by Lauren Royal
As it appeared more and more that Lily’s situation was hopeless, the suggestions became fewer and farther between, until an hour later they’d fallen into a heavy silence.
Violet slipped off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. “Faith, we’re a woebegone bunch. This is supposed to be a party. We’ll discuss this again later, but for now, let’s see if the songbook has arrived.”
Soon they were in the drawing room, giggling, the book propped up on the harpsichord where they could all see the words while Lily read the music.
“Play this one, Lily,” Rose said, her dark eyes wide. She began singing.
“My mistress is a mine of gold—
Would that it were her pleasure
To let me dig within her mould
And roll among her treasure!”
The Ashcroft sisters laughed, but Judith just sipped her wine, looking bemused. “I don’t understand. Dig within her mould?”
“He means the woman’s…you know,” Rose said.
Judith looked even more baffled. “I’m not certain I do know.”
“Truly?” Rose asked incredulously. “I vow and swear, you must read Aristotle’s Master-piece before you get married.”
Now Judith gasped. Although she knew the Ashcroft sisters had all read it, the book was considered scandalous. A desperate look in her eyes, she turned to Violet. “You’re married. Tell me.”
Lily was relieved that she wasn’t the one asked to explain.
While a pink-cheeked Judith learned the facts from Violet, Rose flipped pages in the book. “This one seems amusing,” she said when Violet was finished. “’The Comical Dreamer.’”
Lily set the book back up on the harpsichord and began to play. This time they all sang together, even Judith.
“Last night a dream came into my head,
Thou wert a fine white loaf of bread
Then if May-butter I could be,
How I would spread,
Oh! how I would spread myself on thee!”
By the final verse, they had dissolved into giggles. Lily clutched her stomach—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard. Despite everything, she was having fun.
“Sh-shall we,” Judith gasped, “sing another?”
FIFTY-EIGHT
CHRYSTABEL SMILED to herself when she heard the opening notes of “The Lusty Young Smith.” It was one of her favorites.
Stretched out beside her on their bed, Joseph couldn’t hear the worlds filtering through the thick stone walls. “What’s that they’re singing, Chrysanthemum?”
“Oh, I cannot make out the tunes.” She sipped from her goblet of wine. “I’m just happy that Lily is enjoying herself.”
He’d die if he knew. Joseph liked to think his daughters were much too ladylike for bawdy fun, and she wouldn’t be the one to disabuse him of the notion. “I’m sure the others are just trying to cheer Lily up. And doing an excellent job, from the sound of it. It was good of Rose to plan the sleeping party. Thoughtful, don’t you think?”
Setting down his empty goblet, Joseph nodded. “Perhaps Rose is finally growing up.”
“Perhaps she is.” Chrystabel finished her own wine and sighed. “Our children are all growing up.”
“Too fast,” he agreed. His green eyes turned troubled. “About Lily—”
“I’m concerned, yes. Worried sick, truth be told. Should Rand not find a way out of this, Lily will be left devastated.”
“Especially if anything untoward happened between them at Hawkridge,” he added anxiously.
“Oh, nothing did, thank heaven.” Turning to face him, she reached to caress one whisker-roughened cheek. “I suppose I should have told you, but it never occurred to me that you were worrying, too.” She always expected him to be oblivious to such concerns, like other men. But sometimes he surprised her. And he did love his children very much.
That was only one of the many reasons she loved him so very much.
He frowned. “How do you know? A mother’s intuition? Because I’ve told you before, my love, you cannot tell these things just by looking—”
She laughed, a sound of amusement mixed with relief. “I know because I had Parkinson write to his aunt at Hawkridge, a woman by the name of Etta. Her return letter arrived with the coachman, bearing assurances that the staff saw nothing. And the staff see everything.”
Diplomatically, Chrystabel omitted the part about Lily spending a night in Rand’s bedchamber.
They had only slept, after all.
