Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
L ater that day, Margaret met Mr. Rockwell in the guest wing, just outside Mr. Miles Thrup’s bedchamber. Lord and Lady Abernathy and their two children had their rooms in the East wing. But everyone else was staying in the West wing.
Margaret had switched into the simplest dress she’d brought on the trip. Made of a pale muslin with a high empire waist, the dress had a square neckline and short, puffed sleeves, which she felt gave it a touch of charm and a flattering silhouette while also leaving her unencumbered by a lot of unnecessary fabric.
Something she’d thought of only as a secondary comfort when she’d first had the dress made, but which now would no doubt prove very beneficial.
“This is beyond the pale,” Mr. Rockwell said, sounding even more grumpy than usual.
“We both agreed that one of the Thrups is most likely to be the thief,” Margaret said, glancing about the corridor. No one was about, not even a servant. She placed her hand atop the doorknob and twisted it, even while keeping a close lookout. “We might as well start here.”
She pushed the door open and quickly slipped inside.
Mr. Rockwell remained in the corridor, arms folded, head shaking.
Someone was bound to walk by soon and see him standing about. Silently she waved him forward and into the room.
He only grunted and shook his head more adamantly.
Oh, good heavens.
Margaret grabbed his arm and tugged him inside, quietly shutting the door behind them.
“Are you trying to get us caught?” she whispered.
“I’m trying to avoid any activity we shouldn’t be caught doing in the first place.”
“That makes no sense,” Margaret said, pushing past him and farther into the room. “One could be caught doing anything . Even innocent, boring things such as sewing or stirring one’s tea.”
“You know what I mean,” he grumbled.
It was mid-afternoon and the curtains were open, so the room had plenty of light. Thankfully, it was too cold outside for anyone to venture out, so they wouldn’t have to worry about being seen through the windows.
But now that Margaret was here inside the room, she hesitated. “Where do you suppose we ought to begin?” Deciding to search both the Mister Thrups’ rooms had taken her all of thirty seconds. But knowing where exactly to begin was proving a different matter entirely.
Mr. Rockwell muttered something under his breath before saying, “You start in the armoire and then move to the tables. I’ll check around the bed frame.”
“Excellent.” Margaret threw open the armoire doors. Miles, apparently, enjoyed dressing well. She pawed through the hanging clothes, carefully checking between every item. “I think he brought more clothing than I did,” she said over her shoulder.
“Be sure to look along the top shelf and the base.” Judging by the way his voice was muffled, Mr. Rockwell was checking beneath the bed.
“What I cannot fathom,” Margaret said, looking carefully over each shelf, “is how the culprit managed to get their hands on the brooch and walk out of the room without being seen in the first place.”
“I confess to not having taken particular notice of the brooch before it was taken,” Mr. Rockwell called back softly.
“It is a beautiful piece,” Margaret said as she searched. “It has the finest gold setting, and the jewel in the center is simply exquisite. Truly, the most glorious shade of purple I have—”
Benjamin rested a hand on her shoulder and Margaret jumped at the unexpected touch. How had he slipped up beside her without making so much as a noise?
“Be sure to check all the pockets,” he said. He flipped over one of the tails on a jacket, revealing a well-hidden pocket on the inside.
Margaret’s heart beat furiously at the surprise. Or was it simply at his nearness?
She could feel the heat from his body and smell the faint comforting scent that always lingered where he’d been. For a moment, she was overwhelmed, her hands freezing mid-motion as she tried to regain her composure. The space between them seemed to shrink, making her acutely aware of every subtle movement he made.
“Men’s jackets have ever so many pockets,” was the only thing she could think to say, her voice unsteady. She fumbled with the clothing, her fingers trembling slightly. His nearness was disorienting, a rush of warmth spreading through her despite the chill of the room.
Mr. Rockwell gave her a half smile and then quickly moved away once more.
Margaret exhaled softly, her breath shaky. The sudden emptiness of the space around her was both a relief and a disappointment. She took a moment to steady herself, her mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. The realization that his proximity had affected her so deeply was startling, and she struggled to focus on the task at hand.
For several minutes, they said nothing more, each meticulously checking above, beneath, inside, and around every bit of furniture. Margaret found herself glancing in Mr. Rockwell’s direction more often than she intended, her thoughts a tangle of interest and confusion.
At last, they met in the center of the room. They’d carefully placed everything back as they’d found it while searching, so the room looked as it had when they’d first entered. Only, now, they knew there was no brooch hidden here and nothing that would indicate Mr. Miles Thrup would have taken it to begin with.
“We need to search Mr. Oliver’s room before any of the gentlemen return,” Margaret said.
Mr. Rockwell shook his head. “If we are caught, you will be ruined.”
Margaret stepped toward the door but paused and listened closely before slowly inching it open. The corridor appeared empty.
“We are far away from England society,” Margaret said as she slipped out of the room. “If we are caught, those here at Mondstein may think less of me, but that will be as far as it goes.”
“And if word were to find its way to England?”
“I am sister to a marquess, and I have many friends among the haut ton .” She quickly crossed the corridor and sidled up to the door of the other Thrup twin. She could barely hear Mr. Rockwell following her, yet she could feel his presence all the same.
“I cannot like that you are putting yourself at such risk,” he grumbled from just behind her.
She reached for the door handle, even while looking back at him. “If you don’t like the risk, then we’d better hurry.”
Mr. Rockwell’s constant scowl grew even more stormy. Still, he didn’t stop her.
Margaret twisted the knob and pushed open the door. She lifted her foot, ready to step in, when a sound came from the far end of the corridor.
Mr. Rockwell, grabbed her around the waist and, lifting her fully off the ground, spun her about until she stood directly in the center of the corridor once more. Before she could catch her breath, he ducked inside Mr. Oliver’s room and shut the door noiselessly behind him.
