27 #2
There was a thread of warning beneath the carelessly said words. A warning he understood too well, yet could not let pass unmet. “Yes,” he said, his voice firm and certain. “Yes she has.”
Whatever distrust had been simmering in the viscountess’s gaze was gone in a blink, a satisfied smirk taking its place. “You’ll do,” she murmured approvingly.
“But Sylvia,” Mrs. Sinclaire hissed, coming abreast of the woman, “he works for Durand. How can we possibly allow him to join us?”
To Oliver’s surprise, it was Iris who answered, though he could fairly feel her trembling across the short space of air between them. “Because I trust him,” she replied firmly, with only the faintest warbling of her voice. “And if you trust me, you must trust him as well.”
It was a response that must have surprised the other woman, if the look on her face was any indication. In the next instant, however, Mrs. Sinclaire was in front of Iris, taking her hand in hers.
“Of course I trust you, dearest,” she said gently. It was such a far cry from her initial antagonism and nearly pulling a knife on him that he would have laughed had the situation not been so dire.
“I hope you realize how blessed you are to have our Iris’s endorsement,” Lady Vastkern said.
He gazed down at Iris, who was talking quietly to Mrs. Sinclaire. “I do, my lady,” he replied softly.
A sudden sniff sounded in the still air. When he looked back at Lady Vastkern, she was dashing a quick hand against her eyes. But there was not a hint of whatever tender emotions had taken hold of her as she faced the group at large.
“It seems we have one more pair of hands at our disposal, which can only help us. But we waste time. God knows where he hid those notebooks.”
The memory of the earl holding one of Iris’s mother’s journals took shape.
“I witnessed Durand dropping one of those notebooks in his desk drawer several days ago. Mayhap they’re in the study?
” When they turned to look at him in surprise, he explained, “I recognized it as similar to one Iris had in her things.”
Iris, eyes bright, looked to Lady Vastkern. “If he had them mere days ago, it means there is every chance he has not destroyed them.”
“Yes, it is encouraging indeed,” the viscountess replied, her satisfaction evident, before she turned a wry smile Oliver’s way.
“Unfortunately, however, we have already done a thorough search of Durand’s study.
And I seriously doubt he would have moved the entirety of the research papers there since then. ”
He immediately understood the implications in that statement. “It was you the night Durand left for London.”
“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid,” Lady Vastkern replied with a grin and a wink. Oliver huffed a soft laugh as she continued. “We stick with the original plan. Let us head to Durand’s rooms. Quickly now.”
They moved to the nursery door, easing it open, peering out.
The hall was quiet, with only the echo of the festivities below heard.
Lady Vastkern held up a hand, motioning them all forward, and as one they slipped out, wasting no time in hurrying down the hall, hugging the wall as they went.
He was in awe of these women—and more than a little grateful that they were now all working on the same side.
After what seemed an eternity, Oliver’s heart beating quick and heavy in his ears as he followed the line of women, they made it to a familiar set of heavy double doors: Lord Durand’s private suite.
Lady Vastkern motioned Iris forward, and quick as a wink she scurried to the door.
He watched, stunned, as she pulled several long bits of metal from her bodice and inserted them into the lock.
In the space of a breath he heard the faint sound of the mechanism within giving way. And then she had the door open.
They crept into the bedroom one by one. Oliver, however, could not take his eyes from Iris. Her cheeks pinkened when she caught him staring. “What is it?” she asked as he slipped into the room behind her.
He shook his head in wonder. “Nothing, it’s just?.? .? .? I’m surprised is all.”
She smiled up at him as she closed the door on silent hinges. “You are impressed?”
“Very.”
Her smile stretched until she was fairly beaming at him. And he had not thought he could love her more.
No matter how desperately Iris wanted to bask in Oliver’s admiration, now was not the time. Giving him one last lingering look, she turned to Sylvia, who was surveying the room, faintly lit with a low fire in the hearth, with hard eyes.
“You know what to do,” she said low. “Move quickly.”
Iris reached for Oliver’s hand. He grasped it tightly, making her heart leap in her chest. But no, she had to focus.
She led him to the secretaire in the corner and began pulling open drawers, using her tools when she came to a locked section.
Oliver did not even pause, his hands busy on the polished wood as well, his features tight with concentration.
Behind them they could hear the faint sounds of the other Widows moving about, the faint creak of hinges, the rustle of fabric.
But as with the study, no matter where they looked, no matter how thorough they were, they could not locate even a single piece of paper containing anything that resembled her mother’s work.
She tried to keep hopelessness from taking over, to remain positive, to focus on a certainty that the papers would be found—Oliver had seen one of the notebooks, after all; this was no time to despair.
Yet with each alcove searched to no avail, each drawer proven barren, her hopelessness grew.
Hope attempted to flare back to life as they entered the dressing room and began their work there, as they even took a chance on looking through the absent Lady Durand’s rooms to continue their search in a last desperate attempt.