FIFTY-NINE
HALFWAY TO Oxford, rain had begun falling, turning the roads to mush and Rand’s journey to a snail-paced nightmare. He’d arrived home and trudged through the empty house to the one furnished room, his bedchamber, where he’d promptly fallen into bed and passed a restless night.
Morning found him in a foul mood. Another day gone and no closer to finding a solution. He scrubbed up and pulled on some clothes, then opened his door, intending to inspect the house.
A measuring tape in one hand, Kit stopped and turned. “Rand. When did you get home?”
“Last night. Late.” Rand rubbed his aching head. “How is the job progressing?”
“Haven’t you noticed? It’s all but done.”
“Is it?” He followed Kit along the corridor, peeking into beautifully finished rooms. “My apologies. You’ve worked wonders.”
“I’ve been here since you left. Amazing how a few days onsite will motivate craftsmen to work.” He grinned, then suddenly frowned. “Hey, Rand, you’re going to break your teeth.”
Rand consciously relaxed his jaw, which had been clenched to the point of pain.
“What’s got your dander up?” Kit asked.
“The mental image of my father at Hawkridge, planning a wedding for five days hence.”
“I thought you wanted to get married.”
“To Lily, not Margery Maybanks.”
“Margery?” Kit’s green-brown eyes widened. “Margery! Why on earth would he want you to marry Margery?”
Rand sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“Best told over a tankard of ale, I’d guess. Come along. It’s a bit early yet, but the King’s Arms is always open.”
“CHIN UP, DEAR,” Lily’s father bellowed across the table.
“You cannot give up hope,” Mum added more gently, pointedly handing Lily a spoon. “There must be something that can be done.”
“Rand. Rand will have to come up with something.” Unable to eat, Lily pushed her dinner around on her plate and sighed.
The lighthearted camaraderie of last night was gone. In the wee hours of the morning, the young women had all giggled their way upstairs to share Lily’s big bed. It had been a tight fit with four instead of three, but worth it for the comfort she’d felt, surrounded by people who cared.
Today she could find no comfort. They’d awakened too late for breakfast and spent most of dinner revisiting all their useless suggestions, reviewing them with Father and Mum. No one had any new ideas to contribute, and Lily’s predicament seemed more hopeless than ever.
“Violet? Are you ready to come home?” They all looked over to see Ford had appeared in the doorway. “Did you have a fine time?”
Violet gave him a wan smile. “We did last night.” She pushed back her chair and rose. “While I go get my things, Lily will fill you in on what’s happened. Perhaps you’ll see a solution we haven’t.”
But even Ford’s brilliant mind had no new solution to offer. He was in agreement that absolving Bennett Armstrong was their only option. “Maybe one of the other hunters witnessed the confrontation,” he suggested. “Or someone else. Just because no one’s come forward—”
“Rand is planning to interview everyone in the vicinity.” Lily bit her lip. “But I’m afraid if anyone knew anything, they’d have come forward long before now.”
Ford looked thoughtful. “Not if they were afraid of facing the marquess’s wrath. He clearly doesn’t want to hear his son was at faul
t.”
“That’s true,” she said, reluctant to succumb to the thread of hope that suddenly tugged at her heart. “A different way to look at this. He did, after all, offer an enormous reward for information that would prove Lord Armstrong guilty. Perhaps people are reluctant to approach him with anything that would prove the opposite.”
Her father nodded sagely. “It’s wise to keep on top of it.”
Judith reached for more bread. “She said ‘the opposite,’ Lord Trentingham. Someone could be frightened to bring Lord Hawkridge evidence that proves the opposite.”
“Eh?”
Evidently giving up, Judith slathered butter on the bread. “You must trust Rand, then,” she told Lily, taking a big bite. The solemn atmosphere had failed to curb her appetite. “You love him, and you have to believe he won’t give up until he finds proof.”
Yes, Rand had promised they would find a way. After giving Judith a shaky smile, Lily turned to Ford. “Thank you. You’ve given me hope.”