Margaret blinked a couple of times and smoothed a hand over her skirt. “I suppose,” she muttered softly to the empty corridor, “that I shall distract them while you search.”
The next moment, Mr. Miles and Lord Ingram rounded the corner and started toward Margaret.
She drew herself up. How exactly she was going to distract the two young men, she did not know. But she grew excited at the thought of a challenge.
“Lady Margaret,” Mr. Miles Thrup greeted her happily. “I hope your day has been pleasant.”
“Yes.” Her voice came out too high, and she had to draw in another breath and focus on steadying her nerves before she could continue. “I have had some much-needed time to focus on my needlework.” It was an absolute lie. She hadn’t had so much as a passing thought about her work all day. “And…what of you two?” She found her words far more difficult to keep steady than she would have liked. They kept rushing out only to trip over one another most guiltily. “Have you two also been enjoying yourselves?” She could not remember hearing a more awkward phrase in all her life.
Mr. Miles Thrup’s smile faltered. “With most of the ladies keeping to their rooms and the staff all busy searching the house from cellars to rafters, it has been a quiet day, to say the least.”
“If you ask me,” Lord Ingram said, folding his arms tight against his chest, “this is far more commotion than the brooch is worth.”
“I understand,” Margaret said, “that the brooch carries sentimental value for your mother. His Grace gave it to her, did he not?”
Lord Ingram gave her a flat stare. “She’s sentimental about all her jewelry. She got the emerald hair comb from her grandmother. She got the sapphire signet ring from a dear friend. The short string of pearls came from one aunt and the long string of pearls from another.”
Mr. Miles Thrup chuckled softly. “Sounds like it was rather lucky His Grace was able to find a piece of jewelry to give her that she didn’t already have.”
“I suppose that is the thing about being sentimental,” Margaret said. “It doesn’t matter how many pieces you own; each one is special and loved.”
“And noticed,” Lord Ingram said, a strongly bitter bite to his words.
Margaret’s brow creased. Did Lord Ingram mean he didn’t feel noticed? Or that he hadn’t expected his mother to notice when the brooch went missing?
Either way, it was clear Lord Ingram was not pleased with something. If only she could guide him to admit to what, exactly. “You are surprised she realized the brooch was missing?” Margaret asked, hoping her tone sounded only casually curious.
“If she hadn’t,” Lord Ingram said, “we would have been spared this pandemonium.”
His frustration was sounding more and more like anger.
“Would you rather Her Grace have simply lost the brooch?” Mr. Miles Thrup said, seeming as surprised at his friend’s animosity as Margaret.
“She has a dozen other fine pieces of jewelry,” Lord Ingram said. “What’s one small brooch?”
Mr. Miles Thrup clapped his hand on Lord Ingram’s shoulder. “I think you’re just hungry. Come on, then, let’s head down to the kitchen and see if we can’t find where the cook hides the tarts.”
Lord Ingram didn’t look as though he agreed that his ill-mannered opinions were due to hunger, but he wordlessly followed Mr. Miles Thrup as they bid Margaret farewell and headed down the stairs.
She waited for a few minutes, even after the corridor was completely silent yet again, before opening the door to Mr. Oliver Thrup’s room.
“It’s clear once more,” she whisper-called into the room.
Mr. Rockwell crept out of the room and slipped up close to her.
“Did you hear that?” Margaret asked him. She flatly ignored the small rush that flooded through her at his sudden nearness.
“Lord Ingram is not as close to his parents as he previously led us to believe,” Mr. Rockwell said, his low voice rumbling close to Margaret’s ear.
A skittering, excited little shiver ran down her spine.
“And there is nothing to be found in Mr. Oliver Thrup’s room either,” Mr. Rockwell continued. “Makes me wonder if we were looking at the wrong young men.”
She relaxed her shoulders and reminded herself to stay focused on their goal. “He wouldn’t have need for money, so if it were him, he wouldn’t have taken the brooch with the intent to sell it.”
“There are other reasons to steal something valuable.”
“Do you suppose he would have taken it simply to hurt his mother?”
“It is possible.”
She pictured Lord Ingram in her mind. Young, impulsive, generally cheerful.
Would someone such as him have taken the brooch simply for spite?
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “He seemed more annoyed that Her Grace knew the brooch was missing. If he’d taken it just to make her upset, then he would have wanted her to realize it was gone.”
“His annoyance at the house being searched could be a ruse,” Mr. Rockwell offered. “And don’t forget that he is the second son. I have known more than one man to grow up bitter at being the spare.”
So had she.
“What of you, Mr. Rockwell?” she asked. “Have you any brothers? Do you speak, perhaps, from personal experience?”
One of his eyebrows ticked. But other than that, he betrayed nothing in his expression. “I am the third son. My father was a viscount. My oldest brother now holds the title.”
“And the brother just older than you? Did he grow up resentful?”
Mr. Rockwell’s gaze moved past her to something farther down the corridor, and for a moment she wasn’t certain he would answer.
“He died,” Mr. Rockwell said at length, the words low. “But yes, he grew up bitter.”
How sad. Margaret had grown up with only one brother and no sisters. But they’d always gotten along quite well. She couldn’t imagine how miserable her life would have been if either one of them had been spiteful of the other.
“I am sorry to hear it,” she said in a soft voice.
“It is best we are done for the day,” Mr. Rockwell said, walking past her. He didn’t look back as he trudged down the corridor.
She didn’t argue but watched him walk away, her thoughts swirling with the revelations of the day. She couldn’t shake the image of Mr. Rockwell’s haunted expression, nor the weight of his words. With a sigh, she turned and made her way back to her bedchamber, her determination to find the truth only growing with each step.
The mystery of the stolen brooch was far from over, and she intended to see it through to the end.