by Joan Smith
The thing was too large to examine properly. It was about twenty inches wide and very long, maybe hundreds of feet. Pavel unfolded it, and she saw groups of men with spears and swords, some of them mounted. The men wore small pointed caps. Their clothing was embroidered in strange little circles, perhaps to simulate metal armor. There were words embroidered across the top. She thought they might be Latin, or at least not English or French. She tried to read the printing. Some of the words were names—Eadward, Willelm, Harold. Strange mythical beasts were embroidered in a border along the top and bottom.
“Best close the trunk before he comes back,” Miranda said.
They closed the lid, and she rushed back to Rotham’s bed, just as the door to Slack’s room opened and Rotham returned.
“I shall take you to your room now,” he said. Before she had time to object, he scooped her off the bed, into his arms as easily as if she were a rag doll.
There was no recurrence of that cherished feeling the first time he had swept her off her feet. Rotham’s face, only inches from hers, wore an angry expression. At this close range, she could distinguish individual hairs of his eyebrows and long lashes. A faint spicy scent clung about him. She had not thought Rotham would use a man’s scent. The arms holding her were powerful, but they were not gentle.
“I can walk,” she announced, and began pushing at his arms.
He tossed her unceremoniously onto the bed, so hard that she bounced a few times before coming to rest. Rotham’s scowl did not encourage her to chastise him, but she glared and drew herself up from the bed with what she hoped was dignity.
“Can I give you a hand?” Pavel offered, placing his arm around her waist to lead her out of the room.
“Thank you, Pavel,” she said demurely, and with a sniff over her shoulder, they left.
Rotham closed the door and turned to glance at the trunk. It did not appear to have been disturbed. A frown creased his brow, and on an impulse, he quietly opened his door a crack. Sissie and Pavel did not go to Miranda’s room but went downstairs. The young lady had made a miraculous recovery. She no longer required Pavel’s assistance to negotiate her steps. She was walking perfectly well and chattering excitedly. He closed the door.
Had it all been an act, then? Had she been aware of what she was doing when she threw herself into his arms? He was demmed sure she had not seen a ghost—but what had she seen?
Slack’s head appeared at the other door. “Is the comtesse going to do it?” he asked.
“No, I have decided against asking her to,” Rotham replied.
“Did you show it to her?”
“No, I did not tell her I have it. I shall use a man for the job after all. It is too risky for a lady. I am going belowstairs, Slack. Lock the door behind me.”
Chapter Six
"We must talk,” Pavel said, leading Miranda into the library. This was one room that had no tapestries, due to the walls of books. A pair of lamps, one at either end of a long table, did but an indifferent job of lighting the chamber. The marble busts along the top shelves took on the eerie air of listeners. He lowered his voice. “That faded old piece of linen cannot be what all the fuss is about: Rotham locking his door and setting Slack to guard it.”
“There was nothing else in the trunk—was there?” she asked. “I daresay there could have been a letter hidden beneath it, with the old embroidery a mere subterfuge.”
“I never thought of that,” he admitted. “I thought there might have been a secret message in the embroidery. There was printing all along the top.”
“It looked as if it were hundreds of years old.”
“A clever ruse,” Pavel said. “They got hold of faded old material and embroidered a message in code on the cloth. Rotham is carrying a secret message to London; that is why he is keeping so close about his doings.”
“Why does he not get on to London then?” she asked. “He could have gone yesterday, instead of arranging a rout party.”
“Pleasure before business—that is his motto. Said so himself. Mind you, he did send a footman off with a letter last night. He must be awaiting a reply. Pretty dangerous, hauling that message to London. Daresay he asked Castlereagh to send a code breaker here to read it. Much the safest way.”
“Rotham arrived yesterday afternoon. The message could have been in London last night. If it were urgent, the code breaker would have been here before now.”
“P’raps he is,” Pavel said, with a sapient look. “P’raps Rotham sent a message off on the sly before he came home.”
