The Purloined Papers

by Allison Lane

  “Thank you.”

  “I like the scarf. It reminds me of Spanish mantillas.”

  “It will do for dinner. Then I will plead a headache and retire. Since Laura is not here, no one will comment.”

  “Nonsense. You promised me two sets.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Andrew,” she hissed. “I can’t attend a ball in this gown. It is too plain. And close examination will reveal bruising. Anyone who approaches me is bound to guess the truth. If they connect it with Truitt’s absence – which is quite likely, since my bruises and his disappearance happened at the same time – the fat will be in the fire.”

  “They would be more likely to suspect Laura, since she is also absent this evening. You have no connection to Truitt. You can remain in the dimmest corner and decline to dance in deference to your bereavement,” he admitted. “But I need you there. I need a safe harbor where I can relax.”

  “Your leg can’t be that weak!”

  “No, but I am not accustomed to the sly traps of polite conversation. It will be hard to keep people from guessing that scandal is afoot. At least you will avoid distressing subjects.”

  “Ah.”

  “Sets four and six. Don’t let me down.”

  He kept her arm when Fitch announced dinner. He’d swapped place cards so they could sit together.

  * * * *

  William allowed only one glass of port before rising to lead the gentlemen to the ballroom. Andrew approved. Speculation had run rampant the moment the ladies left. Truitt’s friends and associates refused to believe that any crisis could pull him away from his daughter’s betrothal, though Ashley’s absence supported the claim of a business emergency. But what could demand attention on a Saturday evening? His offices remained intact – or had when Mr. Garrison had driven past them on the way to Seabrook.

  Others pondered why Rankin’s secretary had been riding neck-or-nothing toward Exeter – several of the guests had passed the man.

  Wagers covered both issues.

  Andrew gritted his teeth as Lord Hunt and Mr. Wren whispered together at one end of the table. They seemed to be discussing rumors about Truitt, which could only cause trouble. It was definitely time to join the ladies. He must see that none of the men had time for private conversation tonight.

  Grayson thwarted that goal when he pulled Andrew aside as they left the dining room. “A moment of your time, if you would,” he said softly. The morning room door closed behind him.

  “What now?” He couldn’t manage another crisis tonight. “I need to be in the ballroom to deflect speculation about Truitt. As do you.”

  “Of course, but first I have a business proposition for you. If you are interested, I must dispatch messages immediately.”

  Andrew raised his brows. Had Gray discovered that he’d resigned his commission? Even Jinks didn’t know yet.

  “The elevations and floor plans you did for William are brilliant. I am even more impressed with the skill demonstrated in your sketchbook.” A raised hand prevented protest. “An impertinence on my part, and one I would not forgive if someone invaded my privacy. But I’ll not apologize. You hide your lights too well, Captain.”

  “Drawing passes the time,” he growled, hating the heat rising in his face. “Soldiers suffer long periods of boredom between battles. Hobbies fill it. Perhaps Captain Smith’s pack was a more useful pastime – he supplied many a hare when rations fell short – but coursing was never my forte.”

  “Understandable. I’m not much for hunting myself. But I like your mind, and I love your ideas. My father will be dead in six months. I have always hated Rothmoor Park – dark and oppressive, with rooms so tiny they close around you, filled with furniture so massive it would overwhelm a castle. I vowed years ago to replace it. That’s where you come in.”

  “No. We already had this discussion. I can play with floor plans and façade decorations. I can even build a decent cottage. But I don’t know enough about stress and foundations to manage even a town house, let alone a manor.” Yet his heart was trying to batter free of his chest. He wanted this job almost as much as he wanted Chloe. If only he had the training—

  “You’ll learn,” vowed Grayson. “Here is my proposition. You resign your commission and work for me. You will spend the first six months in Soane’s London office. I sent him your sketchbook. He thinks it is brilliant and has agreed to fill any holes in your education. He also wants to see everything else you’ve done, both measured drawings and original sketches. Don’t forget copies of the plans you drew for William.” From a pocket, he pulled out a letter that must have arrived with today’s courier. “You can stay at Grayson House or find rooms closer to his offices, but plan frequent conferences to discuss Rothmoor Park. Before Rothmoor dies, I want detailed designs. You will oversee the building’s construction.”

