Chapter 5 #2
She glanced warily about and stepped towards the iron door, but the marquess claimed the key, intent on playing the gentleman. The hinges groaned under his hand, releasing a rush of cold air, sharp with damp and decay.
Three tombs lay within. Two were fine stone, angels etched upon their lids, the inscriptions speaking of devotion.
“Mr Lucius Hathaway and his beloved wife,” she murmured.
“And the other?” Rothley nodded to the crude wooden casket on the floor. “Their servant, perhaps?”
“There’s no inscription. I searched there first because I lacked the strength to move the stone.”
Without another word, he crouched beside the coffin, his trousers pulling taut over his thighs as he set his broad hands to the lid and heaved. The wood creaked in protest. Olivia’s stomach clenched, her pulse quickening as she watched, praying the bag was still inside.
Dust drifted as the lid gave way. Inside lay a long, shapeless form swathed in a grey shroud, the fabric brittle with age. Nestled at the bottom, tucked beneath the folds of cloth, was the battered leather bag.
Her breath caught. Relief warred with dread.
That bag was the bane of her existence.
“I cannot believe you dealt with this issue alone,” Lord Rothley said, removing the valise and swiftly replacing the coffin lid. “Why the devil didn’t you accept my help? I offered countless times after the robbery at your lodging house.”
Oh, she had longed to clasp his hand and say yes. But he was a marquess, and she the daughter of a spy. And the countess’ words had forced her to keep her distance.
If Rothley asks, you should dance with him. After all, he needs to know there are good, honest women in the world.
But she had deceived them all—even her closest friends.
Tears gathered behind her eyes.
She longed for an end to the nightmare. And the more time she spent in his company, the more she suspected he might be the one to save her.
“Miss Woolf?” His deep voice pulled her from her reverie. “Are you ready to leave? Is there anything else we need here?”
He used the word we again, as if fate had bound them together.
“No, just the valise.” She pressed her fingers to her brow, surprised by the heat of her skin when the mausoleum was ice-cold.
“It’s light. Are you certain what you need is in here?” He weighed the bag in his hand, a faint rattle sounding as the contents knocked together.
“Quite certain. It’s empty but for a handful of curious things. We’ll examine them together once we’re safely back at Studland Park.”
There was an odd glint in his eyes. Perhaps intrigue. Or perhaps he was simply unused to being included in a woman’s plans.
They left the mausoleum, locking the door behind them.
Mr Kincaid eyed the valise in the marquess’ hand and gave a wry grin. “Best hope the soul in that coffin doesna come knockin’ for what’s his. Folk say the restless never sleep easy. ’Tis a bad omen, make no mistake.”
Lord Rothley shot his coachman a sharp look. “That will do, Kincaid. The valise belongs to Miss Woolf.”
The coachman looked at her and frowned. “Are ye well, lass? Ye look like ye’ve been toastin’ your cockles on the fire.”
“I’m quite well,” she lied, though her head throbbed and the ground seemed to tilt beneath her feet. “It’s nothing a little rest won’t cure.”
Lord Rothley’s hand closed over her arm, steady and unbearably hot against her already fevered skin. “Kincaid is right. We’ll not remain here a moment longer.”
She didn’t argue. Her eyelids felt heavy, her chest tight. Perhaps she’d caught a chill from the long ride to Islington last night.
They were about to climb into the carriage when Mrs Hodge came hurrying along the lane, waving and calling Olivia’s name. Heavens, her mind was so clouded she had forgotten to visit her landlady.
Olivia mustered a smile as the lithe, pinched-faced woman drew near. “Mrs Hodge. I was about to call and return the key to the cottage.”
“Return the key? You’re leaving?” Concern furrowed her brow as she studied the marquess with obvious unease. “You never mentioned a trip when you agreed to the contract.”
“No. My aunt is taken ill, and I’ve been summoned to Brighton.” The lie came easily. She was proficient at something at least. “The rent is paid until the end of next month, and you may keep my deposit.”
She dared not glance at Lord Rothley, though she sensed his eyes upon her, measuring every word.
“And these gentlemen are friends of yours, Miss Woolf? I only ask because I thought I heard shots fired on the road last night, and there’s talk of strangers roaming these parts.”
“There’s talk in town of highway robbers.” Lord Rothley spoke with cool authority. “We’re tasked with delivering Miss Woolf safely to Brighton.” He paused, his gaze sharp upon her. “I’m told you were the housekeeper at Canfield Manor.”
“That’s correct. I retired last year.”
“Then you worked for Sir Randall Ferguson?”
“For fifteen years, sir.”
He offered no introduction, perhaps because he had no desire to watch the elderly woman fumble. “Then you know his sister, Lady Mayberry.”
“Sadly, she passed twelve months ago, from consumption.”
Lord Rothley looked faintly satisfied. “Yes. Sir Randall kept her wolfhound. What the devil was the beast called?”
“Kaiser, sir.”
“Kaiser, yes.” He turned to Olivia. “Do you have all your belongings, Miss Woolf? Would you care for one last look around the house?”
“No. I have everything.” She pressed the key into Mrs Hodge’s hand. A sudden faintness swept over her, whether from the year’s strain or the daunting task ahead, she could not say.
“Do you have a forwarding address, Miss Woolf? Just in case any correspondence arrives for you.”
“You may forward it to Burkes Bookshop on Aylesbury Street, Clerkenwell. The proprietor is a friend and knows how to reach me.”
Lord Rothley cast her a pointed glance but held his tongue.
“Well, good luck to you, dear. The road here is lonely at night, and living beside a graveyard unsettles most folk. I’ll pray your aunt makes a quick recovery.”
Mrs Hodge bid them good day and returned to her cottage.
Once she was out of earshot, Lord Rothley said, “I cannot decide whether to applaud your talent for lying or be troubled by it.”
“It’s not difficult to lie, my lord, when lives hang in the balance.” And the less Mrs Hodge knew, the safer they’d all be. “Do you think we should have told her about the beast in the mask? After all, she lives out here alone. He may return, seeking answers.”
“I’ll have one of Daventry’s agents keep watch for a few days. If the villain is still hunting you, we’ll know.”
Her pursuer was relentless, intent on recovering the item her father had stolen, whatever the cost.
“He could be watching us now.” She kept her gaze fixed on the man who was afraid of nothing but his memories. “What if he’s waiting for the right moment to strike?”
“Trust me, Miss Woolf. He’ll not harm you again.”
She wanted to believe him. His words rang with conviction. Men feared him, and he seemed not to care if he lived or died. Strength like that might become a refuge, and that frightened her more than the man in the mask.
A marriage of friendship was an attractive prospect. Yet why would he sacrifice the chance of finding love? And what right had she, a woman cloaked in lies, to even wonder?
The question lingered, leaving her head spinning. Shadows gathered at the edges of her vision as her world began to slip away. She tried to draw breath and resist the darkness, but her strength failed. Her knees gave way, and she collapsed into Lord Rothley’s arms.