But that was all they dropped. They couldn’t be sure the villain wouldn’t hide in the house; no matter that the ladies’ skins crawled at the thought, they did not, by word or deed, allow any inkling of their plans to show.
Minerva and Amelia walked Helena to her room. With fond good nights, Minerva parted from the other two before Helena’s door, and went on to her own room farther down the west wing. Amelia entered Helena’s room with her; she sat and chatted idly about the events of the night while Helena’s maid tended her mistress and prepared her for bed. The maid dismissed, Amelia came to the bed. She squeezed Helena’s hand and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Take care!” she whispered.
“Naturellement.” Helena returned the kiss with her usual unwavering confidence. “But the necklace,” she whispered back. She gestured to the round table in the center of the room. “Put it there so I can see it.”
Amelia hesitated, but the necklace did have to be left out somewhere—the maid had as usual locked it away in Helena’s jewel casket—leaving the key in the lock—and if she didn’t put it where Helena wanted it, her aunt would only wait until she left the room, get out of bed, and do it herself.
With a reluctant nod, she crossed to the casket, unlocked it, and retrieved the necklace. She left the matching bracelets and earrings where they were; if anything went wrong, something would remain of her grandfather Sebastian’s gift. As she draped the fabulous strands of the necklace across the polished surface of the table, the value of the piece had never seemed so clear—so much more than material wealth; the magnitude of the risk Helena was so selflessly taking gripped her.
Fingers sliding from the necklace’s iridescent strands, she looked across the room at Helena, propped high on the pillows in the shadow of the bed. She wanted to thank her, but this wasn’t the time. With a last, shaky smile, she nodded. Helena imperiously waved her to the door.
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
Elsewhere in the huge house, the servants had cleared and cleaned, then, under Higgs’s and Cottsloe’s watchful eyes, they’d retired to their own quarters. Cottsloe did his rounds as usual; the house was locked, the lights doused in the usual pattern.
That done, Cottlsoe retired—to the kitchen, to keep watch. Higgs had already taken up her post at the top of the servants’ stair, to guard against anyone hiding in the servants’ quarters and sneaking into the house that way.
The family had retired to their rooms, but not to their beds. As the clocks around the house struck twelve, they all emerged, silently sliding through the shadows, nodding at each other as they passed on their way to their assigned positions.
Lurking in the shadows before the upstairs parlor door, Luc wondered as Portia’s and Penelope’s apparent lack of awareness. It appeared they hadn’t realized anything was afoot. That seemed, to him, so utterly unlikely, yet they’d given not the slightest hint that either was even suspicious.
Easing his shoulders against the door, he mentally set his younger sisters to one side—they were in their rooms on the top floor—they couldn’t easily get down without passing either him, Higgs, or Amelia; he had absolute faith that none of the three of them would let Portia and Penelope past them.
Perhaps his younger sisters truly were, even now, falling asleep?
Stifling a disbelieving snort, he listened . . . but all he heard was the sounds of the house settling into its usual nighttime repose. He knew every creaking board, every squeaky tread on every stair; if any creaked in any unusual way, he would know. Helena’s room lay to his left, midway down the west wing. Simon was concealed just before the stairs at the wing’s far end; if the thief came that way, Simon would let him pass and follow.
Luc would do the same if the felon chose the main stairs as his route to Helena’s room. Amelia was the only other watcher in the corridors on this floor—she was to Luc’s right, in the east wing, hovering just past Emily’s and Anne’s rooms. Anne’s was the farthest. Although none of them believed she was involved . . . if by chance there was some connection, he and Amelia wanted to know of it first.
Not that they’d discussed it, or even said so much in words, however private—they’d simply exchanged a glance, then Amelia had claimed that position as hers.
His mind drifted to her—his wife and so much more—to all he wanted to say to her as soon as fate gave him a chance . . .
With an effort, he yanked his wits back, focused them on the game at hand, one too fraught with danger to risk distraction. Lucifer was prowling downstairs; Martin was hovering in the shadows of the shrubbery. Sugden was out somewhere near the kennels. From a room at the end of the west wing, Amanda was watching the valley and all approaches from beyond the home farm. Phyllida was in hers and Lucifer’s room, which happened to command an excellent view of the rose garden and the gardens farther along, beyond the east wing.
Night fell like a shroud over the house.
Through the depths of the night, they waited for the thief to show his face.
Two o’clock came and went. At a quarter to three, Luc left his position briefly; moving soundlessly through the corridors, he alerted Simon to cover the whole of the west wing, then checked with everyone else, eventually returning to his watch. They were all wilting. No one had voiced it, yet every one of them was wondering if they’d misjudged, and the thief would not, for whatever reason, appear.
Time drifted on; staying awake became increasingly difficult.
Propped up in her bed, Helena had much less difficulty than any of her guards in keeping alert. Old age left her less inclined to sleep, more inclined to lie in peace and sift through her memories.
Tonight, she lay on her pillows and kept watch over her necklace, and remembered. All the good times that had followed the moment when she’d received it—the moment when she’d most unwillingly accepted it, outwitted by Sebastian, and fate.
All the wonders of life, and love.
She was far away, reliving the past, when the door of her wardrobe, directly across the room, swung slowly open.
Chapter 23
Helena watched as a cloaked figure stepped gingerly from the depths of the wardrobe. Glancing fearfully at the bed, the figure hesitated—too small and slight to be a man, but the cloak’s hood was up, hiding all clues to identity.
