Glory did not find the thought comforting.
When they reached the bottom of the steps, she squinted into the shadows at hulking crates and the outlines of abandoned implements. It seemed that the cottage’s caretaker had neglected anything above or below the main rooms, but the attic was a cosy retreat compared to this chill area, with its dirt floor and ancient stone walls.
As Glory stood still, unnerved, Westfield moved past her, intent upon the nearest crates. ‘Surely, anything down here will be decayed,’ she said, imagining mould and damp and…rodents? Hearing a rustling sound, Glory inched nearer to the duke.
She glanced around, but the pool of light from the lantern faded away into blackness, where anything—or anyone—could lurk. Shuddering, Glory told herself that no one else could have entered the cellar, with the cottage now guarded by an army of servants. The only threat here was Westfield, who did not appear to have any designs upon her person, romantic or otherwise.
In fact, he was already lifting the lid off an old container, and Glory stepped closer to marvel over the candelabras carefully packed inside. It soon became apparent that much of what was left of Queen’s Well had been put away here, rather than at Sutton House, which must have already been sold. They came across linens that had turned grey and glasses that had once held the famous waters, which meant that the guestbooks might be here somewhere, as well.
In fact, in the next crate, Glory caught a glimpse of some kind of ledgers lining the bottom. But when she leaned over to reach inside, a stray draught tickled her neck, and then the lantern went out, plunging them into near blackness. Glory froze where she was, her heart thundering at the possibility that they were being assailed once more, this time not by falling rocks, but by assassins in the dark. Where had she put her reticule?
‘Westfield?’ she whispered.
‘Right here.’ The sound of his voice, low and deep and close, made Glory shiver more than the touch of his hand upon her back. She turned towards him automatically, her palms coming to rest against his waistcoat. And then she forgot about dangers of any kind, including those posed by this man. Somehow her hands slid up his solid chest of their own accord, stealing around his neck and drifting through the hair that needed a trim.
It was easy in the dark. Cloaked in the blackness and silence, Glory felt free to do what she willed. She could not see herself and could barely make out the outline of Westfield’s tall form. But she heard the swift intake of his breath and felt the press of his arms as they came around her, pulling her against his hard body.
Despite the darkness, his mouth unerringly found hers and with a force that made Glory gasp. She could not call it an accident, a simple brush of the lips brought on by nearness. There was no mistaking Westfield’s intent as he kissed her with a passion in keeping with his strength and power.
And Glory could do nothing except respond in kind, her first, tentative responses becoming bolder until they were equals, partners in a heated exchange that left her breathless and wanting more. When at last his lips parted from hers, it was only to move to her neck, burning a path along her throat and lower, where the cap of her sleeve slipped down. And Glory reeled at the sensation. Who would have dreamed that the touch of his mouth upon her shoulder would make her whole body spark and flame?
Her head thrown back, Glory loosed a low sound of pleasure that was startling in the silence and Westfield groaned, as if in answer. He pressed against her, closer, but there was nowhere to go, and she stumbled against the crate behind her. Westfield steadied her, but then he stilled, as if catching his breath. Just as Glory was prepared to cry out in protest at the sudden loss of his lips, they were replaced by his thumb, gently rubbing her shoulder before righting her sleeve.
‘Perhaps I should send a servant down here in my stead,’ he said in a hoarse tone.
For a long moment, Glory was too dazed to understand him as he smoothed her hair and straightened her skirts. But when he finally stepped back, away from her, her scattered wits began to return. Raising trembling hands to her cheeks, she buried her face in them, appalled by her wanton behaviour. What had come over her?
Westfield.
Glory heard him relight the lantern, and she was grateful that its illumination was poor at best, for she was not ready for any kind of scrutiny, not even her own. Thankfully, the duke remained facing the lamp, his back towards her. So Glory turned, ready to flee from the cellar to her old room above and the life she had known before he entered it, but his voice stopped her.
