by Lauren Royal
“Give him a chance,” Lily said.
Rex sniffed all around the bedchamber again, jumping on and off the bed twice in the process. The coverlet slid to the floor, and Kit bent to pick it up. “He’s—”
“Give him a chance,” Lily said.
Rex examined the dressing room. Thoroughly. Lily walked to the doorway and watched. “Journal. Journal. Rex, find another journal.”
Returning to the bedchamber, the dog sniffed around once more. Then he stopped before the marble fireplace and sat on his haunches, gazing into it.
He barked once.
The three humans looked at each other.
“He’s done,” Kit said. “He didn’t find it.”
Refusing to believe that, Lily knelt by Rex’s head. He licked her cheek, then looked back at the fireplace and barked.
“He thinks it’s there,” she said. “In the fireplace.”
Rand lifted a poker and stirred the cold ashes. “Nothing. There’s nothing here.”
“Maybe Alban burned it,” Lily whispered, afraid that if she said the words out loud, she might somehow make them true.
“Maybe.” Rand set the poker back in its wrought iron stand with a final-sounding clunk. “I suppose he might have, if he were worried enough that someone might find it.”
Disappointment fisted Lily’s heart. She stepped toward Rand, toward the comforting heat of his body, the comforting circle of his arms.
Would this be the last day she ever felt that comfort?
Rex barked again. And again. And again, gazing at Lily as though he was trying to tell her something but didn’t have the words.
“He thinks it’s in there,” she said with a sigh. “It must have burned.”
“No.” Kit walked across the room, then back, staring at the fireplace. He poked his head into the sitting room, then looked again at the fireplace. “There’s space behind there.”
“What do you mean?” Lily asked.
“Empty space. Maybe a hiding place. I cannot believe I failed to notice it immediately. Can’t you see the proportions are off, in both this room and the next?”
“We’re not architects,” Rand said dryly, but with a fresh note of hope in his voice. “How do we get to this space?”
Kit began feeling around the paneling above the mantelpiece. “There has to be a latch, or a lever, or something…” He moved to the side, running his hands down the wood to the floor.
And there it was. A little snick reverberated in the room, and a panel swung open.
Lily stepped in first.
A secret room. No, a space. It was tall as a man but no more than three feet deep. Just wide enough to step into and access the area behind the fireplace, a nook so dark she couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face.
She heard the soft hiss of a flame being struck. Rand stepped in holding a candle, illuminating the hidden space and its shelves.
Shutting her eyes in horror, Lily turned away.
But she’d seen what was on the shelves. Traps of all sizes, some with steel teeth large enough to capture a man. A bloody saw. Well-used rope. Cuffs. Whips.
And a lone, leather-bound journal.
Rand reached for it and hurried her out, closing the door with a bang.
Taking the candle from Rand, Kit reopened the panel, peeked in, and slammed it shut again.
Lily’s limbs shook. “What—what were all those things for, Rand?”
“I’m not certain I want to know. But I imagine this journal will reveal all.”
“Will you show your father that space?”
He was silent a long moment. “No. Not unless I have to. Not unless the journal fails to reveal Alban’s plan to kill Armstrong, or the marquess refuses to believe my translation.”
She nodded. It was a sound decision. The marquess had clearly loved Alban, and there was no sense disillusioning him more than was necessary. Alban was already dead, after all.
Never had Lily, nice Lily, thought she’d be glad for a man’s demise. “Never say never,” she whispered.
Rand slanted her a glance, then slowly opened the journal and flipped to the final entry. “‘Nineteenth of August, 1677,’” he read aloud before looking up. “The day Alban died.”
“We’ve got him,” Kit said with a smile.
Lily dropped to her knees and buried her face in Rex’s neck, wetting his fur with her tears. After a long moment, she got to her feet, reached for the bowl of meat, and set it on the floor.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
SIXTY-SIX
ALL THE WAY back to Trentingham, Lily and Rand and Kit reminded one another that the journal might not reveal anything incriminating.
