The Stanforth Secrets

by Jo Beverley

  She came to the heavy earthenware jar that contained the lumbago embrocation, and sighed. The things one did for one’s country. The wide neck was certainly large enough to drop in a potato. She peered inside, but could only see the oily dark stuff. She shook the jar gently, but could not tell if there was a hard object inside. Still, she refused to put her hand in and grope.

  Chloe looked around and found a shallow bowl. She poured the liquid out, almost gasping as the fumes assailed her. Her eyes began to tear. There was no solid object in the pot. Then she and Miss Forbes, who was regarding her very strangely, had the job of pouring the stuff back in. Some missed and slithered down the side. Chloe grabbed a towel and mopped it up.

  “Dear Lady Stanforth, it is good of you to be so thorough,” said Miss Forbes, “but have you considered? The late Lord Stanforth’s will could not have been in there. That jar was only brought here three days ago, by Belinda.”

  “Of course,” said Chloe, wondering how she would ever get rid of the smell from her hands. “How silly of me.”

  She sighed, and brushed an errant lock of hair away from her eyes. She let out a cry.

  “Lady Stanforth! What is it?”

  “My eye! Oh! Water!”

  Miss Forbes quickly brought a wet cloth, and Chloe dabbed at her smarting eye. That blasted stuff had been on her hands. After a moment, the eye stopped tearing and she looked in the mirror at the inflammation. Wonderful. Now not only did she stink, she looked dreadful too.

  Chloe looked around once more. Was there anywhere in this room unsearched? The mantelshelf. It held two narrow vases, two candlesticks, a clock, and the potpourri. She conscientiously opened the back of the clock, just in case. The rest were clearly impossible.

  She moved briskly to the bedroom, trailed by Miss Forbes. They checked through all the gowns, pressing lightly to be sure nothing was concealed. Chloe ignored the companion’s obvious amazement at the thoroughness of the search.

  She couldn’t help lingering over some of the gowns—rich creations of an earlier age, and exquisitely beautiful. Heavy, embroidered satin and silk, froths of gilded lace. She had heard the Dowager had been a Toast at one time, and these gowns recalled those glorious days.

  Chloe checked inside shoes and under the bed. She felt the pillows and the mattress, a soft feather one. Surely a potato would be obvious inside it. Besides, she told herself, having once encountered a feather mattress with a small rip in the ticking, any opening and the feathers started to seep all over the place. It would have been impossible for Belinda to slip a potato in there, particularly if she were in a hurry. Moreover, Chloe thought rebelliously, she refused to be part of a search which involved ripping open a dozen feather beds. She must also stop assuming that Belinda was the culprit. Who else might have been hiding the package?

  “Has Matthew been up here recently?” Chloe asked Miss Forbes.

  “Certainly not,” said that lady firmly. “We do not allow men into the rooms, except in extraordinary circumstances. I am so glad you have done this search, Lady Stanforth. I really did not like the thought of a gentleman, even Lord Stanforth, looking through our property.”

  That reminded Chloe. “I will have to look through your room too, Miss Forbes. Just to be able to say I have been thorough.”

  “Of course, Lady Stanforth.”

  Miss Forbes had a very small room for her own. It was neat and sparsely furnished. It did not take long for Chloe to assure herself there was no potato there.

  She gave the rooms a final glance. Had she overlooked anything?

  The coal scuttles. Oh good Lord, she’d be black.

  As she went over and tipped the sitting room scuttle out onto the hearth. Miss Forbes gave a squeak. “Lady Stanforth. That was empty this morning, and has only been filled again just before lunch. The will cannot possible be there!”

  Chloe feared she’d have a reputation to match the Dowager’s soon, but resolutely made her search of two scuttles, grateful for her own sake that the companion did not have a fireplace. When she had finished and neatly swept up all the coal dust, she had found nothing. She went to wash her hands in the bowl on the washstand.

  “There,” she said. “You can vouch for the fact that I have searched these rooms most thoroughly, Miss Forbes.”

