by Candace Camp
“And he did not send you packing?”
“Of course he did. But only once. I think the old chap rather likes me.”
“Will wonders never cease?” Elizabeth laughed. “Old Angus likes no one that I have ever seen.”
Jack left soon after breakfast, and Andrew declared his intention of going to see Cousin Gregory. Isobel retired to the sitting room with her aunt and Mrs. Kensington, where she was soon awash in boredom as the other two women happily discussed needlework, which, it seemed, Jack’s mother enjoyed almost as much as Aunt Elizabeth did.
The days that followed fell into the same pattern. Jack spent most of his days out of the house, riding or walking or something—Isobel wasn’t sure what, for he and she barely spoke except in company with the others, and then it was in stilted, impersonal sentences. Isobel spent her days in a dreary monotony, tired and heavy-lidded from another night of sleeplessness.
She missed Jack, more than she had ever dreamed she could. Indeed, she ached for him, not only in her heart but in the depths of her body as well. All her life she had lived without a man’s touch, and she had not felt the lack. But now—now it seemed as though she could think of nothing, dream of nothing, be satisfied by nothing, but Jack’s touch, Jack’s mouth, Jack’s long, muscular body wrapped around her, plunging deep inside her.
Her mind drifted constantly to memories of their lovemaking, and she would feel the heat blossom between her legs, her breasts swelling and aching for his touch, even at the most inappropriate times. At night she would come awake with a start, her skin searing and bedewed by sweat, an insistent throbbing deep within her. She would lie there, hoping that Jack would come to her and take her into his arms, would somehow break through this barrier between them.
But he did not. Though many times she felt so desperate, so lonely, so yearning, she started to go to him, each time her nerve failed her. She could not bear it if she knocked on his door only to face the same aloof gaze with which he greeted her each day at the breakfast table. Even if he let her in, if he took her in his arms and satisfied the hunger in her, it would change nothing. The desire might lessen, but she would still feel empty inside.
Andrew stayed at Gregory’s for a few days, for which Isobel was grateful. She was sure the atmosphere would have been even more uneasy if Andrew had been there, making quips and barbs. Andrew had always had a ready tongue, but Isobel did not remember his humor being quite so biting in the past. She thought it must have grown more acidic in London—or perhaps she had simply overlooked it when he was younger. He now displayed several traits that it seemed she had not noticed.
In less than a week, however, Andrew returned to Baillannan, having had his fill of Cousin Robert’s lectures. Isobel tried to keep from looking dismayed at his arrival. At least Gregory had come with her brother, happy to escape his father’s strictures as well, and Gregory’s friendly good humor would do much to ease the air; Isobel could always count on him to provide a bit of conversation if things turned grim.
With the young men there to keep Millicent and Elizabeth entertained, Isobel decided once more to start clearing out her grandmother’s room. If nothing else, it might take her mind off the soreness encircling her heart.
Isobel stepped into the dim room and shoved the heavy drapes aside to let in the sun, then turned to survey the room. Oddly, the dustcover on the dresser was hiked up on one side, and when she went closer, she saw that its corner had caught in one of the drawers. Isobel frowned, faintly uneasy. She pulled the cloth out from the drawer and peeled it off the mahogany top, tossing it onto the bed. Another of the drawers was open a fraction, a garment hanging out an inch, preventing it from closing.
Isobel opened the drawer and straightened the jumbled clothes. When she had worked in this room a few weeks ago, everything in the drawers had been tidily arranged. Feeling uneasy, she opened one drawer after another. None of them were in neatly folded order. Now that she looked at the dresser more closely, she saw that one side of the heavy piece of furniture stood out farther from the wall than the other end.
She opened the wardrobe, and a hat tumbled from the top shelf onto the floor. The shoes, before in neat rows, were haphazard, some of them turned on their sides. The jars and boxes on the vanity were shoved up against one side. Nothing seemed damaged, and the place was still chock-full of items. But someone had clearly been here, pawing through her grandmother’s possessions.