But they couldn’t help but believe that it would.
It was late when they arrived, and Lily was exhausted. She’d hardly slept a wink those long nights waiting for word from Rand.
The rest of the family were already abed. After a yawning Parkinson let them in, Rand drew Lily close and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Go to sleep,” he told her. “You cannot help with this, anyway. In the morning you’ll feel better, and with luck I’ll have good news.”
She nodded and took herself off to her room.
Parkinson led the way up to the library, then lit a few candles and went back to bed himself. Rand and Kit settled at a round wooden table to decipher the diary.
No sooner had Rand opened the cover than Rose walked in, carrying another candle and wearing a white night rail with a red wrapper tied over it. Although the garments were concealing, their effect was undeniably intimate. She set down the candle and rubbed her eyes. “You found the journal?”
“We did,” Kit said. “Would you like to help us decode it?”
Rand opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, she took a chair. “Of course. Lily asked me to help, because I’m good at that sort of thing.”
She was good at that sort of thing. Inside of an hour, they had Alban’s final entry translated, Rand and Rose doing most of the work while Kit sat back and watched.
Rand noticed that Kit mostly watched Rose.
“What does it say?” Kit asked.
“’I’m going to do it,’” Rose quoted. “’The time has come.’”
“It’s not enough.” Rand rubbed the back of his neck. “We need to find something that clearly implies murder. The rest of this entry’s no more than a recitation of his day.”
“Then we do the one before it,” Kit said.
Rand sent him a wry glance. “We?”
“Hey, we all do what we can. I found the thing, didn’t I?”
“With Rex’s help,” Rand conceded.
Rose went to a cabinet and poured them each a measure of Madeira, herself included. Then they went back to work.
Another hour passed, an hour of slow but steady progress.
“We’re going to find the evidence,” Rose said, adding to the ever-growing column of words they’d managed to decipher. “It’s here. I know it.” She looked up, her dark eyes troubled. “He was wicked, wasn’t he, your brother?”
Rand nodded, afraid to be optimistic, but feeling Rose was right. They were going to find their proof. Then he’d just need to convince his father.
They puzzled out a few more words of an entry dealing with the sale of some cattle. “You’re going to take care of my sister,” Rose said while scribbling some notes. “And I expect you to be kind to her all your days.”
He looked up. “I’ll cherish her like no man has ever cherished a woman.”
“You’d better,” she said darkly, then jotted another word.
A smile on his face, Kit watched her and sipped his Madeira.
“‘The date draws near,’” Rand read when the entry was complete. “‘If I am to master her, steps must be taken.’”
“Not enough,” Kit said. “He could be talking about a horse.”
“But he isn’t.” Rose reached to refill his goblet. “He’s talking about murder. Another entry. Let
’s get back to work.”
She seemed tireless, and Rand was rarely tempted to sleep when faced with a puzzle. Especially one this important.
“Lady Rose,” Kit started.
“Hmm?” She crossed out a word and wrote another.
“Rand led me to believe you were, ah, a mite antagonistic concerning his relationship with your sister.”
“Well, that,” she said, “was before I got to know the fellow properly. I didn’t feel he was good enough for her at first. But now…”
Her soft smile said it all. Although she’d had other reasons to oppose the match than those she was willing to admit, Rand knew her change of heart was genuine. Miraculously, she seemed truly happy for him and Lily. And approving.
It would be an enormous relief for Lily, he knew, and for him as well. And now, when it seemed everything might work out after all, that seemed more important than ever.
Several hours and four entries later, at last they hit gold.
Rand sat back, staring at the page.
“Read it,” Kit said.
“‘Margery begged and begged,’” Rose read softly, “‘but Hawkridge refused as always.’” She paused, glancing up at Rand. “He called your father Hawkridge?”
Rand shrugged. “Ours is not a warm family.”
“You’ll be warm now,” she warned, “to my sister. Or—”
“Peace, Rose. I love Lily more than my life. Read the rest, will you?”
