She looked down at herself. “I’m not sure I can explain this as easily as I can traipsing about naked.”
“You’ll think of something.”
He took her hand and led her to the door. He remembered the way her hands had roved so freely over his body, setting his skin on fire.
What was he going to do with her?
He opened the door a crack.
The drawing room was silent and dark. He listened the way he would when entering a tomb where an ambush might await, his ears tuned to detect the sound of breathing.
No one else was breathing in the drawing room.
He stepped out into the room, taking her with him. The large room was as black as a tomb, but for the wedge of light coming from his doorway and, halfway down, the faintest light from the dying embers of the fire she’d tried to rebuild earlier.
“Will you be able to find your way without breaking your neck?” he said. “Maybe I’d better come with you.”
“I’ll be all right,” she whispered. “There’s very little furniture to bump into.”
She slid her hand from his and started to move away.
He wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words he needed in all the turmoil. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward him. He kissed her once, but fiercely. She melted into him.
He broke the kiss and pushed her away. “Go,” he said.
She went.
He waited, listening to the soft patter of her bare feet grow fainter as she traversed the long room. He waited until he heard the soft thud of the door closing behind her.
Then he returned to his room.
Nichols was gathering up her discarded clothing.
Crossing an endless drawing room in the dead of night wasn’t the easiest trick in the best of circumstances. Olivia wasn’t at her best. Her throat ached and her eyes itched and she wanted to sit down and weep for a week.
She knew she’d said the right thing—the necessary thing. But she’d hurt him.
She didn’t mind hurting him physically—he could take it—and she didn’t mind tearing into him when he was being an infuriating blockhead. But all he’d done tonight was take care of her and make love to her . . . and turn her heart inside out.
And now it wasn’t the way it used to be. Whatever she’d felt before—oh, she’d always loved him, after a fashion—but this was different. And at the moment, painful.
Stop whimpering¸ she told herself. One thing at a time.
And the first thing was to get into her bed undetected. She could certainly come up with the cock-and-bull story necessary to explain her clothes lying in front of the drawing room fireplace.
Luckily, rash behavior like waiting in the rain for villains was well within the realm of typical Olivia behavior. No one would turn a hair. No one would wonder at her wearing men’s clothes, either. All she had to do was describe what happened, leaving out the part from the time Lisle came into the drawing room until she’d left from his room.
Leave out a lifetime, in other words.
She crept into her room.
It wasn’t dark.
A candle burned on a small table near the fire.
Bailey sat by the fire. She had mending in her lap but her gaze was on Olivia.
“I can explain,” Olivia said.
“Oh, miss, you always can,” said Bailey.
Mr. Nichols, in the act of artfully strewing about wet clothing in front of the drawing-room fireplace, froze as the small flame appeared. It drifted toward him. As it drew near, he saw Miss Bailey’s face illuminated by the candlelight. A thick shawl swathed what must be her night wear, because he detected surprisingly frivolous ruffles peeping out from a dressing gown, in the environs of her ankles. Her slippers appeared to be adorned with colored ribbons. He couldn’t quite discern the color in the dim light.
“Miss Bailey,” he whispered.
“Mr. Nichols,” she whispered.
“I hope no unearthly beings have caused you to be wakeful,” he said.
“Certainly not,” she said. “I’ve come about the clothes. We can’t leave them here. My miss and your master must have taken leave of their senses—I say that with all due regard for your master’s intelligence, but gentlemen sometimes lose their wits, and my miss has a rare knack for helping them into that condition.”
Nichols regarded the clothes he’d so carefully strewn about.
“Why put on a show when you and I are the only ones besides them aware of any unusual doings this evening?” said Miss Bailey. “Not to say that anything is unusual where my miss is concerned. I’m troubled, particularly, about items needing laundering.”
She meant bloodstains.
Nichols couldn’t tell if she was blushing or only seemed to be. The light from the fire was rather red.
“Ahem,” he said softly. “That thought crossed my mind, but it seemed indelicate to mention it to his lordship.”
“I’ll deal with it,” said Miss Bailey, with the air of one long used to concealing crimes.
Nichols gathered up the damp clothing. “If you will light the way, I will carry it as far as the door,” he said.
She nodded.
She lit the way. He carried the clothing.
At the door, he carefully placed the clothing onto her free arm. He started to reach for the door handle, then paused. “Miss Bailey,” he murmured in her ear.
“No,” she said. “None of that.”
He sighed gently and opened the door.
She slipped into her mistress’s room.
He closed the door and sighed again.
An instant later, the door opened a very little and she said softly, “Wait.”
Nichols turned back hopefully.
A shirt was thrust through the space.
“You can take this back,” she said.
He took his lordship’s shirt.