  “I certainly can,” said the lady, wide-eyed. “Why, I half expected you to climb the chimney, Lady Stanforth.”

  With horror, Chloe looked at the wide chimney. Then she relaxed. If anyone had put the potato here, it had been Belinda, when she brought the potpourri. There had been no trace of dirt on her when she returned. It was possible she had sneaked something in here, and even that she had dropped it in the coal scuttle, but not that she had poked in the chimney with a fire lit below.

  Chloe went back downstairs to report.

  The dining room was deserted, as was the drawing room. Mr. Macy, the Duchess, and Belinda were conversing in the Sea Room. They inquired when the search was to begin.

  Chloe finally ran the two younger gentlemen to earth in the study.

  “Nothing. I’m sure of it,” she reported. “Belinda was the only person to visit there this morning, and she just dropped off a pot of potpourri. The poor Dowager is in a bad way, though. We should avoid disturbing her further.”

  “I’m sure we can manage that,” said Justin. “I checked on Matthew. Unless something very tricky occurred, he can’t be the one who attacked Budsworth. He was in the kitchen. He went out to call the gardener, and that was when you saw him. Then he went to speak to his young lady, but being nervous because you’d seen him, he only stayed a moment before returning to the kitchen. It was a good ten minutes, with him sitting at the table drinking tea, before Mrs. Pickering poked her head out to remind Budsworth and discovered the body. I don’t think he would have been lying unconscious that long.”

  “But where was he afterward? When you looked around for someone to help carry Budsworth, he was nowhere to be seen.”

  “He went to the stables with the message. That fancy valet of Macy’s claimed not to know the way to the stables. He probably thought the task beneath him. Matthew went to do it and the valet made himself scarce.”

  “Could the valet have been the attacker?”

  “No. He was in the kitchen at the crucial time just like the rest of the staff.” Justin ran a hand over his face. “I must stop thinking of this as a puzzle. It’s too damn seductive. The only important thing is to get those papers.” He turned to Chloe. “I’ve just told Randal the entire story.”

  “And I don’t appreciate having been kept in the dark,” said the young man in mock outrage. “Think what it implies about my reputation!”

  “And mine,” said Chloe, looking at Justin. She hadn’t quite thought of it this way before. “Did you really think I was involved in treason?”

  “Of course not,” he protested, looking uncomfortable. “But . . .”

  “But what?” asked Chloe, frowning.

  “The Duke of York and Lord Liverpool don’t have much opinion of women. In York’s case, he’s probably still smarting over the Clarke affair.”

  Chloe considered that point of view and dismissed it. “Then explain why the Duchess was sent here.”

  Justin glanced at Randal for help but received no assistance. Instead he got a teasing grin. “Go on. Explain. I’d like to hear it. My honor’s on the line too. It can’t be the family they don’t like.”

  “They said nothing about you,” Justin said with irritation to Randal. “I invited you here, didn’t I? I must have been mad. And I had orders not to trust anyone.”

  Chloe cleared her throat to get attention. “And me?”

  Justin sighed. Randal stood and went to the door. “Excuse me. I’ll just go ready the troops for the search.” Before either could protest, if they wanted to, he was gone. For her part, Chloe was too angry to be concerned about being alone with Justin.

  He spoke resignedly. “Your reputation, of course. They thought you’d had th
e opportunity to meet and be influenced by some disreputable people.”

  “They were right,” Chloe said, trying not to show just how hurt she was. Stephen had, after all, often filled the house with shifty individuals. “What I want to know, Justin, is did you have doubts of me?”

  “Never.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me?” It was a cry of betrayal.

  He took her in his arms. “Oh, my love. Believe me, I never doubted you for a moment. But I’m a soldier, or was. I obey orders.” He tilted her chin up and saw the tears in her eyes. He kissed one away. “It’s a habit I’ll try to lose,” he said softly.

  Chloe hid her face against his warm, firm chest, fighting tears. “Oh Justin. I want to be respectable. I want to be respected!”

  His hand was in the curls at her nape, fingers working away the tension. “You will be. You are. Don’t think of those doddering old men.”