Isobel put her hands on her hips and turned in a full circle, scanning the room. It was absurd to think that anyone had searched this old bedchamber—and to what purpose? But she could not ignore the evidence before her eyes. Removing the dustcovers, she started a more careful search. It was difficult to tell whether anything was missing, for she could not remember the exact contents of the drawers. But the certainty grew on her that someone had been searching the place, and it gave her a distinctly uneasy feeling.
At the sound of footsteps, she rose and went to the door to look out just as Jack appeared at the top of the stairs. Isobel was swept with relief. “Jack!”
He looked up and saw her. “Isobel. What is wrong?” He reached her in a few quick strides, his hand going to her arm, and for an instant it was as if nothing had changed between them. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“I’m not sure.” Isobel was tempted to lean into him, to rest her head upon his chest. But she stiffened and the brief moment was gone.
Jack stepped back, his face falling into aloof lines. “You looked— I thought perhaps something was amiss.”
“I started cleaning out my grandmother’s room. I regretted not having it done in time for your mother’s visit.”
“I am sure she is happy where she is.”
“I hope so. But that is not the problem. It looks as if someone has been in her room.”
“A maid?” he hazarded. “I’m not sure what is wrong.”
“No, just the opposite. It is messy, not clean. There were drawers open and clothes pushed awry. As though he searched her things.”
“He?” Jack frowned. “Who is ‘he’?”
“I don’t know. It could have been a woman as easily as a man, I suppose. But why would anyone have been looking through Lady Cordelia’s things?”
“Perhaps your aunt was in her mother’s room, looking for something.”
“I suppose. But it would not be like Aunt Elizabeth to leave it looking messy. Here, come look.” Instinctively Isobel reached out to take his arm, then realized what she was doing and let her hand fall back to her side. She turned, embarrassed, and walked back into Lady Cordelia’s room. “You see?” Isobel made a sweeping gesture encompassing the room. “Elizabeth’s is neat as a pin and she’s always seemed in awe of her mother; I would think she would make sure everything was just so.”
He looked around, his frown deepening. “Is this how it looked when you came in?”
“No. The dustcovers were on but”—she opened the door to the wardrobe to reveal the tumbled shoes—“it looked like this.” She pulled out several other drawers to show him the jumbled contents. “I know everything was perfectly in order the last time I was in here, and no one comes in here, not even to dust. That is why everything’s covered.”
“Do you think it was a thief?”
“But that’s absurd, isn’t it? I don’t think there’s anything valuable here. Her good jewels would have been locked up in the strongbox downstairs long ago. I suppose there could be something or other missing; Auntie might know.” Isobel looked doubtful.
“If something was stolen, who was the thief? One of the servants?”
“That seems likeliest. There is someone about the house all the time. It would be hard for anyone else to sneak in without being seen. But I would have sworn all the servants are honest and loyal.”
“I cannot help but think of that night I heard the side door open.” Jack’s familiar wicked grin flashed across his face. “The time you came out so enticingly clad in your night rail. Remember? I thought s
omeone was breaking in. Mayhap they were leaving, having already searched your grandmother’s room.”
“No,” Isobel said quickly, turning her head so he would not see the flush that rose to her cheeks at his words. “I have been in here since that night, and it was still perfectly neat.”
“When were you here last?”
Isobel considered. “I was still working in it a few days before the wedding.”
“There were a large number of people here the night of our wedding feast. The house was deserted most of the time, and I doubt anyone would have noticed if someone slipped away from the party for a bit. Haste would explain the sloppy search.” His eyes gleamed. “But why would they disturb only this room?”
“I have no idea. Most thieves would go after something obvious, like the silver or the strongbox, I would think.”
“They must have been looking for something specific.” At Isobel’s nod, he went on, “However, if the whole room was searched, they must not have found it easily.”
“If at all.”
“Perhaps we can.” He grinned. “Shall we take a look?”