“You mean Berthier? Rotham went to visit him in Hythe this morning.”
“Aye, and he is here now, staying a few days, by the by. He will dope out the message tonight and hotfoot it off to London tomorrow.”
“He is taking his time about it. And what was Louise doing in Rotham’s room? He said it was business.”
“Nothing to do with this business,” Pavel scoffed. “They would be arranging their tryst in Brighton. Rotham would not take her to bed under Papa’s roof.”
“I think you are quite mistaken about the embroidery,” she said. “Rotham said he half hoped Boney wins, and he—-Rotham—would be a hero. I think he is a turncoat.”
Pavel blustered up at this. “No such a thing! Damme, he wanted to join the army, but Papa would not let him.”
“Berthier is a Frenchman, after all, and Rotham went running straight to him this morning. Castlereagh would not use Berthier to decode secret messages. He would have specially trained men in London.”
“Then Berthier is not decoding the message. He is only here for the party. Rotham would never turn his coat.”
“He said Bonaparte is the greatest man of the age.”
“The greatest Frenchman, even if he is a Corsican. Everyone knows Wellington is the greatest man of our generation.” He sat, frowning into the grate. “Though it is odd Wellington sent Rotham packing,” he said, chewing at his thumbnail. “You don’t suppose he did it to get rid of Rotham?”
Miranda knew she ought to encourage this notion. It was she who had suggested that Rotham was a turncoat. She found, to her dismay, that what she really wanted was for Pavel to convince her she was mistaken.
“Wellington must trust him if he sent him home with this special message,” she said uncertainly.
“But did he send him? You remember what we heard outside the study door. Papa gave him a rare Bear Garden jaw. Called him mad, said he had brought disgrace on the family name. A hanging matter. That sounds like treason. Said he must take it back at once. I believe Rotham has shabbed off with some secret document. In fact, Rotham told Papa in so many words that Castlereagh didn’t know he had it. Papa told him to write to Castlereagh at once. I doubt the letter was ever written.”
“If he did steal a secret message, it was all her doing—Louise’s,” Miranda said angrily. “The embroidered piece must be what all the fuss is about. I recall your papa saying Lady Hersham must see it. It was the embroidery they showed her, for she said it was ugly, and she had better work at home.”
“Which she has. So, what is to do?”
“We must steal it to prevent Rotham from delivering it to—to whoever he plans to deliver it to.”
“We cannot get into his room. What we’ll do, we’ll keep a sharp eye on the old cloth and seize it from the French spy after Rotham has turned it over.”
“Who could his accomplice be?” Miranda asked.
“Some French spy here in England. Could be Berthier.”
“Rotham did go running off to see him, and now Berthier is here.”
“Looks demmed suspicious,” Pavel agreed. “A fine shot, Berthier. He killed a man in a duel a dozen or so years ago. Something to do with a lady, I believe.”
“Well, if you are afraid of Berthier—”
“I did not say I was afraid of him!”
“But you are, so the only other recourse open to us is to steal the embroidery. In that way, Rotham cannot give it to the French spies. We m
ust get back into his room.”
Pavel considered it a moment and found no fault in this scheme. “Demmed clever thinking, Sissie. Now, how shall we set about it? We will have to wait until the dead of night, when Rotham and Slack are asleep.”
“Is there another key for Rotham’s room?” she asked.
“Papa has a full set in his study. I shall sneak number seventeen off the ring now, while Papa is busy at the card table.”
They hastened out of the library and into Lord Hersham’s study. By the light from the hallway, Pavel found the tinderbox and lit a lamp. A large, square room done in paneled oak sprang into dim view. The dark oak soaked up the light, turning the corners into shadows, but it was only the oak desk that interested them.
Pavel opened the middle drawer and lifted a heavy ring holding three dozen keys. He began squinting at the numbers stamped on the keys. The keys clinked and rattled as he worked through them, once quickly, then again, more slowly.