  She looked up with an attempt at a smile. “Hardly that.”

  “They must be,” he said with a twinkling smile. “Their wits are going. They’re no better than Aunt Sophronia.”

  “They’re ruling the country,” she protested, genuine humor beginning to chase away her fit of the dismals.

  “God help us all.”

  “God helps those who help themselves, they say.”

  His hand moved around to cradle her cheek. His thumb tantalized the corner of her mouth. “Back to religion again, are we? Well, I take it as my godly duty to help myself, then.”

  He lowered his lips to hers. Chloe sighed as she drank in the taste of him. The soft spicy scent of his skin swam into her brain like brandy, and the feel of him beneath her fingertips spread through her body until she ached.

  Desperately resolute, she ended the kiss. “The search,” she said, staring up at his shining, warm dark eyes.

  He grinned. “Bedrooms. Yes.”

  “Justin!”

  He flicked out his tongue and licked her upper lip. “You have beautiful lips.”

  “The search.”

  He ignored her words, his hands cradling her face. His fingers threaded into her curls and raised them, then let them drift softly back onto her neck. She shivered. “The problem, my treasure, my diamond, my heart, is you are too beautiful. I’m tempted to waste time telling you that.”

  Eye to eye, a suspended moment passed. He sighed, long and soft.

  “The search,” he said, and let his hands slip away.

  “Yes,” whispered Chloe, thinking, Bedrooms.

  Oh dear Lord.

  13

  CHAPERONED BY MARGARET, the middle-aged upstairs maid, their search was completely proper.

  They started with the most likely place, Belinda’s rooms. She had a bedroom, a boudoir, and a nursery in the south wing over the kitchen area. Rosie let them in, then retreated to the nursery.

  Chloe saw Justin experience the same moment of panic she had felt when first faced with making a search.

  “If we work around the room in opposite directions,” she said, “it is not so bad. Perhaps, Margaret, you can feel the chairs for lumps and look under and behind them. Then check around the windows, and remember the pelmets.”

  The woman gave her a disbelieving look, but set to her tasks. Chloe and Justin turned to theirs.

  Belinda was a tidy person and had few knickknacks, so the going was easy. Chloe looked in all the potpourri jars, empty and full, feeling through the dried petals carefully. She even remembered to check the basket of limp herbs cut the day before. She looked at the dying plants. Was this the way to handle them? She would have thought they should be hung up to dry or something.

  Justin searched quickly through Belinda’s small desk. Was he tempted to look at her letters, Chloe wondered, in search of treason? How distasteful this all was.

  “Justin,” Chloe asked. “Shall I do the bedroom?”

  “Yes, why not,” he replied.

  “Don’t forget the coal scuttle,” she called back, as she went through the door, smiling at his groan.

  Belinda’s bedroom was simply furnished. These rooms had been little used until she moved into them. She would have been within her rights to bring in more elegant furniture from elsewhere in the house, and perhaps some ornaments. Chloe wondered if Belinda had been reluctant to ask. Chloe felt rather guilty. She would never have hesitated to ask for improvements, even if she were only a guest. It had not occurred to her that Belinda might feel less sure of herself.

  At least the simplicity of the decor made the search easy. The plain bed had only light hangings and concealed nothing. An oak washstand offered no hiding place. The old-fashioned armoire held a sparse selection of gowns—a few new and fashionable ones bought at the beginning of Belinda’s marriage, and a number of black ones. Chloe felt through them all and checked the slippers.

  There were three hatboxes, containing only hats. One, following fashion, was decorated with a bunch of cherries. Chloe looked at it. There was absolutely nothing to indicate the message had been sent as cherries, though one part of the information had been. Still, she carefully investigated one of the glossy red fruits. It was lacquered plaster and contained nothing strange.

  The drawers held beautiful underclothes. Chloe had seen Belinda doing elegant needlework on clothes for her child. She had obviously been assembling a trousseau for years before her marriage—but not for her marriage to George. The cutwork on the linen chemise, the lace on the stays, all this had been for Frank.