  “I’m no builder.”

  “No, you’re an architect. Hire a builder. But you will be in charge of the project.” He named an outlandish fee.

  Head spinning, Andrew glared. “I don’t want your charity.”

  “I won’t offer any. The standard fee for an architect who supervises construction is five percent of the project cost. I don’t know the final cost on this one yet, but I expect it to exceed one hundred thousand. So that five thousand I just offered is no more than your due. Once you finish Rothmoor, you will be eligible for membership in the Royal Academy. And unless my instincts have deserted me, you will be in great demand for other projects. A gifted architect can retire a wealthy man.”

  Andrew opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. Gray was offering every dream he’d ever had – Chloe, a venue to try his ideas, construction rather than destruction as the focus of his life. He tried again. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll accept. My courier can handle your resignation—”

  “I posted it on Thursday.”

  Gray’s changeable eyes flared blue. “Good. I’ll make sure they handle it with dispatch. A captaincy in an infantry regiment sells for eighteen hundred guineas. Right?”

  Andrew nodded, dazed.

  “Any back pay due?”

  Another nod.

  “Good. It will be waiting for you in London. You can leave on Monday.”

  “Make it a week. I can’t walk out in the middle of this mess. William would drown.” His head was whirling. Five thousand guineas when added to the sale of his commission would buy a comfortable house, or even a small estate. He needed to talk to Chloe. Did she still care? Would she modify her own dreams to include him?

  “Good. I’ll inform Soane that you will begin in a fortnight. Welcome aboard, Andrew. I anticipate a productive relationship. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  Andrew nodded, hardly aware when Gray left.

  His hands shook as he read Soane’s letter. Brilliant execution … creative extension of classical themes … exquisite attention to detail…

  What if he failed? He had no idea if he had the temperament to be an architect. Soldiering had been easy. He’d followed orders and made sure his men followed theirs. If he lived until morning, he followed more orders.

  This would be different. He would be the one making decisions. Failure meant discredit, not death. But that was worse. Discredit would taint him for a lifetime, burdening him with images of what might have been.

  * * * *

  Chloe sat in a corner of the ballroom, half behind a pillar so she needn’t speak to anyone. Too many people sought confirmation that Laura was soiled, insane, or both. She refused to provide it. The Seabrooks deserved her loyalty, no matter what Laura had done.

  At least Laura was not the only name on people’s tongues. Mr. Truitt’s absence garnered even more attention, particularly from his friends and business associates, who recognized the explanation as odd. Ladies whispered behind fans. Gentlemen clustered in corners. Tension permeated the room. Mrs. Truitt appeared ready to shatter. So far no one suspected the truth, but one wrong word would cause instant scanda
l.

  The receiving line finally broke up, allowing William and Martha to open the ball. Andrew led Mrs. Truitt out – another demonstration of support for William’s match. He danced the second set with Martha, then disappeared again.

  She frowned. When the ladies had left the dining room, Andrew had intended to go directly to the ballroom so he could deflect speculation. Yet he’d not appeared until half an hour after the other men, and now he’d left again.

  Perhaps Laura was planning some new vengeance. It would be just like her to stage another confrontation. In her current humor, Laura would enjoy hurting everyone she knew. The ballroom held more than a hundred people. If she embarrassed William and Martha badly enough, they would remain tarnished for years.

  Chloe was rising to check on Laura when movement behind the fretwork screen enclosing the minstrel’s gallery caught her eye.

  Sarah!

  She nearly kicked herself for overreacting. She’d forgotten that Andrew had promised the third set to his niece. Since Sarah was too young for the ballroom, he’d gone to her.

  How thoughtful he was. Few men would consider the feelings of a girl condemned to the periphery of events. Kevin had hated social events, for they interfered with his studies. He’d even taken himself off to see a friend instead of accompanying her to Bath. Peter was too selfish to consider anyone but himself. William was much like Kevin, though his obsession had always been the estate rather than books.

