Breaking the seal, she opened the flap, then shook out a single gold coin. Nothing else. No note. No directions. She held the coin up, catching the light from the window. Jagged edges detracted from what used to be a perfect circle. On one side, letters too worn to be read ringed around a raised X. No, wait. Maybe it was a cross. Hard to tell. She flipped it over. An ornate twining of embellishment encircled two words:
Secundus Casus
“Secundus casus,” she whispered, but even voicing the words aloud didn’t make any sense of them. Absently, she rubbed her thumb over the engraving, a sinking feeling settling low in her stomach. If her assumption was right, the message was in Latin—a language Ben had studied as a boy. Did she care enough about this mystery to ask him for his help in translation?
She tapped a finger to her lips. Did it matter what the thing said? Perhaps the coin was a simple gift, given to everyone by the master of the house, a master they’d meet at breakfast. Surely that must be it. Tucking the coin into her pocket, she smoothed her skirts, then opened the door, prepared to meet the host who had called them here. Indeed, this would be a day of answers and—
A scream violated the sanctity of Christmas morning. She froze, hand still on the knob, and debated if she ought turn back and lock herself in.
Farther down the hall, another door opened, and Miss Scurry, toting her box, darted out. Her frantic steps swirled the hem of her skirt around her ankles. “Oh! Dear me!” She jerked her face toward Clara, the quizzing glass pinned to her bodice swinging with the movement. “Dear you! Are you quite all right, Miss Chapman?”
“It wasn’t me.” She sped to the old lady’s side, offering an arm in case she swooned.
Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and three men bolted toward them, Ben in the lead, followed by Mr. Pocket, and finally Mr. Minnow.
Breathless, cravat yet untied, Ben stopped in front of them. “What’s happened?”
Biting her lip, Clara shook her head, unsure how to answer.
He slid his gaze to Miss Scurry. “Are you ill, madam?”
“Such a dear. Such a gentleman.” Miss Scurry beamed up at him. “I am well, sir.”
But the next scream indicated someone else was not.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ben wheeled about and sprinted down the hall, the inspector at his side. Retracing their route past the staircase, they bolted into a different corridor. Halfway down, a door stood ajar. Heated words raged within, a woman’s voice calling down brimstone upon some unfortunate soul.
Slowing, Ben glanced at the inspector, who had his gun drawn. Unarmed, Ben wouldn’t be much help to the man. Their gazes met for an instant, and Pocket gave a single nod of understanding, then took the lead.
The inspector shoved the door open and barreled into the chamber. “Halt! Whatever’s afoot, be done with it!”
Ben stationed himself at the threshold, prepared to collar a fleeing rogue if necessary. But the room was empty, save for the grey lady, Mademoiselle Pretents.
The woman spun, brows pinched low enough to hood her eyes. “Oui, monsieur! Such villainy must be stopped.”
The inspector swiveled his head, scanning the room, then loosened the hammer on his pistol and tucked it away. “What has you in such a state, mademoiselle? Are you unwell?”
“No! I am not well.” Her fists popped onto her hips. A ruffled peahen couldn’t have puffed up nearly as much. “There is a thief at loose. My jewels have been stolen. All of them!”
Ben advanced and studied the room. The windows were shut tight. There were no adjoining doors to this chamber. All was tidy, even the bed, as if the woman had slept atop the counterpane, for surely such a firebrand would not deign to make up the bedclothes herself.
“Now, now, miss.” The inspector pulled out a chair from a nearby dressing table. “Why don’t you sit yourself down and tell me all about it?”
“No! I will not sit. I will not rest. Not until my jewels are returned.” She stamped her foot, and the inspector retreated a step.
Ben sighed. Some Christmas morning this was turning out to be. “Mr. Pocket can’t help you if you don’t tell him exactly what happened, madam.”
Were he a superstitious man, he’d motion the sign of the cross to ward off the evil eye she shot him. Yet she lifted her skirts and settled on the chair.
Pocket dragged over a cushioned stool and sat in front of her. “All right, then, let’s have it.”