‘I beg your pardon.’ The words were stiff, as if torn from him, and Glory paused. ‘I have no excuse except that I find you irresistible.’
He turned then, his lips quirking ruefully, and Glory forgot her own embarrassment. ‘And under any other circumstances, I would hope to further our association.’
Glory’s pulse leapt. Was he going to offer her carte blanche? Although not a woman of easy virtue, she certainly had given Westfield that impression. Yet she could not become his mistress, no matter how much she loved the man. She had not only herself to consider, but her family and a business that required an unblemished reputation. Already, she had compromised herself; to do more would assure her ruin.
‘And although you are presumably unaware of the fact, my mother has been throwing us together,’ Westfield said.
His mother? Glory loosed the breath she had been holding. But if he was not referring to a…liaison, what did he mean by ‘association’?
‘She wants me married,’ he said bluntly. ‘And it seems that she has decided upon you as a suitable prospect. That’s why she had us drink the waters together.’
Glory gaped in surprise. ‘Because of the old legend?’
Westfield nodded, his mouth twisted with disdain. ‘Yes. Apparently, she thought that after one sip we would be overcome with romantic feelings for each other.’
Glory blinked, for she was certainly overcome, but she did not believe that Queen’s Well was responsible. She and her whole family had been consuming the waters since their arrival in Philtwell, without suffering the effects of any special powers.
‘Although I can’t countenance such nonsense, I don’t fault her choice,’ Westfield said. He paused to draw a breath before continuing. ‘However, I have obligations of which she is unaware that prevent me from acting upon her wishes.’
Glory swallowed hard. ‘Of course,’ she managed. ‘You are obligated to take a wife of your own choosing from your own circle.’
‘It’s not that,’ Westfield said, with a shake of his head. ‘I have…commitments.’
His demeanour was stiff, as if he were as uncomfortable as Glory. ‘I hope you will forgive my plain speaking,’ he said. ‘But I did not want to create any confusion. You are… You deserve more than that.’
‘Of course, I understand,’ Glory said, though she did not. It was all she could do to comprehend that the Duke of Westfield had spoken to her of marriage.
‘And I have commitments of my own, as you know. I’m devoted to Queen’s Well,’ she said, determined to end a conversation that had become increasingly painful. Yet when Westfield nodded, his expression once more cool and distant, it wasn’t relief Glory felt, but regret.
Although they met each day at breakfast and supper, the grim group at Sutton House did little except go over what they already knew. As acting magistrate, Westfield seemed to grow more frustrated with each passing day, and Glory could not blame him, for no new suspects presented themselves, while she had buried herself among the ledgers and guestbooks, looking for any clues.
At least Thad was no longer moping. Although he continued to protest the closing of the Pump Room, he had taken to poking about the house in search of clues to the Queen’s Gift, a harmless enough activity.
And this morning there was good news from the outside world to enliven the gathering, the papers reporting the confinement of Napoleon on the island of Saint Helena. Only Westfield seemed oddly affected by the news, alternately pensive and impatient
for more information.
‘So this time it is all over, isn’t it?’ Thad asked. ‘The war, the disruption in Europe…’ He turned to Glory. ‘Perhaps I shall make a grand tour after all.’
‘There is always disruption in Europe,’ Westfield said. ‘Problems both at home and abroad are inevitable.’
‘That is a rather fatalistic attitude,’ Mr Pettit said, turning towards the duke with a curious expression.
When he realised the rest of the company was eying him in surprise, Westfield favoured Thad with a nod. ‘But, yes, it looks like this long struggle is over, which is heartening.’
After that small concession, the duke shot Glory a curious glance, and she flushed under the unwelcome attention. Since their intimate conversation in the cellar of the cottage, she had done her best to avoid any personal contact with the man. And he, in turn, maintained his distance.
But now Glory felt his dark gaze upon her and she turned away, unwilling to let him see the feelings that she kept hidden, for fear they would spill forth at any moment. In fact, she was just about to rise from her chair when the housekeeper appeared in the doorway.