Kit laughed. At a time like this, he laughed. If Rand hadn’t been so tense, he’d have reached over and slapped him. But in his present mood, he feared he might do his old friend permanent damage.
“‘Hawkridge refused as always,’” Rose continued slowly. “‘I followed Margery to Armstrong’s place, her sobbing all the way. And there, they plotted to elope.’” She reached for her Madeira. “Here,” she said, passing Rand their notes. “You do the rest.”
He took a deep breath before reading, for the first time, the individual words they’d translated, all pieced together. “‘When I overheard their plans, I felt I couldn’t draw air. My heart swelled to such a size it filled my chest, squeezing my lungs, robbing me of sustenance. I cannot allow this to happen. Margery belongs to me. They leave in a week, and before that, I must kill him.’”
“There it is,” Kit said admiringly.
“Yes, there it is,” Rose echoed with a satisfied sigh.
“Thank you, Lord above,” Rand whispered, closing his eyes.
After a moment, he heard Rose clear her throat. “You’re welcome,” she said archly.
When Rand laughed and opened his eyes, he realized his vision was blurred. “And thank you both, too,” he said fervently, digging out a handkerchief to wipe his eyes. “From the bottom of my heart. If—when—Lily and I wed, I’ll be silently thanking you as we recite our vows.”
Dawn was breaking when they left the library. Rose had made peace with the fact that he’d chosen Lily over her, and amazingly, she and Rand were friends. But Kit, Rand was sure, wanted to be more than friends with Rose.
A shame she hadn’t seemed to really notice him.
“Go to Lily,” she told Rand. “Go tell her what we’ve found.”
“Go to her in her chamber? You…you’ll come along, won’t you?”
“No.” She flashed the sort of smile that only Rose could flash. “But if you’re not out in five minutes, I’m coming in, and I’m bringing something pointy.”
Rand didn’t need a second invitation.
Lily looked like an angel, her hair a dark halo on her pillow. But her mouth was turned down in a frown. Her dreams, he knew, weren’t sweet.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to those pouting lips. They curved up, and her arms rose to wrap around his neck.
She smelled of sleep and lilies. “Rand?”
“Yes, my sweet. I’m here.” Was it silly of him to be so glad she hadn’t said someone else’s name? He knew she was his, knew it as well as he knew which English words came from Latin.
Her eyes slid languidly open. “Could you read the journal?”
He smiled and sat beside her on the bed, his fingers playing idly in her hair. “Alban Nesbitt,” he said, “has never contrived a code I couldn’t decipher.”
She sat up, suddenly wide awake. “What did it say, Rand?” Her hands twisted together in her lap, her fingers rubbing the faint scars. “What did it say?”
“It said he planned to murder Bennett Armstrong. I love you, Lily Ashcroft, and we’re going to be married.”
He would make it so. He hadn’t come this far to fail now.
Before Lily rose for breakfast, he was riding hard for Hawkridge, the journal and notes in one hand.
SIXTY-SEVEN
RAND ARRIVED at Hawkridge to find the marquess and Margery at breakfast, sullen and silent.
His arrival took care of that.
“It’s here,” he said, striding in and waving his papers. “In Alban’s own hand. His plans to kill Bennett Armstrong, here in black and white.”
Margery’s face lit like a full moon on a cloudless night. The marquess took one look at her and frowned. “Sit down, Randal. I haven’t finished my breakfast.”
Rand took some spice bread and a bowl of meat pottage from the leather-topped sideboard and carried them to the table. He sat and spread his evidence on the cedarwood surface.
The marquess deliberately looked away, focusing on his food.
Margery pushed her pottage around in her bowl, evidently too excited to eat. “What did you find, Rand?”
“The journal ended on the day of Alban’s death.” Ignoring the marquess’s wince, Rand took a big bite of the fruited spice bread. He’d been awake twenty-six hours without taking any time to eat. “Here”—he rustled through the papers with one hand—“here’s the crucial passage.” He held out a page to Margery.
