Chapter 5
Chapter Five
She had told him more than she ought, yet he was easy to talk to, and one question had led to another. How long before all her secrets came tumbling out? Not long, she feared, because her thoughts kept straying to the memory of his broad chest, and the subtle intimacy that lingered between them.
It did not bode well for the future.
Friends did not look at one another’s mouths while eating French pastries. Friends did not draw a sharp breath every time their knees brushed. And anyone who had spent time in a carriage with Lord Rothley knew his thighs left no room for escape.
The man in question turned to his coachman, a fellow who matched his master in brawn but lacked his finesse. “Follow us into the graveyard, but be on your guard.” He scanned their surroundings, gaze narrowing. “There’s a chance we’re being watched.”
“Aye, if there’s anyone lurking, I’ll haul them out by the scruff.”
“Should you encounter the fiend, I need him alive.”
“But I can rough him up a bit, so long as he’s breathing?”
“Aye,” Lord Rothley teased. “But dinna break him before I get my answers. Leave him a face his mother would still ken.”
They spoke like comrades-in-arms, not master and servant. For Olivia, it was a revelation. She had always seen Lord Rothley as strong, intelligent, and possessed of a wry sense of humour. But here was something new. A playful side she had never witnessed before.
“We need to enter the cottage to retrieve the key to the mausoleum,” she said, making for the rickety gate. “And I’d like to pack my things first in case we’re forced to leave in a hurry.”
Lord Rothley jerked his head. “You left the key behind?”
“I was in nightclothes, and the villain would have searched me, expecting to find it. Better to hide it in plain sight.”
His brow lifted, as if faintly impressed by her reasoning. He drew an iron key from his waistcoat pocket. “You’ll need this. I locked the back door when I left last night.”
Something in his tone betrayed him.
“My attacker has been in the house, hasn’t he?” She shuddered, fearing it wasn’t a question but a grim certainty. What had he touched? What had he taken?
“Yes.” His fingers closed around her arm, the gentleness at odds with his words. “We found drawers and cupboards ransacked, chairs overturned. He was likely searching for your mysterious object.”
Doubtless, the place was a shambles. But the thought vanished beneath the warmth of his hand, the steadiness of his touch, and the unsettling truth that she didn’t want him to let go.
“There’s a cart approaching,” Mr Kincaid said, sounding like an escaped felon hiding from the watchmen. “Best get the lady out o’ sight.”
The marquess released her, and she felt all the colder for it. He steered her along the narrow path to the rear of the house and stood guard as she opened the cottage door.
She braced herself, barely able to look as she passed through the small kitchen. But the chairs were pushed neatly against the table, the cupboards closed, the stone floor clutter-free.
Lord Rothley cleared his throat. “The intruder was almost mindless in his destruction. We put right what we could, in the hope of sparing you any distress.”
She pictured him, weary in the dead of night, fixing a problem not of his making. “I’m extremely grateful. I must thank your coachman.”
“Kincaid tidied the rooms below. I dealt with the disorder in your bedchamber.”
The confession hung in the air for a heartbeat. How long had he been there? Folding her nightgowns, fingertips grazing the silk that warmed her skin.
“I ought to blush, but you’ve already rifled through my stockings.”
His mouth quirked. “You might rephrase that. It gives quite the wrong impression to anyone listening.”
“There’s no one here but us.” Yet she could not shake the sense of unseen eyes, of a villain who would stop at nothing to find the valise.
“Then you should know I’ve touched all your belongings.”
“All except my corsets, it seems.”
“No,” he mused. “I touched those as well.”
These playful exchanges reached some desolate place inside her. It was surprising that a man as sombre as the marquess could bring light to her darkness.
“I’m sorry to say you’ll need to handle them again. We must pack with haste, fetch the valise from the mausoleum, and leave here before the devil returns.”
“The valise?”
“I’ll explain once we reach Studland Park.”
They moved to the stairs. The tacks she’d scattered across the threshold were gone. “You swept the hall?”
“Kincaid did. I was too busy with your petticoats.”
Pushing aside the image of his hands on her undergarments, she mounted the narrow stairs. He followed, casting the steps in shadow, his nearness causing an odd flutter in her belly.
She held her breath before entering her chamber. The space was neat, almost as if a maid had set it straight, yet a beast had prowled through her domain, and she wasn’t referring to the marquess.
As they packed her clothes into the portmanteau, the marquess asked, “Where are the gowns you wore to the recitals at The Jade? I see nothing here but serviceable dresses.”
