Chapter 5
How much time had gone by? Amelia wasn’t entirely sure. An hour, perhaps, or two? She had paced around the room, pulling off all the dust sheets, and found only one old grandfather clock, which seemed to be running slow and was no help at all.
A draft ran through the attic, a curling, cold breeze that nipped at her ankles.
Shivering, Amelia drew her legs up onto the cushioned bench she sat on.
She’d dragged it across the room to rest beneath one of the wide, slanted windows.
If she stood on her tiptoes—the bench was too unsteady to risk standing on—she could just about peer out the windows.
All she could see were hills of roof slats and sky.
What is going to happen to me?
Since her captor had left her, variations of this question had assaulted her mind over and over again. Part of her was terrified he’d never return. Who was to say a maid would come with food and fresh clothes? Perhaps she’d just fade away up here, alone and forgotten.
Marjory would be terrified. She must have reached home by now, but what could she do? The constables wouldn’t help them, not after hearing how they’d broken into a rich man’s house. And if there were no evidence that Amelia had ever been there, no witnesses besides Marjory, and he denied it…
She swallowed thickly. Yes, the only way she was going to escape this place was if Stephen let her out. And he hadn’t seemed interested at all in freeing her.
No, she thought moodily. If I am to escape from this oddly comfortable prison, I need a miracle.
And then she heard voices outside.
The first voice was female, youngish, and decidedly anxious.
“Your Grace, I can’t. His Grace was so very specific. He’ll be so angry if I—”
“Jane, my dear, you leave managing His Grace to me. Now, are you going to step aside and hand me the key, or must I resort to other methods? I might be an old woman, but I reckon I can still wrestle that key from your grip, my dear.”
The second voice was distinctly older, weathered, yet laced with a resounding confidence and even cheerfulness. Amelia slid off the bench and padded over to the door. She twisted her fingers together anxiously, straining to hear.
“I… I don’t know if I can let you in,” the younger voice stammered. A maid, Amelia guessed.
The older woman chuckled. “Oh, but of course you can, my dear. You see, I just heard from another maid about this whole silly situation. I ought to have been clearer with my grandson. He should not have treated a guest this way! You see, the lady in this room is my companion, and I completely forgot to tell my grandson that she was coming.”
“Oh,” the maid breathed, and Amelia could hear the relief in her voice. “Oh, of course! What a silly misunderstanding.”
“Yes, I thought so. Now, come along, Jane. Open the door.”
Amelia’s heart jumped when she heard a key turn in the lock. The door creaked open, revealing a rather harried-looking maid in a mob cap and apron. She was carrying a tray in one hand rather awkwardly, her other hand resting on the door handle.
Beside her stood an older woman, stooped and thin with age, resplendent in black velvet and glittering pearls around her neck.
She appeared to be in her seventies, with thick white hair and bright, intelligent eyes.
She leaned heavily on a thick silver stick, watching Amelia closely.
When their eyes met, she broke into a wide smile.
“Well, good day, my dear. You are a little late. Most impolite for a guest, although we will not hold it against you.”
Amelia swallowed thickly. “Madam, I am no guest. I—”
“Ah-Ah-Ah,” the woman interrupted, wagging a gnarled finger.
She paused, dropping a heavy-lidded wink.
Play along, that wink said. “You must be exhausted after your journey. And being confined in the attic! Do forgive the caprices of my grandson. But men must have their little foibles, is that not so?”
Grandson, Amelia thought, her mind ticking furiously. They called him His Grace. Does that mean that my captor is a duke?
Sure, he was broad-shouldered and serious-faced. She remembered his hands, large and oddly graceful, reaching for her, and that made her shiver.
She had imagined that he was an important man, of course. Rich and probably titled, but a duke? What sort of duke would live in anonymity?
“Now,” said the old woman briskly. “I shall show you to your chambers, which are much more comfortable than the attic. Off we go, then.”
“Your Grace—” the maid began uncertainly, but was cut off by an easy wave of the older woman’s hand.
“I take full responsibility, Jane. Now… Amelia, was it? Let’s go.”
Without another word, the older woman—the Dowager Duchess, apparently—turned and began tip-tapping away down the hallway at a quick pace, the tip of her walking stick clacking against the floor.
Amelia had two choices. She could stay where she was, hovering in the doorway, with an uncertain maid who looked ready to slam and lock the door at any moment, trapping her in the attic. Or she could follow the strange old lady, who was apparently the grandmother of her captor.