“Before I went to bed last night, I hid my pouch—a velvet one, black—inside my chamber pot, for who would think to look there, no? I rose early, before any maid could come take it away, and voila.” Her arm shot out, and she pointed to a porcelain urn next to the bed. “Empty!”
Rising, both he and the inspector crossed to the pot and peered in. Only a hairline crack at the bottom stared up at them.
Pocket turned back to the woman, his chest expanding with a deep breath. Ben hid a smile. The woman likely had no idea the interrogation that was about to rain down upon her head.
“What was in the pouch?” the inspector asked.
“My jewels.”
“Yes, you’ve said that. What kind, exactly?”
“Valuable ones.”
“Details, mademoiselle.” The inspector cocked his head. “Details, please.”
“A necklace, a bracelet, and a ring. All gold.”
“The stones?”
“Diamonds, so glittery.”
“The chain?”
“As I have said, gold.”
“Single? Twisted? Any kind of pattern?”
The woman glowered.
The inspector leaned toward her. “Family heirloom?”
“Of course!”
“Whose?”
Clearly rattled, the woman sank against the chair. Ben smirked. The inspector had fired out his questions so quickly, she’d not had time to speak anything but the truth. Yet it wasn’t so much what she said, but what she didn’t say, a trick he’d learned after suffering one too many examinations himself.
A curious transformation took place. Instead of tears or even a whimper, the grey lady shot to her feet and clenched her hands. Red crept up her neck and bloomed on her cheeks. “Why you question me when it is my jewels that have been stolen, eh?”
Interesting. Anger combined with a lack of minute description of her goods? And no grief whatsoever about the family connection to the jewels? Ben studied her set jaw and glittering black eyes. Perhaps the woman wasn’t the original owner of the trinkets but had stolen them herself.
“Oh, dear. Oh, my!” The words cooed from behind.
Ben glanced back to the door. The thin man, the elderly lady, and Clara all stood, eyes wide.
“Out! Out! All of you.” The grey woman threw out her hands, and Ben had no doubt she’d shoo them off like a murder of crows. “Go! I will manage this on my own.”
“Then you shouldn’t have screamed in the first place, madam,” the inspector grumbled as he passed by Ben. “Nevertheless, I will see what can be done to find your jewels.”
Before Clara turned to tread down the hallway, Ben caught a glimpse of her face. Skin pale. Curved shadows beneath each eye. Her shoulders drooped and her step lagged. Apparently she’d not slept. A yawn overtook him as he followed the group to the top of the stairs. Neither had he, despite the comfort of a feather mattress instead of a cold stone floor. This should have been the first Christmas shared with his wife—as one flesh. Whoever stole that from him and poisoned Clara’s mind against him would pay. He clenched the handrail so tightly, his fingers ached.
The inspector led the pack, followed by the thin man, Mr. Minnow, who pelted Pocket’s back with questions. Miss Scurry clutched her box with one hand and the railing with the other. Clara hovered behind her. Ben brought up the rear, mulling over the quirky behavior of all the guests, Mademoiselle Pretents foremost. Whether the jewels were hers or not, the fact remained that a thief roamed this manor, one bold enough to enter a woman’s chamber in the middle of the ni
ght and steal. And if this one had no qualms at such flagrant behaviour, what other devious acts might the villain stoop to?
At the bottom of the stairs, Ben sprang ahead. No matter what Clara thought of him—or he of her—he would not allow her safety to be compromised. “Clara,” he whispered, reluctant to draw the attention of the others.
She glanced at him but did not stop.
“Please, a word.”
Her mouth flattened into a line, but she complied, stopping near the clock where he’d hidden in the shadow the night before.
He drew near, abhorring how her rosewater scent made his pulse quicken. A stranger stared back at him. He hated that love and hope and a life together had been ripped out from beneath them both. But most of all, he hated whoever had been responsible for the confusion and hurt wounding Clara’s gaze. Of all the things he wanted to say, wanted to know, he simply said, “Be sure to keep your door locked whenever you’re in your chamber.”