  Feeling to the back of the drawers, she came upon a tissue-wrapped package. It was obviously not the package they sought. Vulgar curiosity and perhaps a more worthy need to understand her relative-by-marriage made Chloe pull it out and glance at it anyway.

  Inside were six handkerchiefs, beautifully made of the best Madras cotton, each monogrammed, white on white—FH. Chloe carefully restored the wrapping and replaced the package where she’d found it.

  She went into the baby’s room. Dorinda was awake and Rosie had the child on her knee. A rack in front of the fire held clothes warming for the next change. Chloe glanced quickly through the piles of snowy napkins, the stacks of pressed, white dresses, and tiny camisoles. There were lavender bags in the drawers and a potpourri bowl open on the windowsill. The room was warm and sweet. Dorinda made gurgling noises as Rosie bounced her.

  Determined not to let maternal longings keep her from her duty, Chloe felt under the cradle mattress, and even did a thorough check of Rosie’s narrow bed, conscious of the maid’s surprised gaze.

  “That bed only came there, ma’am,” said the maid, “after Mr. George died.”

  “Of course,” said Chloe. “How silly.”

  She looked around, then went over to check in the potpourri. Just petals. She looked in the jug of water keeping warm by the fire, ignoring the maid’s wondering gaze.

  Satisfied at last, Chloe relaxed and touched the perfect skin of the baby’s cheek.

  “Dear child,” she murmured. “Is she a good baby, Rosie?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am. She’s no trouble. And she’s going to be a beauty one day.”

  Chloe took the child for a moment. Dorinda swatted a hand toward the locket hanging around Chloe’s neck. “She already is a beauty,” said Chloe with a smile.

  At that moment, Justin came in. He stopped at the sight. They gazed at each other over the baby’s head, and Chloe trembled. She couldn’t help imagining an infant with brown eyes and darker curls.

  She handed the baby back to Rosie. “There is nothing here,” she said.

  “On the contrary,” Justin said softly. “Everything of importance is here.” Then added more briskly, “Except that damned—except the will.” He smiled. “Dare I hope you checked the coal scuttle?”

  Chloe looked down at her white muslin and raised a brow. He sighed and tipped out the shiny black lumps onto the hearth. Satisfied, he used the tongs to put them back again.

  “There, finished,” he said. “On to Mr. Macy’s room.”

  As she foll
owed him out, Chloe glanced back. Rosie was looking with dismay at the coal dust scattered all over the tiles of the hearth.

  “Men,” Chloe said softly to the maid. Rosie bit her lip on a smile.

  Margaret, finishing the cleaning of the hearth in the boudoir, did not look amused at all. She was muttering to herself.

  “Justin,” said Chloe softly, “everyone will think us run mad if we go through the house checking the coal scuttles. They are filled every day.”

  “What else can we do?” he asked. “It would be a good place to hide the damned thing.”

  “Well, try at least to be a little tidier,” she said, “or there is likely to be a mutiny.”

  He looked in surprise at the grumbling maid and grinned. “I see what you mean.”

  They went on to the next likely place, Humphrey Macy’s room. It was difficult, to be sure, to imagine a top-of-the-trees dandy like Macy in French pay, and he hadn’t even been in Lancashire when the package first went missing, but it was possible he had attacked Busdworth and taken the potato this morning. Chloe tried to visualize him, corsets squeaking, running through the house.

  His corner room looked out over the carriage drive and the front of the house. It was smartly decorated in straw-colored chinoiserie. Randal had been offered this room but had claimed an aversion to dragons, and taken the simpler room next door.

  Mr. Macy’s stick-thin valet watched them like a hawk. He ventured an objection when Justin opened one of the drawers. “With respect, My Lord, Mr. Macy said you were looking for a box hidden in the house nearly a year ago. All the drawers and presses were empty when we arrived, I can assure you.”

  Chloe wondered how Justin would handle that.

  “They have to be searched, however, for the legal men to be satisfied,” he said in a crisp, authoritative voice.

  The valet did not raise any further objection in the face of the power of command.