Chapter 16
Meanwhile, Roy and Jock shivered in the section of the burnt church that hadn’t completely fallen in.
“Who the devil was it?” Jock said.
“What does it matter?” said Roy. “He was there, waiting for us.”
“They was bound to set watch, sooner or later. You heard what they said: The laird’s son was talking about getting dogs.”
“Dogs can be poisoned,” said Roy.
“Damn him, whoever he was,” Jock said. “I about pissed my breeches.”
The white face staring out from the watchtower had scared Roy, too. If he’d stopped to think, he’d’ve known it was human. But who stops to think at times like those? They’d dropped the shovel and the pickaxe and run.
Jock hadn’t dropped the lantern, but he didn’t stop to close the shutter, and the thing—no, it was no thing, but a man—had chased them halfway down the road before Roy grabbed the lantern from his fool brother.
Now they were trapped in the damned church. No fire and no way to make one.
Plenty of time to think, though. At night, in the rain, the old castle on the rise was a big, black hulk against a sky that wasn’t much lighter. Roy stared up at it and thought.
He didn’t know how long it was before Jock said, “Rain’s letting up.”
But it was time enough. “They’re watching for us on the outside,” Roy said, as they left the church. “So we’ll get us someone to watch on the inside.”
“No one’ll do that.”
No one liked them much. People passed the time of day, and then passed quickly enough on to someone else.
That suited Roy. He didn’t like anyone else much, either.
“They won’t do it willing, no,” said Roy. “But I can think of one we can make willing.”
Shortly after noon
Wednesday 26
October
“You understand what to do?” Olivia said.
Lady Cooper made a slight adjustment of her bonnet. “Of course.”
“Nothing could be simpler,” said Lady Withcote.
The three women stood near the entrance door of the great hall. They were waiting for the carriage that would take Ladies Cooper and Withcote to Edinburgh.
Their mission was to seek out Frederick Dalmay’s nurse and servants and pump them for information.
“I hope you won’t find it too tedious,” Olivia said. “It might be a bit like finding a needle in a haystack.”
“Oh, I think not,” said Lady Cooper. “We know the names. We ought to be able to find them easily enough.”
“And once we find them, I foresee no difficulty in getting them to talk,” said Lady Withcote.
“When all else fails, bribery will usually do the trick,” said Lady Cooper.
A footman came in from outside. “The carriage is here, your ladyships.”
Lisle entered minutes after the ladies departed.
“They said they were going to Edinburgh,” he said. “To look for clues.”
Olivia hadn’t seen him since last night. It had taken her a long while to fall asleep. She’d come down very late to breakfast as a result. The ladies were there but he wasn’t. He was out with the workers, Herrick had told her.
She’d decided to behave as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It was easier than she’d expected. He was still Lisle, and what they’d done last night seemed by daylight to be the most natural thing in the world.
Because she loved him and had probably always loved him. The love had taken different forms over the years, but there it was.
And there he was . . . holding a shovel.
“Did you bring that indoors for some mysterious purpose, or did you forget to leave it in the courtyard?” she said.
He was frowning at her hand. He looked up. “What?”
“The shovel.”
“Ah, yes. This.” He gazed at it. “One of the workmen found it this morning when he arrived. One shovel. One pickaxe.”
“Evidence,” she said.
“I didn’t need evidence,” he said. “I believed you. But I hadn’t pictured it properly. You must have terrified them.” He grinned. “They dropped everything and ran.”
“Everything except the lantern.” If they’d dropped the lantern, she wouldn’t have been able to follow . . . and what had happened afterward wouldn’t have happened.
“Still, I didn’t mean to carry it in,” he said. “I saw the ladies leave, and I came in to ask you about it, and I forgot to leave the shovel outside.”
He looked about him. Herrick appeared. “Yes, your lordship. Joseph will take that for you.” A footman hurried forward and took the shovel and went out.
Herrick vanished.
“I’m not myself today,” Lisle said in a low voice. “Can’t think why.”
The fire crackled in the grate. Servants padded to and fro, discreetly going about their business. A pale light traversed the deep window recesses, softening the gloom of the vast room, but not exactly illuminating the place. A candelabra stood on the table. By the clock it was broad day, but by Scottish weather, it was twilight.
The air between them thrummed.
“Strange dreams, perhaps,” she said.
“Yes.” His gaze drifted down to her hand again. “At any rate, I’ve come to help.”
“Help what?” she said.
“I’ve come to help you look for clues,” he said.
The way she’d looked at him when he came in.
But it was the same way she’d looked at him that night when he’d found her in the ballroom. Had he seen worlds in those blue eyes then?
He’d seen something, and it had stopped him in his tracks.
Last night she’d said . . . she’d said. . .
I adore you. I always have and always will.
What did it mean, what did it mean?