CHAPTER NINE
Clara slipped past Ben, escaping as much from his concern as her confusion. Oh, for the days when everything made sense and the world ran in perfect order. A groan lodged in her throat. Convict or not, Ben made it impossible for her to think straight when he was standing but a breath away. His direct gaze unnerved her with an untamed light she’d never before seen. Surely he hadn’t been the one to steal the woman’s jewels. Had he? She hurried along the hallway, swiping a loosened strand of hair from her eyes along with the question.
Mr. Minnow pounced the moment her toe crossed the dining-room threshold. “Over here, Miss Chapman.” His fingers wrapped around her upper arm, and he tugged her to an empty chair next to his. “I shall plate you the tastiest morsels, my pet. Don’t trouble yourself to move an inch.”
She covered a grimace with what she hoped came off as a small smile. As much as she’d disliked the arranged seating of last night’s dinner, was this truly any better? “Perhaps we ought wait, Mr. Minnow, until the master of the house arrives.”
But her words were too late to stop him. He already stood at the sideboard.
Next to her, a dish landed on the table and Mr. Pocket sank onto the chair with a huff. “Curious choice of fare, I’d say.”
An odd aroma—a mixture of jasmine and headcheese—wrinkled her nose. She peeked at the man’s meal. His fork prodded a mound of brownish gelatin, each poke bleeding out colourless liquid. Lemon slices added stripes of yellow to the lump. This was breakfast?
“A curious morning, to be sure.” She pulled her gaze from his plate. “Do you know who’s taken Mademoiselle Pretents’s jewels, Inspector?”
“That I do not, miss, but don’t fret. I shall figure it out, sooner or later. Guilt has a way of coming to light no matter what dark corner it tries to hide in. All the same, be sure to lock your door at night.” He shoveled in a big bite, and she turned from the sight, unwilling to watch it travel down his throat.
She reached for the tea urn as Ben entered the room and Mr. Minnow graced her with a plate of the quivering aspic. “Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Minnow drew himself up a full six inches at her gratitude.
“Oh flap! Oy me rumpus!” Mr. Tallgrass rolled in, his wheeled chair crashing into the table with such force it bounced him backward. “Jilly, lend a hand,” he rumbled.
The dark-haired waif—how could one so thin push about such a great toad?—dashed to his side and yanked him upward, then let go. The wind punched from his lungs in a cough, but then a churlish grin rippled across his lips.
Ben took a seat at the far end of the table, which for some reason irked Clara, but before she could think to dissect such a feeling, the butler filled the doorway and rang a bell, drawing all their eyes—except for Mr. Tallgrass.
“Turn me about, Jilly!” He snaked out his hand and cuffed the girl on the head. “Poxy rag-a-ma-tag.”
Setting down the small bell, the butler struck such a pose that Clara couldn’t help but wonder if he’d served in the military. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but your gracious host—”
“And who would that be?” Mr. Minnow leaned forward in his seat.
The butler rocked on his heels. “I am instructed to inform you all that while your invitations stand as is, there is a recent addendum. Only one of you will receive a reward for staying the duration of the twelve nights.”
“Who, dear? Which one?” Miss Scurry’s voice squeaked. Or was that one of her mice?
“The one who remains.”
Mr. Pocket angled his head at Clara. “Rather cryptic, eh miss?”
“Indeed,” she whispered.
The butler cleared his throat. “Christmas dinner shall be served promptly at 7:00 p.m.” His dark eyes shot to Mr. Tallgrass for a moment. “Charades will follow in the drawing room, with a basket of prepared scenarios that will be atop the pianoforte.”
“Rather explicit instructions for so early in the day. I take it you will not be in attendance?” asked Mr. Pocket.
“Another astute observation, Inspector. You are correct. I shall be leaving the premises after breakfast.”
Miss Scurry murmured an “oh dear,” but the butler went right on with his last words. “As you all may have noticed, the outside of Bleakly Manor has been properly decorated for the Twelfth Night festivities. The inside, however, requires Christmas decor. I’ve been given a list of assignments you are expected to accomplish before dinner tonight.”
He pulled out a small slip of paper from an inside pocket. “Mr. Minnow, you are paired with Mademoiselle Pretents, as soon as she makes an appearance.”