The plump female announced in disapproving tones the arrival of a lad from the village who was demanding to see either Westfield ‘or his valet.’
‘Send him in,’ Westfield said. With a nod and a frown, she left, returning with a young fellow hardly more than ten years of age, who clutched his cap, but did not stand upon ceremony.
‘Your Grace,’ he said, a bit breathlessly. ‘I came right away, as soon as I saw. I left one of the other lads there, but I told him not to do anything until we heard from you.’
‘What is it? Have you found a trespasser?’ Westfield said.
‘Worse, your Grace,’ he said. ‘There’s a man down at the Pump Room. You’d better come take a look.’
Westfield was soon on his feet, closely followed by Thad and Glory, although she knew he would prefer she remain safely tucked away with the others. But the Pump Room was hers and she was determined to see for herself what had happened.
As she soon discovered, the downed man was someone Westfield had set to keep watch on the building during the night hours. A quick reconnoitre revealed that his daytime counterpart was standing by the front entrance, blithely unaware that his fellow was lying prone among the trees at the rear of the building.
But, apparently, Westfield’s connections extended to a rabble of boys of various ages, whose duties encompassed watching the entire village for anything remotely suspicious. And it was one of these young fellows who had come across the man who was still breathing, but knocked unconscious, presumably by a large stone that lay near him.
Glory shuddered at the sight, her own encounter with falling rocks still fresh in her mind. She and Westfield could well have ended up in such a condition—or worse. Bending close, Glory was able to rouse the man with some of Phillida’s hartshorn, while one of the boys ran for a physician.
With aid, the fellow was soon sitting up, seemingly unhurt beyond a nasty bump on his head. But he remembered nothing after hearing a noise in the trees during the night, which meant the Pump Room had been unattended for some time. Glory glanced towards the door at the rear of the building, and Thad, who was standing closer to the building, verified what they all suspected.
‘It looks like the lock’s been broken, perhaps with another rock,’ he said.
Glory rose shakily to her feet. ‘But why? We’ve closed for business,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that what they wanted?’
Thad only shook his head, baffled, while Westfield headed towards the door. He pushed it open and carefully stepped inside, followed by Thad and Glory. Suddenly weary, Glory did not know if she even wanted to see what had been done to the interior. They had barely recovered from the previous vandalism; she was not sure that she could do it again.
But this time, Glory saw no telltale windows open, no broken glass or strewn papers, and she began to breath easier. Perhaps whoever broke into the building didn’t have enough time to wreak the kind of havoc they had before. The villagers were more alert, especially the younger ones, and…
Glory’s thoughts trailed off as they entered the main room, where the tables and chairs lined the walls, undisturbed. She loosed a sigh, only to follow it with a gasp as Westfield walked towards the pump itself.
‘What the devil?’ Thad said.
The new parquet around the pump had been pulled up and pieces tossed haphazardly aside, while the very foundation beneath had been broken, leaving nothing except a gaping hole to the earth below. Even the well itself did not appear unscathed, and Glory was only thankful they weren’t standing knee-deep in the precious waters.
‘You better stay back, Glory,’ Thad said, walking cautiously on what was left of the floor. ‘It looks like someone took a pry bar or an axe to this whole area.’
Glory simply stared, appalled, while Westfield knelt down to examine the damage. After a cursory glance, he rose to his feet. ‘Well, now we know,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t the closing of the Pump Room that they were after, although that fell neatly in with their plans.’
‘What, then?’ Glory asked, baffled.
‘What might one look for at the site of Queen’s Well?’
‘The source of the waters?’ Glory asked.
But Thad swung round with a cry of dismay. ‘You don’t think they found it, do you?’
‘Found what?’ Glory asked.
Westfield lifted a dark brow. ‘The Queen’s Gift.’
Chapter Twelve
Glory ordered repairs to the Pump Room, and once again Westfield set out to discover what he could about the latest attack. But he returned with nothing to report, his frustration obvious to Glory when the household convened at the supper table. It was as if the guilty party appeared and disappeared in a whiff of smoke, unseen by any of the villagers or those who watched over the properties.