Her hand shook as she took it. Although it was a translation, not Alban’s writing, the words on the paper were his.
As she scanned down the page, a soft gasp escaped her lips. Rand’s father looked annoyed before she even began reading. “‘I cannot allow this to happen. Margery belongs to me. They leave in a week, and before that, I must kill him.’”
The marquess snatched the sheet from her hand. His eyes narrowed before his gaze shifted to Rand. “This isn’t Alban’s hand. It’s yours.”
“Actually, that’s Lady Rose Ashcroft’s writing.” Rand wasn’t at all surprised the old goat didn’t recognize his own son’s hand. He’d never bothered to look at any of Rand’s lessons. “Her writing is much tidier than mine.”
With a flick of his still-nimble wrist, his father tossed the paper onto the table. “I’ll never believe that’s what the journal says. Do you think me a fool? You’d claim anything in order to wed that Ashcroft chit.” He looked back down to his food, cutting a bite of ham with a fitful, angry motion. “Those aren’t Alban’s words. I know—I knew—my son.”
Rand struggled for calm. “No, Father, you didn’t.”
The man’s gaze jerked up from his breakfast. Rand hadn’t called him Father in fifteen years or more. Staring at Rand, he stabbed blindly with his fork.
“You didn’t know him,” Rand repeated. “You knew the son you wished he was.”
“Hogwash.” Having managed to spear some ham, he stuck it in his mouth, taking his time to chew and swallow before continuing. “My son was incapable of premeditated murder.”
“Are you aware that your son kept knives under his bed? A collection to rival a museum’s. Most of them stained with blood.”
If Rand could judge from his expression, his father hadn’t known. “There have been no murders in this district other than Alban’s.”
“Not of people,” Rand agreed. “But I’d wager animals have been found senselessly slaughtered.”
From the look on his father’s face, he’d hit home. “What of it? It’s no crime.”
“It could be a small leap from beasts to humankind.”
&
nbsp; The marquess pursed his lips and shook his head, but his armor had cracked. Rand could see it in his eyes. He pressed his sudden advantage. “Come to Alban’s chambers. I’ll show you the blades. After you see the evidence, your imagination will fill in the rest.” With that, he rose and strode out of the room, trusting the marquess would follow.
When he heard an additional set of footsteps as they crossed the great hall, he glanced over his shoulder. “Wait in the dining room, Margery. This isn’t fit for a lady’s eyes.”
Lily had seen the knives—and worse, to Rand’s regret. He had no intention of allowing another woman to witness his brother’s depravity.
But Margery lifted her chin. “I’m no lady, as your father often reminds me. Only a mere miss. And seeing as I was supposed to wed the man, I feel entitled to view what I escaped.”
By the time she finished her brave speech, they were all standing in Alban’s bedchamber. Rand sighed and gave up.
“Where?” the marquess asked, clearly discomfited in the disarray that made it seem as though his eldest son were still alive. “I see no knives.”
“They’re under the bed.” Rand stooped to pull out the box. They’d left it unlocked. He lifted the lid.
“Mercy me,” Margery whispered, looking away.
Her hand went protectively to her abdomen, and Rand winced, hoping his father wouldn’t notice the telltale gesture. He went to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “He’s gone,” he said softly. “He cannot hurt you now.”
“Or anyone else.” He felt her shudder, then straighten. “Or anything else.”
He looked to the marquess. “Well?”
The man’s jaw looked tense enough to crack walnuts. “This proves nothing. Alban was an avid hunter, as you well know.”
Margery’s mouth dropped open. “Uncle William, those aren’t hunting knives.”
The marquess bent and drew one out. “This one is.”
How could anyone be so blinded by stubborn pride? Rand felt anger boiling up from his gut, choking him. In frustration, he yanked the knife from his father’s hand and tossed it back into the box. “Were you aware there’s a secret space off this chamber?” he asked in a tight voice.