by Clee, Adele
A dull thud in the corridor caught them by surprise, and their heads shot to the door.
“Did you hear that?” Nicole wanted to move but felt as though her silk slippers were made of lead. “Is it the wind do you think?”
The overhead bell tinkled once … twice.
Oliver pressed his finger to his lips. But he had nothing to fear, Nicole had no intention of making a noise. Even so, to her ears, her light breathing sounded more like a thunderous roar.
Oliver came around the desk and crept over to the door. Easing it away from the jamb, he shut it quickly and waved his hand at her.
“Quick, hide behind the bureau.” His whispered words conveyed extreme panic. He placed his father’s file gently on top of the desk. “Jameson is here and is heading this way.”
When in a fearful state, one’s body reacted at half the pace of one’s brain. Nicole’s mind was already squatting behind the furniture, while her legs struggled to follow. Oliver hid behind the drapes. Judging from the thick layer of dust coating every surface, Nicole suspected it was a mistake.
The door to Mr Jameson’s office creaked on its hinges as the solicitor stepped inside. The faint hum of a country tune broke the silence. He placed a leather satchel on the desk, moved to the cabinet and rifled through a drawer. Removing two files, he stuffed them into his bag and fastened the buckle.
With her breathing growing progressively louder, Nicole covered her mouth with her hand.
Jameson picked up his satchel but then stopped. He stared at the Benting file lying on top of the desk, but then shrugged and moved to the door.
Nicole swallowed down a sigh of relief. But then she heard an odd gasping, the sucking of breath followed by a sneeze loud enough to shake the heavens.
“Who … who’s there?” Jameson dropped his satchel, stepped back into the room and grabbed the poker from the stand next to the hearth. “I know you’re in here. Show yourself.”
Silence ensued.
But then the earl sneezed again.
Amid a sudden whip of material, Oliver appeared from behind the drapes. “Good God, man. Does no one ever clean this blasted place?”
Mr Jameson waved the poker like a sword. “Who are you? How did you get in here?” He jabbed the metal rod at Oliver and swished it back and forth. “I’ve a weapon, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“Watch out, man.” Oliver raised his hands in surrender. “You’re liable to take an eye out waving that thing about.”
“Put the poker down, Mr Jameson.” Nicole stood and stepped out from behind the bureau. “We mean you no harm.”
The tension in the room was palpable.
Jameson’s frantic gaze darted back and forth between them.
Oliver stepped forward. “I know how this looks, Jameson, but I can explain.”
How would he talk his way out of this? What could he say — that they were passing via the back yard and noticed the broken pane?
“Lord Stanton? Is … is that you?” Jameson lowered his weapon. “What are you doing here at this time of night? How on earth did you gain entrance? And why are you hiding in my office?”
They were all pertinent questions.
“Perhaps we should sit down.” Nicole gestured to the chairs. An air of calm and composure was needed. “It is better to discuss this rationally.”
Oliver cast her a sidelong glance and turned to Jameson. “We have a good reason for being here. Regardless of how this looks, I can assure you our intentions are honourable. Call the constable. And I am certain, once he’s heard our case, the magistrate will ensure Miss Flint here receives the justice she deserves.”
“Justice? Are you speaking about her claim on Morton Manor?”
“Why else would we be here? We have proof things are not what they seem and simply sought to give the files a more detailed inspection.”
Jameson pursed his lips. “If you have proof, then I’m more than happy to hear it, although next time I suggest waiting until office hours.”
“This couldn’t wait.” Oliver brushed his hand through his hair. “Since leaving here this morning, we have been investigating the matter of which Miss Flint has a claim on Morton Manor.” Oliver inhaled. “The well-spoken lady who brought the document, and who is in possession of my grandmother’s necklace, is a maid who goes by the name of Matilda Murray.”
“A maid?” Jameson thought for a moment. “Well, some ladies fall on hard times when left without a family for support.”
“Trust me. My father would not have given an heirloom to a maid.”