He said, “I was wrong to dismiss your clue out of hand. I was wrong about those provoking ghosts. If I’d stopped to think for a minute—but it’s obvious now why I didn’t. The fact is, I was wrong. The fact is, the men don’t need me standing over them constantly. The fact is, we need to stop the ghosts. At present, your plan is a perfectly good one. The ghosts must have strong reasons for believing they’ll find a treasure here that no one else believes in. Either they’re completely insane or extremely stupid or something’s misled them . . . or it exists.”
She folded her hands at her waist. She wore very little jewelry. A simple bracelet. One ring, that one ring.
“Thank you,” she said.
He dragged his gaze from the ring. He glanced about, but no servants stood nearby. “That’s why I was awake when you came in during the night,” he said softly. “The paper you found nagged at my mind. It wouldn’t let me sleep. I got up to see what I could make of it. I had some ideas, but I was working from memory. I should like to have another look at it.”
“It’s in the muniments room,” she said.
As Lisle had been surprised to discover, the castle’s simple exterior concealed a complex and inconsistent interior. The entresol Olivia had made their muniments room was tucked between the first-floor kitchen passage and an alcove off the second-floor drawing room. Its window overlooked the gap between the north and south wings.
The straightforward way to get there was by climbing the south tower staircase. The other route took one up to and across the minstrels’ gallery through the door into the north tower. Then a left turn into a short passage, past the doorway to Herrick’s quarters, then up a shallow set of stairs. The room was larger and brighter than the kitchen passage below, because the window recess wasn’t as deep. Not that it was exactly bright on this grey day.
“Well?” she said.
He looked about. “The last time I saw it, the place was a jumble of boxes and books.”
“This is Herrick’s doing,” she said. “He’s had the workmen put up shelves and install a cupboard.”
Now everything was in its place, neatly labeled.
He oughtn’t to be surprised. He’d seen how she organized the staff. All the same, it was a puzzle. In so many ways, she was so chaotic.
But no, that wasn’t quite right. She was calculating, too. Ruthlessly so at times.
Maybe she only seemed chaotic because she made her own rules.
“The furniture came from your cousin Frederick’s study,” she said.
There wasn’t much. A small, plain writing table with a single drawer stood in the window recess. An old-fashioned wooden writing box lay on the table. One very utilitarian chair that probably weighed a ton.
“It looks like the sort of thing Dr. Johnson might have written his dictionary on,” he said, “if he wrote on his grandfather’s writing table.”
“Frederick Dalmay was not a man of fashion,” said Olivia. “Most of his belongings were so old and ugly, I left them in Edinburgh. Mains is waiting for you to tell him whether to sell them or give them away. But I thought we ought to have something of your cousin’s here. He lived in this castle for so long, and seemed to love it. I thought those pieces fit here well enough.”
“They look very well,” he said.
“Better here than they did anywhere else, at any rate,” she said. “Herrick’s moved the more recent household ledgers to his office. Since your cousin’s collection is all about the castle’s history, it seemed right to consider the books and papers as estate papers or muniments, and keep them here with the other property documents and such.”
She took a book from the shelf. “I put the mystery paper back into the book where I found it,” she said, “in case there’s a key to the code in the book itself. I c
an’t see any connection, but you might. I thought that whoever put the paper there probably didn’t do it at random.”
She opened the book to the page where the odd paper lay, and gave him the book.
He took out the singed document and scanned the pages between which it had been placed.
“One of the ghost stories,” she said. “The one about the dungeon prisoner. I thought there might be a connection.”
“Might be.”
She drew nearer and peered at the paper he held. He could smell her hair and her skin and the shadow of a fragrance that hung in the air about her.
“I remembered it better than I thought,” he said. “The same clumsy grid, and those tiny symbols or figures scratched in some of the rectangles.”
“I know it could be a puzzle,” she said. “Or a game. But I can’t give up the feeling that it’s more.”
“That’s what kept me awake,” he said. “The feeling that there was more than I was seeing.”
“I’m not good at these things,” she said. “Decoding wants logic, and I’m not logical.”
“You don’t have to be,” he said. “I’m logical enough for two.”
“It does look like a child’s attempt to draw the castle,” she said. “The flattened perspective. The curious proportions.”
“That’s the style of Egyptian art, essentially,” he said. “Take the wall paintings. Size isn’t in proportion. Size designates importance. The face is in profile, but one eye looks straight out from . . .” He trailed off, his attention shifting from the paper to the room about him. “The wall,” he said. “We’re looking at a wall.”
She followed his gaze. “A wall? But that’s so straightforward.”
“Maps are usually straightforward, too.” He squinted at the tiny figures. “I should have brought my magnifying glass.”
She opened the writing box and took out a magnifying glass. “I needed it to read Cousin Frederick’s writing,” she said.