He looked up and said, “Number seventeen is missing. I daresay Rotham took it, along with the spare key from Cook’s ring. Damme, now how are we to steal the embroidery?”
They were about to extinguish the lamp and leave when a shadow loomed up at the doorway. Pavel fully expected it would be Papa, catching him red-handed. He hastily prepared an excuse for having the keys.
“Ah, Papa! I was just going to borrow the key— Rotham!”
Lord Rotham stepped in and closed the door quietly behind him. “Which key was that, Pavel?” he asked. His menacing smile looked more deadly than a charged pistol.
Pavel’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
Miranda gave a nervous laugh. “We are caught dead to rights, Pavel,” she said. “We were going to steal a bottle of—of your papa’s best Burgundy from the cellar.”
Rotham shook his head. “You will have to do better than that, children. You know perfectly well Cook has keys to the wine cellar. She would not object to getting you a bottle of Burgundy. In fact, you will find some bottles on the sideboard in the dining room. You should have said champagne.”
He reached out and lifted the keys from Pavel’s fingers. He examined them hastily, much as Pavel had done. When he discovered number seventeen was missing, his face stiffened to stone.
Miranda had the strange sensation she could read the working of the mind behind the mask. He did not know the key was missing. He did not have it, as she had thought. Who had it?
Rotham’s hand went out. He tossed the keys in the drawer and closed it, then held his open palm out to Pavel. “I am afraid I must ask you for the key to my room, Pavel,” he said.
“But we don’t have it! I admit we was looking for it, but it ain’t here.”
Rotham looked from Pavel to Miranda. “It is true,” she said. “We did come looking for it, but it is gone.”
Their faces were an open book. They were telling the truth. “Ask Papa if he has it, Pavel.”
Pavel was happy to escape.
“Why did you want the key to my room?” he asked Miranda.
She decided it was time to bring the whole matter into the open. “To prevent you from betraying England,” she said nobly. “We know about the black trunk, and the embroidery, Rotham. You must not do it.”
He stood still as a statue, looking and listening and thinking. “You saw the embroidery? That is why you fainted outside my room, for an excuse to get inside and snoop?”
“Yes, we did not know you were there.”
“Then you did not really see anyone listening at my door?”
“No, we pretended I had seen the Blue Lady. Who did you think was listening?”
“I don’t know.” He leveled a dark stare at her. “It seems I can trust no one. How did you know I had—something of interest in my room?”
“Everyone knows it by now. It was the black trunk. Pavel said you did not take it with you. And when you were giving Louise the green silk, Laurent mentioned that the silks were not in the black trunk, that you had had the black trunk taken to your room as soon as you arrived.”
A light of interest flashed in his eyes. “Laurent said that?” he asked.
“Something of the sort, yes.” After a moment, she asked, “Is it Laurent you are afraid of?”
“Afraid?” His eyebrows climbed up toward his hairline. “I have nothing to fear from Laurent.”
“We—Pavel and I—thought there might be a secret message in the words of the embroidery. If there is something of the sort, Rotham, you must take it to Castlereagh at once. Whatever price the French promised you, you cannot betray your own country.”
He blinked in bewilderment, then as realization dawned, his face clenched to anger. His words, when he spoke, came out in a bark. “What the devil are you talking about? Do you take me for a traitor?”
“Your own papa spoke of it being a hanging matter!”
“So you heard that as well. You don’t miss much. I begin to think it is you and Pavel who should be helping me.”
A smile trembled on her lips. “Then you are not selling information to Berthier?” she asked.
“So it is Berthier you have chosen as my accomplice in treason, is it?”
“It would not be treason for him. He is French.”
Rotham ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. “It is not what you think, Sissie. I am not engaged in any treasonous business,” he said, with what looked like sincerity. “It is something else entirely. I acted with the best of intentions, but foolishly. Very foolishly,” he said with a sad sigh. “I am merely trying to undo the harm I might have done.”