“Of course.” Isobel would have done almost anything to keep that look upon his face, even if she had not been intrigued, too. She swept her eyes around the room. “Here is her jewelry box. It seems a likely place to start. Grandmother was very fond of it.”
The rectangular box was a miniature chest of drawers. Isobel pulled out the small drawers one by one, each containing necklaces or bracelets. “These were her everyday things. I have seen her wear them many times, but I don’t think they are valuable. Some jet, some onyx. An ivory cameo.”
“I think it must be more hidden or else they would not have continued to search.” Jack picked up the box, feeling carefully all around its sides and even under the bottom, his fingers gliding over it with care.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for some mechanism—a spring, a pin, an indentation, something that would open a hidden treasure trove. Alas, I cannot find one.” He set down the box. “Let’s try the chest.”
He knelt before the trunk that stood at the foot of the bed and tried to lift the lid, but it would not open. “Locked.” He turned to Isobel. “That seems promising.”
“Yes, except I haven’t any idea where the key is.” She looked helplessly around the room. “I don’t remember seeing one anywhere.”
“Never fear.” Jack plucked a pin from Isobel’s hair and knelt by the chest. Inserting the pin and moving it carefully around, he bent his head close to the lock, listening. When the lock popped, he grinned at her shocked face and opened the lid.
Unfortunately, it held nothing but blankets, smelling redolently of herbs.
They moved through the room, pulling out drawers and feeling under, above, and behind them, knocking to find the sound of a hollow space. Jack even slipped the poker behind and below the pieces of furniture and stood on a stool to check the top of the tall wardrobe. Stepping down, he cast an assessing look around the bedroom.
“Those books.” He nodded toward a low bookcase next to the rocking chair in the corner. Squatting down beside it, he began to take out the volumes one by one, flipping through the pages and checking the bindings.
“I find it somewhat alarming that you know so many places to look.” Isobel sat down in the chair beside him and picked up a book. She hoped this fragile peace between them would not soon end. If she was careful, it might even blossom into something more.
“I know where people like to hide things.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Especially money.” When she opened her mouth, he added, “And, no, you don’t want to know how I learned them.”
“Jack! Do you mean to tell me that you are a thief?”
“Not in many and many a year,” he replied equably. “But as you saw, I can still pick a lock if I have to.” He flexed his fingers.
“You needn’t seem so proud of it.” Isobel laughed.
By the time they finished the books, Isobel’s shoulders ached and her stomach was beginning to rumble. She leaned back in the chair, sighing. “I fear we are no more knowledgeable than we were. Though far more dusty.”
“Mm.” Jack wandered over to the small table beside the bed and reached down to pick up a large book bound in supple brown leather. “Lady Cordelia’s Bible?”
“Yes.” Isobel’s interest was once again piqued as he began to investigate the binding.
“A Bible is something people tend to keep close to them.” But after a moment, Jack shook his head regretfully and set it down. Opening the drawer beneath the table, he began to poke about in it.
Isobel stiffened. “But that wasn’t the one she read.” He turned his head to look at her. “She had a smaller one. I don’t think it was a Bible, exactly. She had a smaller missal, the Book of Common Order. That is what she would read each night.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, of course. She left it to me.”
She hurried back to her room, and Jack followed her. As she went to the wardrobe, she glanced back at Jack. He was looking about the room, and suddenly she realized how peculiar this situation felt—to be standing in the bedroom where she had grown up, the room that she had left his bedroom to live in, with Jack beside her. He turned to her, the aloof look back in his eyes, and she knew that he had felt the same sensation.
Suppressing a sigh, she opened the wardrobe and went up on tiptoe to take down a tin box. “This was an old candy tin of Grandmother’s.” Isobel pried off the lid. “She kept buttons and such in it, and she used to let me play with them as a child. I thought it was magical.” She stirred the collection of buttons and odds and ends with her forefinger, smiling to herself. “When she died, I kept the tin because of those memories, and I put the prayer book she left me inside.”
