Chapter Fourteen #2
Wanting nothing more than to hold Bijou in her arms, Bridget went directly from the study to the library.
The terrier sat up in his basket when Bridget entered the room, greeting her with his wagging tail and a flurry of excited yips.
She clapped her hands, indicating that he should come to her, and Bijou sprang from his bed.
“It looks like you’ve had a good rest.” She petted the pup and then scooped him up in her arms. Pressing him close, she wished she could retreat to the privacy of her chamber with him, but she had work to do.
So, instead, she made her way downstairs to Madam Bouffant’s room. She needed to find that brooch.
Bridget pushed open the door to Madam Bouffant’s chamber and gasped.
The room was a complete shamble. Clothes were strewn all over, like someone had already searched the place.
She put Bijou down and he darted inside and proceeded to sniff the clothing.
Could it have been Lady Eamont? Or had Madam Bouffant been searching for something herself?
Had she lost the brooch? Perhaps this mess was the reason she’d visited Lord Eamont in his chamber rather than inviting him to hers.
Why else would she venture upstairs to see Lord Eamont when his room was next to his wife’s chamber?
It didn’t make any sense. Unless Madam Bouffant wanted Lady Eamont to see her.
Perhaps, despite her promise to be discreet, she wanted to get revenge for the disparaging way in which Lady Eamont had spoken to her.
Bridget rubbed her forehead and scanned the mess. She shook her head. All she had was questions and no answers.
Bijou rooted around the room, sniffing every article of clothing and object as Bridget picked up Madam Bouffant’s overturned carpet bag and started to fold and pack the strewn clothing inside it.
There was no sign of the brooch amongst the chaos.
Once she’d finished packing away Madam Bouffant’s clothing, she double-checked the drawers and searched every corner of the room.
Still, she found no sign of the brooch. It was no longer amongst Madam Bouffant’s possessions.
Someone had indeed taken the brooch, and the most obvious person was Lady Eamont.
She would need to search Lady Eamont’s room—but how?
They could arrange a tea party in the garden to get everyone out of the house and gathered in one place, but the viscountess had brought her own lady’s maid who was bound to be lurking about her mistress’s room.
It seems Lady Eamont and her daughters kept the maid very busy, and Bridget doubted they’d let her rest while they were outside enjoying a garden tea.
Then there was the matter of Lord Eamont’s valet.
He too seemed to have a myriad of tasks, so he’d likely be out and about as well.
If only she could rely on Nate to help her.
But that was out of the question until he stopped hiding things from her.
She could no longer trust him. Perhaps, she could arrange something for the servants.
I need something to occupy both the guests and the servants.
Something that will enable me to slip away and do a thorough search. But what?
Bridget arched her back and exhaled. Exhaustion suddenly took hold of her. She needed her own space—if only for a few minutes. She and Bijou returned to her room, the dog cheerfully leading the way as if he knew where she was heading.
Once inside her room, she collapsed onto her bed with Bijou and lay back.
How many happy hours had she spent in her beloved room?
Never did she think she’d lose what her grandfather had built.
She’d even promised herself that she’d only marry a man who’d agree to live at Villa De Lacey for at least half the year.
And now, everything was lost. Her plan to keep her home by turning it into an inn had been a fantasy, and it was failing.
One of their guests had potentially been murdered.
And worse, it seemed that Nate was hiding information from her—no doubt to protect his rich friends.
She hadn’t told him what her aunt had witnessed from her window at night, reasoning that Aunt Marianne might have been mistaken or was likely making something out of nothing.
But when Nate cut her off after she questioned the maids about their late-night activities, effectively ending the interview, her suspicion grew.
What did Nate have to hide? Had these moonlight activities her aunt claimed to have witnessed somehow led to Madam Bouffant’s death?
If so, who was Nate protecting? Is that why he’d been reluctant to ask the magistrate to launch an investigation into Madam Bouffant’s death?
She sat up and reached for the miniature portraits beside her bed—one of her handsome papa with his twinkling blue eyes and smart mustache—and one of her beautiful mama, whose blonde hair, blue eyes, and petite features Bridget had inherited.
She gazed at the portraits, an ache filling her heart. How could I have been so naive to think this plan would work? Tears pooled in her eyes, and one slid down her cheek just as her the door to her chamber creaked open. Bridget inhaled sharply.
“Who is it?” she called out.
“It’s only Eliza, miss.” Her lady’s maid stood in the doorway in her mourning dress, embodying loyalty and faithfulness. Bridget’s heart swelled. She got up and went to embrace the startled servant. “Oh, Eliza, thank you.”
Eliza stiffened. She wasn’t one for hugs, but she did her best to comfort Bridget by patting her gently on the back.
“There, there, Miss Bridget. Come and sit down. It’s been a trying day. How about I go and make you a strong cup of tea?”
“That sounds lovely, but mind you make enough tea for two. You look like you could use a strong cup too.”
Eliza nodded and withdrew, and Bridget exhaled, feeling some of the anxiety leaving her body. But the exhaustion remained. She felt as though she’d spent the morning carrying a heavy load on her back.
Eliza returned several minutes later carrying a tray with a pot of hot tea and some lovely biscuits to go with it. “And some scraps for Bijou.” The terrier wagged his tail madly as Eliza set the bowl before him.
Bridget poured herself and Eliza a cup of tea, adding a lump of sugar and a dash of milk to her cup and leaving Eliza’s black.
They sat in silence for a minute, sipping their tea.
Bridget ate several biscuits, not realizing how hungry she’d been.
She had been too distressed and preoccupied to eat her breakfast. Eliza took tiny sips of her tea and declined to eat a biscuit.
She had a small appetite, and as a result, her body was almost childlike in its height and weight.
“Have you noticed any unusual activity in the maids’ quarters at night?” Bridget asked after she’d satiated her thirst and hunger.
“There’s been all sorts of goings on, miss.” Eliza’s dark eyes stared unblinking at Bridget. “These young lasses we took on are up to no good.”
“What do you mean?”
“They are up until all hours of the night, Abigail and Sarah, whispering and giggling. I hear them scurrying about like mice. I suspect they leave the house after everyone is asleep.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’ve seen them leaving their rooms well after midnight.
My chamber is only two doors down from theirs.
And like I said, I heard noises, so I poked my head out my bedroom door.
They were fully dressed and wore no bonnets.
Disgraceful.” She sat back and blinked, her small, pale face the picture of disapproval.
Once again, Bridget thought back to her earlier conversation with Aunt Marianne. “I’ve seen strange comings and goings in the garden from my window at night. Men and women cavorting together with no chaperone. One of them was your Mr. Squires.”
“Where do you think they were going?”
“I don’t know. But I think they were up to no good, miss. No good at all.”
Bridget pondered what both Eliza and Aunt Marianne had told her.
Nate had obviously ended the interview to protect someone.
She was certain he knew of these late-night comings and goings involving the servants.
And why hadn’t he said anything about meeting Madam Bouffant in the garden? Could he be the guilty one?
Stop! Bridget felt the churning in her stomach return.
She could not start making assumptions about Nate without proof.
She had good instincts—or so she thought—and if Nate were a bad apple, she’d know it—feel it somehow.
But what if her instincts weren’t as good as she’d thought them to be?
After all, she’d never have guessed her papa would have acted the way he had—she’d trusted him implicitly—and he’d betrayed her—betrayed himself. Was anyone trustworthy?