Mr. Minnow’s lower lip quivered, and he spoke so only Clara might hear. “I’d so hoped to be with you, my pet.”
The butler narrowed his eyes at him. “The two of you will hang the mistletoe and drape the ivy.” His gaze returned to the instructions. “Mr. Pocket will aid Miss Scurry—”
“Oh!” Miss Scurry fluttered her free hand to her chest. “But I’d hoped to be with Mr. Minnow. Such a kind man.”
Once again, the butler continued as if nothing had been said. “You are to decorate the Christmas tree, which is placed on a table in the drawing room. Mr. Tallgrass and his assistant, Miss Jilly, shall—”
“Oh flap! Yer not sticking me with grunt work what ought be done by some kiddly-wugget of a slackin’ servant.” Mr. Tallgrass’s cheeks puffed out, his skin mottling to a deep red. “’Tain’t right! ’Tain’t fair! ’Tain’t—”
“Mr. Tallgrass!” The butler’s voice thundered. “Pay attention, if you please.”
“No, I don’t very well please,” he shot back. “This is a load o’ horse droppings!”
The butler’s brow creased, and he bent at eye level with the man. “Then you may leave now, if you wish.”
Mr. Tallgrass’s stubbly whiskers stuck out like white porcupine quills, so tightly did his face squinch up.
The butler straightened as he explained their task, but Clara’s thoughts snarled. That only left—
“Mr. Lane, you shall escort Miss Chapman on an outing to retrieve the Yule log for the holiday. You’ll find all you should need in the carriage house.”
The butler droned on, but his words faded to gibberish. She was to spend the whole of the morning outside with Ben? The man who may—or in his words may not have—caused her and her family so much grief. This was too much to be borne!
Pressing two fingers to her temple, she rubbed little circles to ward off the birth of a headache. She should leave. Now. Just pack up and go home to Aunt.
Spending Christmas, or any other day, with Ben—alone—was the last thing she wanted to do.
CHAPTER TEN
Frigid air slapped Clara on the cheek, and she tucked her chin to her chest, warding off further assault. On the far side of the wagon seat, Ben snapped the reins, urging the horses onward. Once they reached the shelter of the woods, the wind wouldn’t attack with such a wicked sting. But here, on the expanse of rolling hills between manor and forest, the cold was relentless.
/>
So were the warring emotions battling inside her. Anger. Confusion. Doubt and indignation. It was a wicked jest to have been paired up with Ben, and when the master of Bleakly Manor finally showed his face, she’d have a word or two—no, three or more—to share with the man.
“Move closer.” Ben glanced at her sideways, face unreadable. “I vow I won’t pick your pockets.”
“I’m f–fine.” Brilliant. Her chattering teeth branded her a fraud. Not that it should matter, for one fraud ought abide with another, should he not?
“Whoa.” Ben eased the horses to a halt.
She wrapped her arms tighter and lifted her face. They were hardly near the woods or the house. “What are you doing?”
Shrugging out of his coat, he reached for her with one arm and pulled her toward him. He tucked the wool around her shoulders, then settled her at his side. Leftover heat from his body penetrated her cloak, warming her in ways that went beyond such a generous deed. He grasped the reins and started the horses moving again, the weight of his coat hugging her like an intimate embrace—one that irked and soothed at the same time.
The wagon rambled on, his big arm jostling next to her, his thigh bumping against hers. Hard to tell what made him shudder. The uneven ground? Guilt? Or the thinness of his dress coat against the bitter air?
“Please, take back your coat.” She started to peel it off. “You’ll catch your death.”
His hand caught hers, gently forcing it to her lap. “Isn’t that what you want?”
She frowned up at him. “No, I do not wish you ill.”
She wished him to be gone.
A tense silence followed, and her heart ached for the way things had been, when she’d believed in his integrity and was for once in her life sure of love. This Ben, this stranger with the clenched jaw and stiff shoulders, was a shocking replacement.
“I am sorry. My manners are not as pretty as they once were.” Pulling his attention from the horses, he gazed down at her. “Are you feeling warmer?”
12 Days at Bleakly Manor Page 4