gaze of the watchful eye."
Crewe retrieved it without comment, his long fingers extracting the disc and the folded paper attached. He passed the riddle to her without being asked, a small concession that piqued her interest.
Through verdant walls that twist and turn,
Where patience fails and tempers burn,
The center holds what seekers crave,
For those who follow rather than save.
"The hedge maze." Alice began walking before she finished speaking. "Central pavilion. Come along."
"You might consider," Crewe said, falling into step beside her with evident reluctance, "conferencing before you charge ahead."
"I might." She glanced back at him over her shoulder. "But then we would lose precious seconds to deliberation, and I prefer winning."
The hedge maze loomed before them, eight feet of meticulously trimmed boxwood arranged to frustrate and disorient. Alice had explored it two days prior—ostensibly for exercise, really to escape a conversation about lace with the baroness. The memory served her now.
"Left at the first fork," she said, plunging into the green corridor. "Then right, then left twice more."
"You know the way?" Crewe sounded suspicious.
"I know everything, Lord Crewe. It is one of my more irritating qualities.”
“I imagine it is more of a side effect of your close relationship with Lady Oakford.”
“Touché,” Alice giggled.
They moved through the maze in near silence, their footsteps muffled by soft earth.
The hedges blocked the breeze, creating a still, private world where sound carried strangely and the afternoon sun filtered through gaps in the foliage.
Alice was aware of Crewe behind her. His presence, his breathing, the measured tread of his boots.
The central pavilion appeared around the final corner, a small octagonal structure of white-painted wood, with a second brass token lying in plain sight on one of its benches.
Alice unfolded the next riddle with efficiency.
Where lovers walked in crimson shade,
And morning confessions were carefully made,
The keeper of petals guards a prize,
For those with steady hands and observant eyes.
Her chest tightened. The rose arbor, where she and Crewe had walked that morning, where he had spoken of his mother, where something had shifted between them that she was still struggling to name.
She kept her expression neutral as she passed him the paper. "The rose arbor. Unless you have a different interpretation."
He read the words, and she watched recognition flicker across his features in the tightening of his jaw and the slight pause before he spoke. "Lovers walked," he repeated quietly. "Clara has a romantic imagination."
"Clara has an excellent memory." Alice began walking before her voice could betray her. "This way."
They emerged from the maze and crossed the garden toward the crimson-draped arbor, where roses cascaded in waves of scarlet and wine.
The scent reached them first, heavy, sweet, and almost overwhelming in the afternoon warmth.
Alice breathed it in, recalling the brush of petals against her fingers and the quiet grief in Crewe's voice as he spoke of his mother.