  But Andrew was special. Even the horrors of war that had hardened too many men had left Andrew’s kind heart alone. No wonder she loved him.

  Don’t think about that, her conscience ordered.

  It was right. She must face facts. In a day or two she would start a new life. Alone. Posing as a widow meant she could not ask Andrew to help her settle. He would never approve. Nor could she let him know where she lived. If he could find her, a part of her would always pray for a knock on her door. Even a faint hope would blight her future.

  So she had to find her cottage herself. He wouldn’t agree, so she must slip away when he wasn’t looking. Tonight would be best. He would be too busy to notice her absence. Spending more time together could only increase her ultimate pain. His touch was too tempting, his lips—

  The music stopped, ending the third set. He would return and seek her out. It was best that she not be here. She and Sally would head north. Her Yorkshire relatives could assist her if help became necessary.

  The terrace offered the most direct route to her room. Slipping along the edge of the crowd, she headed for the door, snatches of conversation propelling her feet.

  “…don’t know how Seabrook can demean his title…”

  “…Truitt always seemed a little too lucky.”

  “Silly old bat. Imagine claiming that Sir Peter stole her pearls, when they were in her own reticule, where she’d put them after the clasp broke.”

  “Mad. Quite mad. He should have kept her locked…”

  “…should have seen her face…”

  A sudden shout from the stairs pulled all eyes to the main door. Peter stood there, glaring at the footman barring his path. Swollen burns turned his face into a monstrous blob.

  “Of course I have an invitation,” he rasped. “We both do.” Shoving the footman aside, he clattered down the stairs, a disheveled companion in tow.

  Fear sliced down Chloe’s back. Peter wasn’t here to celebrate William’s betrothal. Nor was he here for a game of cards. Everyone knew William never allowed deep gaming under his roof.

  She shuddered.

  “Where’s my damned sister?” demanded Peter.

  Chloe ducked behind a cluster of men and raced for the door. If she could reach the terrace, she could lose herself on the nursery floor, then slip away before dawn.

  Voices rose behind her as Peter shoved through the crowd. A glance over one shoulder revealed Andrew, Rockhurst, and Grayson racing toward the disturbance, but she didn’t see her brother.

  She dodged around a knot of ladies snorting disapproval at Peter’s intrusion, then broke into a run for the door.

  “Umph!” Someone collided with her.

  “There you are,” Peter exclaimed, grabbing her arm. “Pack your bags. I found you a husband.” He turned to his companion. “See? A little long in the tooth, but hardly a hag. She’ll breed well enough for you.”

  Chloe gasped. “Have you lost your mind?” She tried to pull free, but his hand remained firm.

  “Now, now. Don’t turn missish on me. You should be glad for any offer at your age.” He jerked her forward, trying to join her hand with his friend’s.

  “No!” She struggled harder. Peter was drunk, as usual. Surely she could break free. She had to break free. Unless she escaped, she would find herself ruined by morning. “You are not my guardian.”

  “What?” yelped the friend.

  “Ignore her,” snapped Peter. “Barry will be so glad to be rid of her that he’ll jump at your offer.”

  “Hah!” Chloe twisted until her wrist hurt. “He would never follow your lead. You fired him and threw him out of Fields House.” It was bravado, though. If Peter’s friend deflowered her, Mr. Barry would insist on marriage to save her reputation.

  She cast pleading eyes on the nearest guests, but they sidled away. None would interfere in a family matter for such as her.

  Andrew suddenly burst from the crowd. “What the devil is going on?” he demanded, doing something to Peter’s arm that loosened his grip. Off balance, she would have fallen if Andrew hadn’t pulled her against his side.

  “Nothing that need concern you, Captain. I was just conveying the good news to Chloe that she is to be wed.”

  Andrew shook his head. “She obviously doesn’t share your excitement.”

  “She will. We just caught her by surprise.” He reached for her again.