She chose the second option, hurrying down the corridor before the maid could make up her mind. It was easy enough to catch up to the older woman, despite her brisk pace.
The old woman flashed her another bright smile. “I wouldn’t worry. We won’t run into him,” she promised. “So, how did my grandson introduce himself to you? As Orion?”
“Yes, but he also said his name was Stephen,” Amelia responded, twisting to look around.
This was more or less the same way they had come, seeing the deep carpeting and expensive-looking paper on the walls. How could the Dowager Duchess be so sure they wouldn’t run into Stephen?
“And… and you are his grandmother?” Amelia ventured, suddenly keen to make an ally.
There was no apparent reason as to why the old woman would free her, but it was probably a good idea to befriend her while she could.
“Yes, I am the Dowager Duchess of Redcliffe, but that’s something of a mouthful, so I prefer plain Lady Brandon, or even Letitia.
At my age, one can’t waste time on gabbling through lengthy titles.
Tell me, my dear, how did you come to be here?
My grandson has strange proclivities, to be sure, but never before has he abducted a young woman. ”
Amelia bit her lip. “Abducted is quite a strong word.”
“Is it? Then what word would you use?”
No word came to mind.
Amelia cleared her throat and offered a weak smile.
“The truth is, I was poking around his house. I believe he took exception to it and… and blamed me for the disappearance of an heirloom I did not take. He was so angry, but I suppose this is better than having the constables summoned and being thrown in gaol.”
“Most things are better than gaol,” the Dowager Duchess agreed. “Do you have an occupation, then?”
“I work at a modiste’s. I am a seamstress. A dressmaker,” she corrected herself hastily.
Seamstress conjured images of a sad, poor woman spending all day and most of the night hunched over her work, squinting by a window, and constantly wishing that she had more light.
Of course, Amelia did those things, but she also helped fit ladies for their gowns and made adjustments. Dressmaker was a finer title than seamstress.
The Dowager Duchess watched her curiously, as if she could hear all the thoughts running through Amelia’s head.
“A seamstress,” she murmured thoughtfully. “That is perfection itself, I think.”
“I beg your pardon?” Amelia managed.
“Granted.” The Dowager Duchess nodded. “Ah, here we are.”
They had reached a first-floor landing, with a wider hall and a more expensive carpet, thick enough to absorb the thumps of their footsteps and the clack of the Dowager Duchess’s stick.
“My private parlor is in here,” she explained, pushing open a neat little door. “Do come in. I’ll ring for tea.”
Amelia followed the woman uncertainly.
They entered a small, neat room, modestly decorated.
A fire burned in the grate, and two chairs were angled toward it.
Warmth filled the room, and comfortable, inviting chairs were scattered everywhere.
There was already a tea tray set on a low table beside one of the chairs, a tepid cup of tea waiting, half-drunk.
“I was in the middle of my usual pre-luncheon tea when I heard that we had an unexpected guest,” Dowager Duchess confessed. “I came to your aid at once.”
“Th-Thank you, Your Grace,” Amelia stammered. “Am I free to go, then?”
The Dowager Duchess tugged on a velvet rope, no doubt designed to summon servants, and sank down with a sigh into what appeared to be her usual seat.
“I’m afraid not. This is my home, and I exercise a good deal of authority in it, but I cannot overrule my grandson. No, we’ll have to be cleverer than that, my dear.”
A prickle ran down Amelia’s spine. “Does he… Does he mean me harm?”
“Harm? Heavens, no. I know my grandson well. His motives are not always apparent to me, even after all these years, but you are not in danger. However, I imagine you haven’t had the leisure to kick your heels in some stranger’s attic for days or weeks on end.
Besides, I have been trying to do something about Stephen for a while now. ”
Trying to do something about Stephen. Now, what on earth does that mean?
The Dowager Duchess gestured toward the empty chair opposite, and Amelia obediently sank into it.
“You must call me Letitia, by the way,” she added. “I hate ceremony and titles. My grandson and I have that in common.”
Amelia bit her lower lip. “Is there no chance of my sneaking out before he realizes that I have escaped the attic?”
The Dowager Duchess—Letitia—sighed and shook her head. “No, I think not. He will hear that I have let you out of the attic…” She paused, taking out an elaborate gold pocket watch. “… right about now.”
“She did what?” Stephen thundered, rising to his feet quickly enough to send his teacup toppling off the side of the desk.