“It was nothing. Just another way to look at a solution that had already been proposed—nothing has changed.”
While that was true, Lily was holding as tight as she could to that thin thread of hope. For the first time since she’d awakened this morning, she felt able to breathe.
Violet returned, her satchel in one hand and An Antidote Against Melancholy in the other. “I’m ready.”
“Why did you want that book?” Ford asked.
As her gaze flicked to their parents, Violet flushed a delicate pink. “Oh, I just thought it might help Lily.” She took his arm. “Come along. I cannot wait to see Nicky and the twins.”
“What’s the book called?” Mum asked.
Having failed to escape, Violet forced a smile. “An Antidote Against Melancholy. Lily was feeling a bit melancholy last night, you see, and—”
“Oh, then would you mind leaving it here? I expect she may feel a bit melancholy again the next few days.”
“We already read the whole thing,” Violet said, clutching the book possessively.
“Well, then.” Mum was nothing if not persistent. “Leave it here for me. I adore helping people, as you know, and it seems to me I could learn a lot from a book called An Antidote Against Melancholy.”
Lily suspected Mum would learn more than she anticipated. In specific, she’d learn her daughters weren’t quite the innocents she imagined. And if she could judge by her sister’s face, Violet was thinking much the same.
Looking amused, Ford pried the book from his wife’s hands and set it on the table. “Here,” he told his mother-in-law with a grin that would do any fiend proud. “I hope you and Lord Trentingham will enjoy it.”
As Mum smiled and reached for it, he hustled Violet from the room, laughingly ignoring her protests. Rose and Lily exchanged frantic looks.
Their mother lifted the front cover.
“No!” Lily cried, her hand shooting out to slam the book shut. “Sorry, I…I just felt a bit of melancholy coming on, and, um, certain passages might be, you know, helpful. To reread. Some things are better the second time, you know. So, um, can I keep the book a little longer?”
“Of course.” To Lily’s great relief, her mother relinquished the book without a fight. “Judith, dear, would you please pass the sugar bowl?”
Judith obliged, and Mum spooned sugar into her coffee, humming a simple tune as she stirred.
It was only when she noticed Rose’s mouth hanging open that Lily realized the tune was “The Comical Dreamer.”
SIXTY
BY THE TIME Rand told the whole story, he and Kit had long since finished dinner and were nursing tankards of ale.
Last night’s rain had ceased, but the day had dawned depressingly gray. The dark paneling inside the King’s Arms made it dreary, and the crackling fire near their table did little to warm the room or lighten Rand’s mood.
“Of all the rotten things your father has ever done to you, this wins the prize.” Kit shook his head. “Margery. Is she all grown-up, then?”
“Very much so. She’s nearly twenty-one, and a beauty, too. But I cannot imagine myself married to her.”
“For all intents and purposes, she’s your little sister.” Looking thoughtful, Kit signaled for another round. “Margery was always very sweet.”
“I’d say you’re welcome to her, but I’m afraid Bennett Armstrong would have something to say about that. Especially considering she’s carrying his child.”
Kit blinked. “On top of everything else, she’s with child?”
“Yes, and she’s asked me to raise the babe as my own.”
“You will, of course, should it come to that.” Kit knew Rand inside out. “But we must find a way to fix this.” He paused, musing as he drained his tankard. “Skinny old Bennett, huh?”
Despite the gravity of his situation, a ghost of a grin materialized on Rand’s face. “He’s not skinny anymore. I wouldn’t challenge him were I you. Remember, he’s killed once already, even if it was in self-defense.”
“True, but I cannot bring myself to feel sorry that he did. Alban was…” Seemingly at a loss for words, Kit shook his head. A serving maid set down two fresh tankards, and he flipped her a coin. “I still remember that day Alban found us down by the river. He was angry at you for some reason—”
“I’d read his journal.”
“Ah, that was it. Anyway, I thought he was going to kill us both. I’ve never run so fast in my life.” He shuddered at the memory. “I say, do you suppose Alban may have kept journaling all these years?”