Isobel held the small book out to Jack. It was covered in fine leather the color of dark red wine, and the print on the front was in gold, worn half away by frequent use. Jack took it carefully, turning it over in his hands and opening the cover, running his forefinger lightly along the stitching. He went to the inside of the back, doing the same thing. Suddenly he went still.
“What? What did you find?”
“I’m not sure. There’s something about the stitching.” He walked over to the window to peer at it in the sunlight. “This stitching is not as even, and I think the thread is a little different.” He picked at the thread, and Isobel went to her vanity, returning with a set of tweezers. Jack pulled out stitches until he could spread the leather binding apart to peer inside. His eyebrows lifted. “There is something here.”
“What?” Isobel moved closer as he returned to removing more of the thread. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure. Paper, I think.” Prizing the cover open with one hand, he reached in with the silver tweezers and with great care pulled out a folded and yellowed piece of paper.
Jack laid the square of paper down on the dresser, delicately opening it to reveal that the sheet was also folded the opposite way, with a blob of wax crossing the fold, dried and no longer attached on one side.
“The Rose seal,” Isobel said excitedly, and pointed to the red wax, which was stamped with the shape of a flower. “That rose emblem is ours. You’ve seen it on plasterwork all about the house. On the hilt of the dirk in Malcolm’s portrait. It’s carved into the bedposts in our room.”
“And the sides of the fireplace,” Jack added, unfolding the paper with great care. It was fragile and creased, yellowed by age and splotched with mildew. A few lines of faded ink crossed the page.
“Oh, my God.” Isobel sucked in a breath, staring at the bold M at the bottom of the page. “It’s a letter from Malcolm.”
Lady Cordelia’s husband?” Jack asked. “The one with the treasure?”
“Yes. Elizabeth’s father.” Isobel bent over the page, squinting to make out the scrawled words. “ ‘Dearest love,’ it begins.” She glanced up at Jack. “A love letter. No wonder she kept it alwa
ys.” Isobel returned to reading. “ ‘Be careful. Lobsters about’—that’s the British soldiers. Lobsterbacks, they called them. He goes on, ‘I dare not’—I’m not sure, oh, I see, ‘come to you.’ ‘I dare not come to you. I must leave again. Duty demands it. But I cannot go without seeing you just once more.’ I can’t read this next bit; there’s mildew, then something like ‘to you,’ or maybe that’s ‘for you.’ Then it says, ‘Come to me; you know where. I will be there. My heart is yours, always. M.’ Oh, Jack.” Isobel turned her face up to his, tears glittering in her eyes. “This must be his last letter to her.”
Jack reached up and brushed his knuckles down her cheek, his eyes warm on hers. “He loved her.” He leaned closer, and for an instant Isobel thought he was about to kiss her. Her heart began to pound and she stiffened, uncertain. His face changed subtly and he dropped his hand, stepping back. “It certainly sounds as if he did return from France, as your aunt maintains.”
“Yes.” Isobel drew in a shaky breath, unsure whether she was relieved or disappointed. “The reference to the soldiers would place it after Culloden. He had to go find Prince Charlie; that’s the duty he must do, I’m sure. Apparently he couldn’t come to the house; perhaps the soldiers were watching it.”
“So he sent her a cryptic note to meet him somewhere that only she would know.”
“I wonder if she found him,” Isobel mused. “If she saw him again. It would be so sad if she did not.”
“We should show it to Elizabeth; this vindicates her story. Her father did come home. Though . . .” He paused, frowning. “If your aunt’s memory is accurate, Malcolm came here to the house.”
“Perhaps my grandmother could not get to this place he spoke of, wherever it is, and Malcolm felt driven to come to the house despite the danger.”
“Or even though Elizabeth is right in saying he returned to Scotland, her memory is a little smudged,” Jack added. “Maybe her father gave the watch to Lady Cordelia and she gave it to your aunt, and over time the story became . . . embellished in her mind.”