“Perhaps Miss Flint is the name she uses when … when forming personal attachments with those who like to see her perform. When one considers the document signed by your father, it is evident he knew her by that name.”
Nicole sensed Oliver’s frustration. But the legal profession dealt with facts, not supposition. Of course, the solicitor could have a vested interest in the outcome.
“We followed Miss Murray from the theatre this evening. To a coffeehouse on the Strand. It so happened that Mr Burrows, my father’s man of business, arrived to meet her. Does that not strike you as odd?”
Mr Jameson scratched the grey hair just above his temple. “As your father’s mistress, it seems acceptable that she would be acquainted with his man of business.”
Nicole listened to the conversation with interest.
Mr Jameson seemed most reluctant to accept any other explanation. The vision of Mr Wild lying sick in his bed flashed into her mind. It certainly seemed odd that the man should take ill on the day Miss Flint came to collect her inheritance.
What if Mr Jameson had added something to his colleague’s tea to keep him out of the way?
“So you refuse to accept something strange is afoot?” Oliver said. “Why will you not listen to me when I tell you that my father would never have given that harlot my grandmother’s necklace?”
Mr Jameson sighed. “I fear your father’s death has left you a little …”
Nicole stepped forward as a thought sprung to mind. “Then if it is not your grandmother’s necklace it must be a copy, perhaps a paste imitation to make the lady’s claim appear more convincing. I assume the family jewels are still in the vault at the bank?”
Oliver raised a brow and nodded as recognition dawned. “And I intend to inspect their security first thing in the morning.”
“Were the jewels not listed in your father’s will?” Mr Jameson enquired. “Surely there will be a record of all notable assets. Unfortunately, I have not seen the papers.”
It was the first helpful comment the man had made.
Oliver rubbed his chin. “All heirlooms are catalogued, though I fail to recall the precise details.”
“Then can we not check the papers now?” Nicole gestured to the door. “Under the present circumstances, I am sure Mr Wild would not object if we examined the files.”
“I consider it unethical to rummage through a man’s private office in his absence,” Mr Jameson said.
Oliver’s expression darkened. “And is it ethical to grant ownership of a house to someone who has gained it by fraudulent means?” The words sliced through the air — clear, crisp yet with a threatening undertone.
Mr Jameson bowed his head respectfully. He tapped his finger on his lip whilst lost in deep concentration.
The tense silence lasted a few seconds.
“Very well, my lord.” Jameson grabbed the Benting file from the desk as if fearing they had an accomplice waiting to spirit the document away. “In this instance, it can do no harm. After all, you have already borne witness to its contents.”
With a satisfied grin, Oliver said, “Then lead the way.”
Jameson picked up his satchel and placed it on the chair. “Let’s be quick about it.”
They entered Mr Wild’s office and closed the door. Mr Jameson was obviously used to working in the dark for he did not light a candle. He searched through Mr Wild’s drawers, pulling files and checking the conten
ts before eventually finding the one he wanted.
“Give me a minute to find the relevant page.” Jameson threw the file on to the desk, dropped into Mr Wild’s chair and scanned the documents.
“Did you take tea with Mr Wild this morning?” Nicole asked merely to note the solicitor’s reaction.
Jameson looked up. “Mr Wild takes his tea in his office while examining the day’s schedule.” Holding her gaze, he added, “I am not looking to replace my partner if that is what concerns you. The man is simply ill.”
But Mr Wild was never ill?
“Ah, I think this is what we’re looking for.” Jameson picked up the sheet of paper and held it up. “I may need some light as the script is rather small. You’ll find a spill and tinderbox on top of the mantel.”
Oliver set about lighting the candle lamp on the desk while Jameson took a magnifying glass and stared at the words on the page.
“Gold bracelet with a cabochon-cut amethyst.” Jameson read from the list. “Aquamarine gemstones set amongst intricate cannetille work. Gold pearl encrusted cross pendant—”
“Wait.” Oliver stepped closer to the desk. “So the necklace is listed as part of the estate.”