“Sweet mercy, I wish.” Rand took a deep swallow of ale. “That occurred to me, too—what better evidence of his intention to kill Armstrong than a confession in his own hand? But my brother stopped writing years ago, when he realized he’d never devise a cipher I couldn’t break.”
Kit snorted. “Trying to encode secrets in a house with Rand Nesbitt—madness. The fool should have found a better hiding place.”
“Pardon?”
“I said he should have—”
“—found a better hiding place,” Rand repeated slowly. He ran his tongue over his teeth. “What if that’s exactly what he did?”
Kit frowned. “I must’ve had one ale too many. What are you—oh!” He sat up straighter. “Perhaps he began hiding his journals instead of encoding them?”
“Perhaps. He did seem rather determined to record his…well, the journals called them ‘experiments,’ but I always thought of them as sins. I never understood his writing obsession. Though, in hindsight…” He grimaced.
“What?”
Tasting bile rising in his throat, Rand washed it down with more ale. “He always had certain entries marked—usually the worst ones—and those pages were faded and creased, as if he’d handled them more frequently. I didn’t think anything of it as a child, but now I wonder…I suspect he returned to them often, to reread them. Relive them.”
Kit’s only response to that was a generous swig from his tankard.
They both nursed their ales for a spell, lost in thought. Kit finally broke the silence. “If he was still journaling, where would his writings be hidden?”
“I have no idea. But finding them is the best hope I’ve got.” Rand drained his ale and stood. “I must collect some things, talk to some people. I’ll leave for Hawkridge at dawn.”
Kit rose, too. “I’m coming with you. Your house can wait.”
SIXTY-ONE
RAND SHOWED UP in Trentingham’s entry hall days before Lily thought he would, and the moment she saw his face, she knew he had a new plan. Even from the top of the stairs, she could see hope shining in his eyes.
Her heart leapt in response. Without a thought for her sister standing beside her, she lifted her skirts and ran down and into his arms. “You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?”
“I have, yes.” He kissed her enthusiastically before continuing. “There’s no guarantee, of course, that it will work out, or that even if it does, the evidence will
convince the marquess, but—”
“I say,” Kit Martyn interrupted from the doorway, “spit it out already, man.”
“Yes,” Rose yelled down the stairs. “Go on, tell us.” She started down to meet them, moving much more daintily than Lily had. “I’m likely to die of curiosity. We’ve all been wracking our brains for a solution—my sisters and I and our friend Judith—and I want to hear what you’ve come up with that our superior female minds missed.”
Rand laughed. “It’s Alban’s journal.”
Lily’s brow crinkled. “I thought you told me he stopped writing?”
“I thought he had. But it’s possible he simply began using a very good hiding spot. If that’s the case, all I have to do is find it, and I’d wager his plans to kill Bennett Armstrong will be written there in his own hand. No matter how much the marquess wants to believe in his innocence, it will be impossible to refute that.”
“If Lord Armstrong is telling the truth,” Rose put in.
Yes, if, Lily thought. But he’d seemed so sincere. And she had to believe him, because proving his innocence was the only chance she and Rand had.
“Finding the journal could work against you instead of helping,” Rose pointed out. “If it’s found and there’s no mention of ill will towards the baron, your father will take that as proof of Alban’s innocence. Even should witnesses come forward, the journal will give him an excuse to disbelieve them and keep the noose around Armstrong’s neck, so that Rand and Margery will be forced to submit to his will.”
It was an intelligent observation. Annoyingly intelligent. And depressingly true, but Lily couldn’t think about that now.
Hope had taken flight and refused to be grounded.
She clutched Rand’s arm. “Do you really think you can find the journal?”
“For all we know, it could be sitting in plain view in his bedchamber.” Rand crossed his fingers. “After all, it’s been many years since he had to contend with my snooping. But otherwise, I’ll turn the house upside down if need be.”