Chapter 28 #2
Cassandra felt her hands curl into fists.
If Christopher had been present, she might have given the whole plan away right there and then and hit him across the face.
The cruelty of it was astounding. To tell a little girl that her father might die, especially from an illness that you yourself had manufactured… It was beyond cruel.
“Your father is going to improve,” Cassandra said, taking Annabelle’s hand and squeezing it. “The doctor and I are doing everything we can to help him. Do you understand?”
Annabelle nodded slowly. “I understand,” she whispered.
“And I am sorry that your uncle said that to you,” Cassandra continued. “He does not know of what he speaks.”
Annabelle looked down. “He seemed so certain…”
“He is wrong,” Cassandra insisted. “Now, you must come with me, my love. Lillian wants to talk with you in her sitting room.”
Annabelle got to her feet, and it was only then that Cassandra looked fully at the painting she had been working on.
It was a childish portrait of a family gathered around a hearth.
She recognized Lillian and Alaric at once sitting together by the window.
And there was the duke, the word Papa written over his head, with Annabelle on his lap.
Next to them both was a drawing of a woman she knew at once was her. Over her head was written Mama.
Cassandra’s heart swelled, and she pulled the little girl close, hugging her.
It is all going to be over soon, she told herself as she led her downstairs, to where Lillian was waiting. Alaric was gone, but the smile on Lillian’s face was so serene and so joyous that Cassandra was left in little doubt that the rest of the conversation had gone very well.
“Take good care of her,” Cassandra murmured as she stood in the doorway with Lillian, while Annabelle amused herself at Lillian’s escritoire. “And do not let anyone in, no matter what, until you hear the password.”
The two of them had agreed on it ahead of time. Cassandra could not risk anything, when it came to Christopher. Even Alaric and Dr. Ludley could be manipulated, if Christopher found threats that would persuade them.
Lillian nodded. “Do not worry. I will protect her with my life, if I have to.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that.”
***
An hour later, Lady Pembury descended the stairs in a glimmering gown of silver satin, to where Christopher waited at the bottom of the stairs.
Cassandra watched from behind a column on the landing above, and she thought her mother looked absolutely radiant.
The paragon of the ton, of matriarchal order and sophistication.
Christopher bowed. “Lady Pembury,” he said, his voice ringing. “It is a delight to see you looking so well. And will your daughter be joining us tonight?”
“I am afraid that she is feeling unwell,” Lady Pembury said, in a tone of clear disapproval. “Let us hope she has not caught whatever ails our duke.”
“I am sure it is not the same,” Christopher said, his eyes flickering up to the landing. Cassandra pressed herself back into the shadows, her heart hammering. “But I am delighted to dine just the two of us.”
“I as well,” Cassandra heard her mother coo. “You must tell me more about your adventures overseas, my lord. I must say I found myself quite captivated by your tales of life in Holland.”
Cassandra heard their voices disappearing, then the door of the dining room closed.
Now was her chance.
She quickly moved out from behind the column and crept down the corridor.
She did not really need to creep, to any outsider it would have looked like she was simply returning to her own rooms, but she still felt nervous.
Christopher was safely ensconced downstairs, she had no reason to be afraid, but the stakes were so high that she could not help it.
At last, she reached Christopher’s bedchamber, pushed open the door, and slipped inside.
The room was dark. All the candles had been extinguished, and the only light was from the silver moonlight coming in through the windows. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust. Then she tiptoed across the room to the trunk.
It was locked.
Cursing, she looked around for a key. Her fingers were beginning to tremble, and her palms were sweating.
At last, she found the key inside a journal on Christopher’s nightstand. She looked through the journal quickly, but it was useless. It held only figures and sums and a few entries recording his sadness at his brother’s illness.
He is performing for the courts, she thought, anger rustling through her.
But she put this aside and returned to the trunk. The key fit easily into the lock, undoing it. She then opened the lid. It squeaked slightly as she pushed it back.
Inside were layers of coats, boots, and books. She rummaged through these, looking for the blankets that would tell her the location of the box. She found them quickly, on the left hand side near the back, then felt her hand hit something hard.
The box.
She pulled it out and examined it. It was a small, lacquered wooden box with moons and stars cut into it.
With shaking hands, she opened the box.
It was empty.
There were no vials, no letters, nothing.
Her heart in her throat, she looked wildly around the room. She didn’t know what to do. Should she keep searching, or get out of there as quickly as possible?
But Christopher was still down at dinner. This might be the only chance.
Putting the box carefully back in the corner, she placed the blankets back over it and began to rummage through the rest of the trunk. She looked inside of boots, in the pockets of the jackets, anywhere she could think that someone might have hidden letters or more vials of poison.
But she could find nothing, and the longer it took, the more her heart began to race, the slicker her hands became with sweat. She did not know how much time had passed or how much she might have left. She needed to find the letters, and she needed to find them now.
But there was nothing in the trunk. Closing it, she turned the lock, then returned the key to the journal. Quickly, she searched through the bedside table, leafing through the books there.
Nothing.
She searched the rest of the room as quickly and as efficiently as she could.
But she could not find them.
Everything was gone.
Which meant that Christopher had moved the evidence. And this raised several thorny questions: Had he moved it merely on some whim, or was he onto them?
And if he was onto them, then how much time did they have before he found another way to hurt Ewan?