Mr Jameson read from the list once again. He looked up, his expression grave. “Yes, we verified all details after your father’s death. It means that Miss Flint is a liar and—” He stopped abruptly and inclined his head to Nicole. “Forgive me. The lady purporting to be Miss Flint has deceived us.”
It was a foolish mistake, Nicole thought. But why wear the necklace? Miss Murray could not have anticipated meeting Oliver. Unless she assumed it would add credence to her story when it came to dealing with the solicitor. Indeed, had Mr Wild been dealing with the case of Morton Manor he may have noted the discrepancy.
Nicole considered the man seated behind the desk. Was Mr Jameson to be trusted? He certainly didn’t act like a man guilty of fraud or deception.
“Well, it all seems rather odd,” Mr Jameson said. “Miss Murray mentioned the necklace numerous times. She asked for the name of someone at the bank who dealt with the storage of valuable jewels. She said she’d have more confidence dealing with the same clerk your father used.”
“And yet she knew the necklace was a forgery,” Oliver added.
Who knew what went on in a criminal’s mind? Nicole could not quite fathom her brother’s logic, either, and he was kin. “Perhaps Miss Murray and Mr Burrows plans to deceive amounted to more than a manor house.”
“Whatever her motive, we must decide what to do now,” Oliver said with some frustration. “Do we confront the woman and call the constable? Or report the incident to the Lord Chancellor and ask him to oversee the details of the will?”
“The choice is yours to make, my lord.” Jameson’s grave expression suggested he didn’t envy the earl the task.
“It is fair to assume that the document Miss Murray had in her possession naming her heir cannot be genuine, either,” Nicole said. The lady could not have forged the document on her own. “Therefore, it stands to reason that Mr Burrows is her accomplice. He had access to samples of Lord Stanton’s handwriting, could have easily obtained a copy of the lord’s signature and used his seal.”
“What are you saying?”
Nicole shrugged. Despite Miss Murray’s arrogant display in Jameson’s office, she couldn’t help but pity the woman. Many women resorted to underhanded methods just to survive.
“Call me naive,” she said, “but I’m simply saying that Miss Murray might have had no choice but to act as she did.”
Jeremy was not the only man to use devious methods to force a lady to do his bidding. Lord Mosgrove was not the only man who refused to take no for an answer.
The room fell silent as both men considered her comment.
The scraping of the front door against the jamb caused them all to suck in a sharp breath.
“Someone is here.” Jameson stood slowly, careful not to make a sound.
The bell jingled.
“It must be Andrews,” Jameson whispered. “But what is he doing here at this hour?”
Chapter Seventeen
They stood rooted to the spot in Mr Wild’s office as the clip of shoes echoed through the corridor. Whatever the clerks purpose for being there, surely he would have entered his own room. Yet the patter of footsteps grew progressively louder as they drew nearer.
Oliver glanced at the slight gap between the door and the floor. Would Mr Andrews notice the orange glow of candlelight seeping underneath? Then again, Mr Jameson did not need to explain his reason for being there to an assistant.
A door creaked open.
Mr Jameson squinted, listening for a sound to explain what was happening outside in the dark.
Oliver leant closer to the solicitor. “It appears Andrews has entered your office.” The striking of flint against metal could be clearly heard. “He’s lighting a candle and does not seem to be in a hurry.”
“Andrews would never enter my room without permission,” Jameson whispered.
“Then perhaps it’s not Andrews.” Nicole’s comment was followed by the scraping of a drawer on its runners.
“Unless I am mistaken,” Oliver said, “the person in your room is snooping in your cabinet.”
Mischief was afoot.
The question of whom to trust entered Oliver’s mind.
Mr Jameson’s excuse of having work to do was flimsy at best. Now someone else was rummaging through the files. With both incidents occurring on the same night they’d found Miss Murray and Mr Burrows in the coffeehouse, suggested something more than a coincidence.
Jameson stood slowly, although the action brought a frustrated sigh from his lips. “For the life of me, I don’t know why we’re creeping about. I have every right to be here.”