“What did you do?”
“I took something that did not belong to me. Not money or secret messages, nothing of that sort. It was a—a sort of symbolic gesture, done from misguided patriotism when I was too foxed to think straight.”
“Is that true, Rotham?”
He met her look with a steady gaze. “As God is my witness.” Then his expression softened to a smile. “And I did not smuggle Louise up to my chamber to make love to her either.”
He continued gazing at her until she felt a weakness invade her. Why was he looking at her like that, as if it actually mattered to him what she thought? As if he cared for her good opinion above everything.
“Pavel said you would not do so, under your papa’s roof,” she said primly.
His nostrils pinched. “Kind of Pavel. I must remember to thank him for that edifying reading of my character. Naturally I do all my seducing away from home. We dumb animals do not usually foul our own nests.”
“No one called you a dumb animal. Quite the contrary; you are sly, Rotham. Why will you not tell us what you are doing?”
“I have told you.”
“You only spoke of a symbolic gesture.”
“I have no doubt you will discover it for yourself ere long. You seem to have ferreted out all my other secrets.”
He looked at the drawer holding the keys. If Papa did not have the key ...
The sound of flying feet alerted them to Pavel’s return. He came in, gasping for breath and nearly falling when he tripped on the carpet edge. “Papa don’t have it,” he announced. “He says it has been on his ring all along, or ought to have been. He did not actually check, you know, but where else would it be? He keeps all the spare keys there.”
“Someone has got hold of it!” Miranda exclaimed, with a frightened look at Rotham. Then she turned to Pavel, who was squinting at her in an effort to silence her. “He already knows we know about the embroidery,” she said. “Do you remember, Pavel, when we were in the library discussing getting the spare key from Cook, we saw someone sneaking away.” Pavel’s expression turned to a murderous glare.
“What the deuce are you rattling on about, Sissie?”
“He knows,” she repeated. “I told him everything.”
“You omitted that bit, but I believe I understand,” Rotham said. “You tried to get the key for my room from Cook. Someone overheard and realized there was another key in
the house.”
“Exactly,” Miranda said, and rushed on to the more important matter. “Rotham is not a traitor after all, Pavel.”
“I did not really think you was,” Pavel said. “I figured you must have been bosky, or mixed up with a French woman. But what is going on, Rotham?”
Rotham felt a sharp stab of anger at Pavel’s thoughtless words. Was this the opinion his young brother had of him? The anger softened to regret as he admitted this reading of his character was justified. He did drink too much, and he was no stranger to the muslin company, but it shamed him to have it all blurted out in front of Sissie Vale. Her opinion of him was bad enough without this.
“More to the point,” he countered, “whom did you see sneaking away when you left the library?”
“We did not get a look at him, but it was a man,” Pavel said. “It might even have been a footman. It was dark, you know, but I could see it was not a lady’s skirt. It was trousers, or it could have been a footman’s breeches. That was before Berthier arrived. It could have been Laurent.”
“Yes, it could have been Laurent,” Rotham agreed.
“About the old linen, Rotham,” Pavel said. “Is it a secret message?”
“No, it is only a symbol,” Miranda told him.
“Of what?” Pavel asked in confusion.
“Of France,” Rotham said. “It is of the utmost importance that no one knows I have it. My plan is to return it if—depending on how events turn out in Europe.”
“Depending on whether or not Boney wins?” Pavel asked.
“Yes.”
“So that is why you ain’t rushing it off to London? You are waiting to hear of Wellington’s victory?”
“Exactly. Meanwhile, say nothing to anyone. We must guard the black trunk with our lives.”
Both Miranda and Pavel felt a swell of excitement quiver through them. “We will do anything you say, Rotham,” Miranda said, with glowing eyes.
“Anything? Now that is a delightful and unexpected bonus,” he murmured in a way she could not trust.