Yet at the end of nearly an hour, standing in the middle of the earl’s bedroom once more, she could not ignore the creeping tendrils of despair that wound about her heart like thorny vines.
“How can there be nothing?” she whispered brokenly, eyes flying about the massive room. “How could both of our searches have turned up not even a crumb of evidence?”
Euphemia hugged an arm about her, pulling her tight to her side. “I am so sorry, Iris.”
Sylvia’s face was stark in the low light, her frustration palpable. “There is no hope for it, then. We have no choice but to leave.”
Iris knew she was right. You cannot squeeze blood from a stone, after all. If they, in the past hour of detailed searching, had not found even a scrap of proof, then the papers were not here. More pressing than that, the longer they remained, the greater the chance of being discovered.
Even though logic told her that Sylvia’s decision was the right one, that did not lessen the agitation that saturated every inch of her.
Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes as she cast one last look about the room.
She was close; she could feel it. It was as if her mother’s papers, her books, her hard work were calling to her, begging her to locate them, to bring them out into the light.
“I cannot leave,” she choked. She gripped Oliver’s arm tightly, looking up at him in desperation, begging him to understand.
“If I give up finding them, if I let Lord Durand take credit for all the blood, sweat, and tears she poured into her work, it will be like I’m abandoning my mother herself, like she has died anew—”
Her voice broke on a sob. He pulled her tight into his embrace, his voice soft and low in her ear, murmuring unintelligible words of comfort.
Finally her disquiet lessened, her senses calming.
But his hold on her could do nothing to reduce her grief.
No, the more her agitation lessened, the more her grief grew, her understanding of the situation’s hopelessness feeding it.
Tears poured down her face, her fingers curling in Oliver’s jacket.
But even in the midst of the storm of emotion, she was aware of everyone waiting on her.
If she could not gain control of herself, they were all at risk.
Pulling away from Oliver, she dashed a hand across her eyes. No doubt she had just destroyed the makeup Euphemia had worked so hard at applying and she looked an utter fright, but that didn’t matter much now.
“Let us go, then,” she said through numb lips.
They turned to leave, the air heavy, like a cloying fog about them. Just before they reached the door, Heloise gave a small squeak.
“Hold on one moment,” she whispered. And then she was off, heading for the dressing room.
In a matter of seconds she was back, something small held aloft in her hands that she had no doubt forgotten.
When they all turned back for the door leading to the hallway, however, Oliver did not join them.
Instead, he was frozen in place, his gaze hard on the dressing room door, a deep frown on his face.
“Oliver?” Iris asked, confused.
He looked at her, and the feverish fire in his eyes had her heart stuttering in her chest.
“The dressing room,” he whispered. “I’m certain there is a hidden door there that we missed.”
“A hidden door?” Sylvia demanded.
Oliver’s excitement was growing, the energy radiating from him dispelling the despair that had taken over the group.
“I came here to meet with Durand, but the suite was empty. Just as I was about to leave, the earl exited the dressing room, which I had been certain had been vacant when I’d checked.
I had completely forgotten about it until I saw Mrs. Sinclaire emerging from it. ”
Before he was done Iris was rushing back into the dressing room.
It was an ostentatious space, as would be expected for a man of Lord Durand’s nature, with heavy wood paneling, gilt framed portraits of the man himself, an intricately painted screen along one wall, and in a place of importance before the massive window, a huge copper tub.
But she saw it with new eyes now. Where could the man have hidden a door?
The others filed in behind her and went to work, running fingers over every seam and crack in the walls.
Iris, however, was searching for something else entirely.
Though he was a thief, Lord Durand was also a botanist—of a sort.
She would have insight into how that portion of his mind worked that the others would not.
And then, with a small gasp, she spotted it. “It’s here,” she cried softly, rushing to the white marble fireplace.
They all followed her, peering at the fireplace. But though she looked at them in excitement, waiting for their acknowledgment, they merely stared perplexed at the carved stone.
“Don’t you see it?” she asked, pointing to the surround. “Right there.” But they only stared blankly at her, their confusion palpable.
“It’s fennel ,” she said. “ Ferula communis . Why would someone so intent on status have such a common plant carved into his fireplace, especially when every other plant present is rare and highly prized?” Still no spark of recognition in their eyes.
Blowing out a breath, she explained in hurried tones, “In Greek mythology, when Prometheus stole fire from the heavens to give to humans, he hid it in a hollow fennel stalk. Don’t you see?
Lord Durand sees himself as the hero in all this.
He thinks that by stealing others’ works—for I have no doubt that my mother’s is not the first he has stolen—he’s taking it from obscurity and gifting it to the world. ”
Not waiting for them to comprehend, she leaned forward and pressed the carving. It gave under her fingers with a soft grating sound at the same moment a panel in the wood to the right of the mantel swung open. Not wasting even a second, Iris was through the door into the secret space beyond.