“And three people should have no problem tackling one.” Oliver had been itching to punch someone all evening. His body thrummed with the need to avenge those who’d wronged Miss Flint. And he had to do something to calm his raging blood.
“Come.” Carrying both files in his hand, Jameson crept towards the door. “Let us see what the blighter is doing in there.”
Despite their effort to surprise the intruder, Mr Wild’s office door groaned as soon as it eased away from the jamb. The rustling in Mr Jameson’s office ceased.
A floorboard creaked.
There was no time to wait.
Oliver seized the door knob of Jameson’s room, and all three of them burst inside.
“What the devil?” The gentleman searching the cabinet dropped the papers in his hand and swung around.
In the muted light, it took a moment for Oliver’s eyes to focus on the hunched figure before them. Doubt gave way to denial. Denial gave way to distrust.
“Mr Wild?” Nicole’s tone reflected their surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you were ill.”
The man looked as though he'd risen from the grave. Grey hair sprung in tufts from beneath his hat. Short silver whiskers covered his chin. Red eyes and sallow skin confirmed he was not well enough to be out of bed let alone creeping about in a colleague’s office. Oliver noted the flimsy cravat and crumpled shirt. Wild had dressed in a hurry.
How interesting.
Wild gulped. “I … I am ill.” His frantic gaze passed back and forth. “But I had important work to finish and couldn’t rest until things were in order.”
“And it couldn’t wait until the morning?” Nicole’s voice was thick with suspicion.
“I thought to take the work home with me, to attend to it as I recover.”
“It seems everyone has urgent business tonight.” Oliver stared at him. “How odd that your work is in your colleague’s office. And you seem a little nervous, Mr Wild.” Indeed, the man shuffled left and right as if balancing on uneven ground. “Perhaps you’re surprised to find the premises occupied.”
“I … I must sit down for a moment. I fear I am too weak to stand for long periods.”
Oli
ver suppressed a snort of contempt. Guilty men often attempted to incite pity in those they’d wronged.
“Well?” Jameson stepped forward as Wild flopped into the chair. “Are you going to explain what you’re doing in here?”
“It must be something important,” Nicole said, “to have dragged you from your sick bed.”
Wild rubbed his eyes. “Forgive me. My mind is a little hazy. I couldn’t rest. All I could think of were the documents I must sign.”
Jameson clutched the files to his chest. “And what? In your fragile state, you entered the wrong office by mistake?”
“I … I don’t know.” Wild stared into the distance, never blinked. “An hour ago, I was in bed. And now I find myself here.”
Oh, please. Did he take them for fools?
Oliver looked at Nicole, and she raised a curious brow. She shared his doubts over Wild’s pathetic excuse. Despite having a kind and compassionate heart, her mind was sharp. That was what he loved about her.
He caught himself, aware of the foreign word that entered his mind as though it had every right to be there. Of course he cared about her. Like her friendship with Rose, they’d formed a close bond these last two days. It was only natural. Only to be expected.
“Would you mind telling us what that is?” Nicole’s intelligent voice disturbed Oliver’s reverie.
He followed her gaze to the single sheet of paper lying on top of the desk. When Mr Jameson had taken the Benting file, he’d left a space on the cluttered surface.
Wild considered the document. “Oh, it must have fallen from one of the files.” He waved a hand at them. “As I am the one who made the mess, I shall find its rightful home.”
Wild grabbed the paper.
“Wait!” Mr Jameson commanded.
“Oh, don’t shout, Jameson.” Mr Wild pressed his fingers to his temple. “My head throbs at the sound of raised voices.”
Nicole stepped up to the desk and held out her hand. “Give it to me, Mr Wild. There is no point trying to hide your duplicity.” She turned to Oliver. “Unless I am mistaken, the document bears your father’s seal.”
Mr Wild shook his head. “Is this some sort of conspiracy? Are you all so eager to remove me from the practice that you would poison my tea and accuse me of treachery?”