“I hired them from a second-hand dealer in Covent Garden. Borrowed some from the countess. I left my father’s home with nothing but the few belongings I could carry, a pouch of sovereigns and my mother’s jewels.” And a message to run and never look back.
His mouth tightened. “A father should protect his daughter, not feed her to the wolves. This whole business reeks of neglect.”
Her throat constricted. Anger rose, not at Lord Rothley but at the memory of the man who had failed her so completely.
“I’m a stronger person for it,” she said, though she was so tired she could sleep standing.
A wave of heat swept through her, and she pressed a hand to her brow.
“Is it hot in here? I’m finding it a little hard to breathe. ”
“No, it’s so draughty one wonders how you slept at night.”
Perhaps it was the daunting prospect of opening the coffin that made her head spin so fast she felt dizzy. “Let’s hurry. I’ll take the bonnet in the bandbox. That should suffice.”
“What about the key to the mausoleum?”
“It’s here, hiding in plain sight.” She plucked the key from the armoire door and tucked it inside her glove.
He gave a hum of approval. “Ingenious. Who would think to take the key when the door is already open?”
“Precisely.”
“You should have been a spy, Miss Woolf.” He lifted her portmanteau as if it weighed nothing and headed for the door. “You certainly think like one.”
She laughed lightly, hoping it hid the frisson of panic. If only he knew the truth: she’d grown up in a house where secrets were daily fare, her father the greatest conspirator of them all.
Outside, Mr Kincaid loaded her luggage, then did as his lordship requested and readied both pistols he’d taken from the walnut box beneath the seat.
The Scotsman fell into step behind them, the gate groaning as they entered the deserted graveyard. “They say the earth weeps when a man dies. Dinna look like it weeps much here.”
In the cold light of day, the place looked less like hallowed ground and more like a neglected garden, with headstones leaning at odd angles, grass growing wild between the paths. A blackbird trilled from the yew, heedless of the silence that hung heavy over the stones.
Fragments of memory burst through her mind: gloved fingers at her throat, the horrid bird mask, her stumbling, scrabbling to her feet, the fear that every breath might be her last.
She gripped Lord Rothley’s arm, and he started as if he’d heard a coffin creak. “Forgive me. I feel a little unwell.”
“After what you endured last night, it’s to be expected.” He drew her hand tighter around his arm. “Lean on me.”
Lean on him? She felt like collapsing and relinquishing every burden. But the less he knew, the better. Though keeping secrets from this man was akin to holding back the tide with her bare hands.
“Do you recall anything about your attacker?” he said.
“You mean his build or hair colour?”
“Yes. Anything to help identify him.”
She tried to concentrate, but her thoughts were hazy, like a fog slowly closing in. “It all happened so quickly.”
“You must tell me if you remember anything.”
“I will,” she said, for it was one vow she could keep.
They stopped before the mausoleum, and as she drew the cold metal from her glove, she wondered again how her father had come by the key.
“I shall ask you one last time, my lord. Will you not turn back and forget you ever met me?” He risked his life for someone unworthy. Did that not make her as wicked as Miss Bourne? “I fear this won’t end well for either of us.”
He surprised her with an amused snort. “Nothing in my life has ended well, Miss Woolf. Why should this be any different?”
“Perhaps your pessimism is the problem?”
“Shall I try to be more cheerful?”
“Yes. Because if we choose this path, I’d rather our days be filled with hope than regret.”
He laughed, almost to himself. “I know what hope looks like to me. Though on that score, I doubt we think alike.”
To her, hope was a day without worry, a day when something other than sadness filled her heart, when she might glimpse the marquess at his washstand and feel every nerve tingle to life.
“So, the valise we need is inside the mausoleum?” he asked.
“I hid it there for safekeeping. I’m certain that’s why my father gave me the key. The poem speaks of a place of secrets, and where better to hide one than a coffin?”
“A coffin?” He drew his head back. “You opened a casket?”
“I had no choice.”
“Did he say what he wanted you to do with the valise?”
She shook her head. “Take it and run, I suppose. Will you wait here while I fetch the bag?”
Mr Kincaid chuckled. “Wait here? You’re askin’ the most inquisitive man in England to bide outside? Not a chance, lass.”
“As you can see, Miss Woolf, I’m but a puppet, and my coachman speaks for me.”
“Aye, and I’ve nae been wrong yet.”