Chapter 11 #3
He didn’t need to rummage through every file to know what was missing. A quick check confirmed his suspicion.
“The intruder took my notes on Lord Howden and Hartham Colliery.” The information wasn’t hard to obtain. So what the hell had he missed? “Thankfully, I have a copy.”
He kept the black leather book in—
“The apartment,” he whispered, knowing the fiend wouldn’t stop at the office. Was he looking to destroy evidence or seeking facts? “Take the paperweight. Strike the back, not the head.”
She hesitated only a second before reaching for the brass lion. “I know I crave adventure, but this is testing my limits.”
He came alongside her as they moved into the hall and bent his head to her ear. “I find it hard to believe you have any limits, Miss Vane.”
“A theory you seem keen to prove, Mr Stanton.”
He paused outside the door he knew he’d locked and tried the handle. It turned easily. Damn it.
He expected a scene similar to his office: one telltale sign of an intruder.
But he could see the devastation from the hall.
Brown and white feathers littered every surface, the ripped cushions tossed to the floor.
The low table was upturned, the canvas paintings slashed, his books torn and scattered like rubbish in the gutter.
Miss Vane inhaled sharply. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I know what it’s like to lose everything and have to start again.” They were objects. Easily replaced. Nothing like losing the same father twice.
“As do I, though I had very little to begin with.” Her hand came to rest on his back as they peered into the kitchen and found broken plates and napkins tossed to the floor. “We should be grateful your maid wasn’t here.”
“I gave her paid leave. I’ll not have her gossiping about the reason you stayed here last night.” One servant’s speculation became ten by supper.
“At least we won’t have to lie about me being your wife.” She turned to face the bedchamber. The last time they’d been alone together, they’d kissed like they were starved of affection.
Part of him didn’t want to open the door and ruin the memory.
Reluctantly, he did.
The room wasn’t a shambles, but his blood ran cold.
Hanging from a hook in the ceiling was a makeshift dummy dressed in Miss Vane’s evening gown. Pillows formed the body and head, a blonde wig balanced on top, a noose tight around its neck.
She tried to move past him, but he blocked the doorway.
“Trust me. You don’t want to see this.” He faced her, his hand cupping her elbow to hold her steady, though it was more for himself.
He met her gaze. Fear was there, but so was the fight. She tried to tiptoe and peer over his shoulder, but he held her rooted to the floor.
“Don’t look.”
“I must. What is it? I’ll have nightmares if I don’t.”
“You’ll have nightmares if you do.”
Her gaze shifted higher. “There’s a hook. What’s hanging from the ceiling? Tell me.”
“Good God, woman. Can’t you just take me at my word?”
Tears gathered in the corner of her eyes. “You’ve never spared me the truth before. Our friendship is built on it.”
Trust her to use his one virtue against him.
He muttered a curse and stepped aside.
She moved tentatively forward, her hand covering her mouth as she looked at the hideous scene. “That gown was made to shock, though this is beyond the realm of anyone’s imagination.”
“It’s a warning to us, nothing more.”
“A warning to me.” She dashed a tear from her cheek. Another woman would have fled the room. “I’m the one who pressured Mr Bellingham into writing that confession. But who else knows?”
He turned his back on the dummy. “Lady Bellingham. The vicar. Probably the Colworths. Your maid will have spilled her guts.”
“You can’t blame Abigail. My sister will have threatened her with the rack. She gets a thrill from turning the crank.”
A sudden knock on the apartment door made Miss Vane jump. Pullman called out, and Hugh summoned him in. He entered with Rowton. Both men swore when they stepped into the drawing room.
Hugh ushered Miss Vane out of the bedchamber and closed the door behind him. “You’re to employ someone to guard the building. The doors remain locked at all times. No one enters without permission. Is that clear? And get someone to clear up this mess.”
Pullman scrubbed his hand down his face. “This is my fault, sir. I was distracted by the spillage and—”
“Unless you slashed my grandmother’s painting, you’re not to blame.” He looked at the landscape of Borrowdale. It was the only damn thing he’d taken from the house besides the tricorn. “But we’ll be leaving here for a week or so. You’ll need to hold the fort while I’m gone.”
Pullman paled. “Who’ll approve the front page?”
“You will.” Good God. He could hardly believe the words had left his mouth. But Miss Vane was no longer safe in town. “I’m trusting you with the running of the paper until I return.”
He didn’t need to tell Rowton where they were going. The coachman shifted his feet. His brow quirked, the doubt plain enough without a word.
Hugh couldn’t blame him.
He’d sworn never to set foot in Stonefold Grange again.