  “Stop embarrassing her, Sir Peter,” snapped Andrew. “This is not a matter for public discussion.”

  “I am aware of that. As you can see, I was helping her outside where we can be private. If you will excuse us—”

  “No!” gasped Chloe. “He will force—”

  “Don’t interfere in family matters,” warned Peter. A jerk on his companion’s arm kept the man silent. “I finally got the chit off my hands. Have to do the deed before he changes his mind.”

  “Wrong.” Andrew’s voice hardened. “Chloe was never on your hands. Sir Nigel made sure of that.”

  “This is not your affair. Come, Chloe.”

  Andrew slipped her behind his back. “You have no authority over her. Besides, she is already betrothed.”

  “Betrothed!” snapped Peter’s companion. “Why, you despicable—”

  “He lies,” insisted Peter.

  “Not at all. She is betrothed to me.”

  Rockhurst arrived and helped herd Peter toward the door. When Peter tried to protest, Andrew added, “You’ve entertained my brother’s guests enough for one evening.”

  Before Chloe knew what had happened, she was on the terrace with Andrew, Peter, a drunken stranger, and Lord Rockhurst. A glance showed Grayson just inside the door, his position preventing anyone from following. Andrew’s arm kept her close to his side.

  “Barry will never let you get away with this,” blustered Peter. “You are nothing but a half-pay soldier. Jacob is wealthy, with an established business.”

  “And you expect to take advantage of that. But Mr. Barry would never approve one of your friends.”

  Jacob was trying to draw Peter aside, but Peter ignored him. Fury twisted his face.

  Chloe shivered, grateful that both Andrew and Rockhurst flanked her. Peter wasn’t drunk enough to challenge both of them. But he was plenty drunk enough to attack her if she refused to cooperate.

  “You can’t wish to be shackled to a military man, Chloe,” ordered Peter. “Tell the captain to return to his regiment.”

  “No.” The word freed her voice. “You have no say in my future, Peter, and never will. Did you
forget to tell your drunken friend that I am not conformable? Anyone who tries to subdue me will regret it. I’ll not be sold to pay your gaming debts.”

  Jacob flinched, confirming her guess. Peter had indeed wagered her hand on the turn of a card. And lost, as usual.

  Panic twisted Peter’s face. “You don’t understand,” he wailed. “I’ll lose Fields House unless she agrees.”

  “Which is no more than you deserve. Who is he, anyway?”

  Rockhurst answered. “Mr. Jacob Ashley. It took me a moment to recall the face.” He glared at the man. “Weren’t you booted out of a club on Jermyn Street last year for fuzzing cards?”

  Peter gasped.

  Chloe stiffened.

  Andrew signaled Grayson with his free hand.

  Ashley glared at Rockhurst. “No, I was not booted out. A cub who lost a quarter’s allowance cried foul, but he was proved wrong.”

  “Jacob Ashley.” Andrew nodded. “I smell a very large rat. When did you start losing to him, Sir Peter?”

  “What difference—”

  “When?” His voice cracked through the air, demanding answers.

  “A- A month ago. He’s carried me as long as he’s willing.”

  “No. He carried you so he had leverage against Sir Nigel. Meet the man who tried to kill you.”

  “What?” Peter’s face blanched.

  “What?” yelped Ashley at the same time.

  “Explain,” ordered Rockhurst.

  Andrew glanced at Chloe. “You explain.” His hand again signaled as Rob and Ned reached the terrace. Peter and Ashley were too intent on Chloe to notice.

  Chloe took a deep breath. “Mr. Ashley and his partner made their fortunes by defrauding the government. Father discovered their scheme, but instead of giving the evidence to the authorities, he used it to blackmail them. Ashley confronted him. A fight ensued. Father fell to his death. After several searches of the house failed to turn up the evidence, Ashley set a fire to destroy it.”

  Peter gasped.

  “Quite an imagination,” drawled Ashley.

  “Hardly. How did you discover I’d taken Mother’s jewelry casket to Moorside?”