Phillida did not help by speaking in low tones about the curse, as though some sort of evil spirit were responsible for the damages, and all Glory could do was shake her head in bemusement.
‘No wonder you can’t get a hold of him, then, dear,’ the duchess said, with a wry glance towards her son.
Phillida sniffed at the duchess’s teasing banter, but she offered no advice as to how to rid themselves of a ghostly foe. In fact, her sole suggestion was that they return to London and wash their hands of Queen’s Well, so to speak. Considering her aunt’s lack of enthusiasm for the venture, Glory was not surprised.
What was surprising was that Thad argued in favour of the spa. In a reversal of their usual roles, he wanted the Pump Room to re-open as soon as possible, while Glory remained leery. Westfield’s warning about tainted waters hung heavy in her mind, especially since someone had managed to gain access to the well itself.
While Thad claimed the villain had got what he wanted and was long gone, Glory thought it unlikely that the Queen’s Gift had remained hidden for centuries. Whoever was searching for it had torn up the parquet floor in vain, which meant he was still looking for a prize that probably didn’t even exist. But that wouldn’t stop him. What had Westfield said? Failure breeds desperation. Glory suppressed a shiver at the thought.
‘The Queen’s Gift is probably on its way to the back alleys of London to be sold for a pittance of its worth,’ Thad said glumly. ‘So why not resume operations?’
‘Because we don’t know that,’ Glory said.
‘He has been one step ahead of us all along, so let us not count him out just yet,’ Westfield said.
‘But what will he strike next?’ Glory asked, anxiety seeping into her voice. ‘Where else can he look?’
Even as she spoke, Glory knew the answer. As one, the diners turned towards the mural that lined the far wall of the room. Now dim with evening, it was a shadowy presence that loomed over the assembly, taunting them with its long-held secrets.
Glory peered at the faded depiction as though Elizabeth herself would provide some answer,
but the figure remained where she was, her arms outstretched, appearing to give light to the dark shape of Sutton House behind her.
‘It certainly looks like she’s standing in front of the place,’ Thad said.
‘Or the house could simply represent the owners, the Suttons,’ Mr Pettit said.
‘But I don’t see the Pump Room or the well,’ Thad argued, noticeably cheered. ‘Perhaps the Queen’s Gift is here.’
‘I stopped looking for references to it in order to study the spa ledgers and guestbooks for mention of the Thorpes,’ Glory said. ‘But if you would like to pick up where I left off, perhaps you can discover a clue.’
Thad did not appear enthused at the prospect. ‘I’d rather look for the gift itself than old stories about it.’
But Mr Pettit nodded. ‘I have long been interested in Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘I would be happy to join you in the library.’
‘But, Randolph, you had promised to accompany me now that the young people are bound to the house,’ the duchess said, giving Mr Pettit a sharp look.
‘I’m sorry, your Grace,’ Mr Pettit said, smiling serenely in the face of the duchess’s plea. ‘I simply cannot refuse to help the Suttons in their quest, especially if it might lead to hidden treasure.’
Only Phillida seemed dismayed by the course of the conversation. ‘But if you think something is on these premises, then we cannot be any safer here than at the cottage. Why, we could be attacked at any time, right in our own beds!’ she said.
‘Sutton House is well guarded and is staffed with a full complement of servants,’ Westfield assured her. ‘No stranger can wreak havoc here.’
But what if the villain wasn’t a stranger? The notion struck Glory suddenly, and she looked around the table at her companions, only to shake her head. She could not imagine Mr Pettit capable of such violence, and Westfield had already proven himself.
However, Phillida was not so easily soothed—or dismissed. ‘And so we thought of the Pump Room and the cottage, yet now this…’ She took a deep breath, as if preparing to swoon, and Glory saw Thad inch closer to his aunt, in case she did.
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