Reassured by Helena’s stillness, the figure drew itself up, then glanced around; its gaze fell on the table.
Lit by the faint moonlight slanting through the open window, the pearls glowed with an unearthly radiance.
The figure inched nearer, then nearer still. Then one small hand came out from beneath the cloak, fingers extending to touch the iridescent strands.
Helena saw the fingers shake, saw the last moment of hesitation. Realized in a flash who the figure must be. There was a wealth of kindliness in her voice when she asked, “Ma petite, what are you doing here?”
The figure’s head jerked up. Helena pushed upright in the bed. The figure uttered a strangled squeak, halfway to a shriek; frozen, she stared at Helena.
“Come.” Helena beckoned. “Do not scream. Come and tell me.”
Heavy footsteps shook the corridor. The figure’s head jerked toward the door, then she rushed—first this way, then that—in total panic.
Helena muttered a French curse and struggled to rise from the bed.
The figure yelped, rushed to the open window. She leaned out—the room was on the first floor.
“No!” Helena ordered. “Come back!” Centuries of command rang in her voice.
The figure turned uncertainly.
Simon burst through the door.
With a shriek of pure fear, the figure jumped out of the window.
Simon cursed and rushed to look.
“Good God!” He stared. “She’s landed on the loggia.” Leaning out, he waved. “Come back here, you little fool!”
Helena rolled her eyes. Shrugging on her robe, she hurried to join him. The sight beyond the window made her lay a hand on his ar
m. “Don’t say anything more.”
But Simon had already fallen grimly silent.
Outside, the cloaked figure, weaving and staggering, was attempting to walk one of the beams of the loggia that extended away from the house over the flagstone terrace. If she overbalanced and fell, broken limbs would be the least of it.
The figure teetered precariously; time and again, she swayed, arms flailing—every time, she regained her balance. The heavy cloak swung about her legs, a dangerous encumbrance. Under her breath, Helena prayed.
“My stars,” Simon breathed. “I think she’s going to make it.”
“Don’t speak too soon and tempt fate.”
In the gloom of the gardens, they could just make out Martin hovering by the shrubbery, and Sugden on the path to the kennels. Both remained frozen, silent witnesses to the girl’s perilous flight. No one made the slightest sound, the slightest movement, did nothing to distract her.
After what seemed an eternity, the wildly lurching figure reached the end of the beam where it joined with an upright support. Simon tensed; Helena sank her fingers into his sleeve. “You are not following her.”
Simon didn’t even glance at her. “Of course not. No need.”
They waited silently as the figure grappled and grasped, then partly swung, partly fell, partly scrambled to the ground, landing in an ungainly heap.
Simon immediately leaned out of the window. “She’s on the ground by the loggia outside the music room!”
His ringing call propelled everyone into action. The girl jumped to her feet and tore off toward the shrubbery.
Then she saw Martin closing from that direction.
With a shriek, she pivoted and fled in the opposite direction, toward the rose garden and the darkness of the wood beyond.
She was almost there, almost to the path that led into the shadows, when she ran directly into Lucifer, who’d left the house through the front door and circled around the east wing.
Luc heard Simon thunder to Helena’s room, but no one had passed either him or Simon, so how . . . ? Via the window? But Martin, Sugden, or Phyllida would have seen . . . how had anyone got past them all?
Striding into the west corridor, he saw Simon dash into Helena’s room. He paused, poised to react, then he heard Simon speak. Confused, Luc waited—there was clearly no drama occurring in the room, no danger to Helena.
What the devil was going on? He was about to stride to Helena’s room and find out when he heard Simon’s call.
“She’s on the ground by the loggia . . .”
She.
The word stopped him in his tracks. The possibilities crashed down on him. Could they all have been wrong? Had Anne gone out of her window and around the outside of the house? Or had she not even been in her room but in Helena’s?
Swinging around, he strode for the east wing.
Amelia was hovering outside Anne’s door; she’d heard Simon’s call but the house was too massive for her to make out his words. But she saw Luc coming, understood enough. She didn’t hesitate.
She opened Anne’s door. “Anne?” No reply. The bed was draped in dense shadows. “Anne!”
“Huh? What . . . ?” Pushing her thick brown hair from her face, Anne groggily sat up, peering at Amelia. “What’s the matter?”
Amelia beamed at her. Relief and newfound excitement rushed through her. “Nothing, nothing—nothing to worry about.”
Sounds from outside reached them; Amelia rushed to the window, flung back the curtains, threw up the sash. Behind her, she heard Luc reach the room and step inside.
“What’s going on?” Anne asked from the bed.
After the faintest pause, Luc replied, “I’m not sure.”
Amelia heard the profound relief in his voice, could feel the irrational dread lift from his—their—shoulders. Holding back the curtains, she leaned out as Luc joined her. A second later, Anne, dragging a robe about her, pushed in alongside.
The sight that met their eyes was at first incomprehensible—a trio of figures wrestling on the lawn, detail obscured by the dense shadows cast by the huge trees of the wood. Then the trio resolved into two larger figures supporting the third toward the house; the smaller figure resisted, but weakly.
Beneath them, a door opened; Amanda stepped onto the terrace. She waved to the group. “Bring her here.”
They changed direction; a moment later they passed out of the shadows and features became clear. Martin and Lucifer were gently but determinedly escorting a slight female, cloaked, shaking her head, sobbing hysterically. Her hood had fallen back revealing lustrous brown locks.
Luc frowned. “Who is it?”
Amelia suddenly realized.
It was Anne who answered, staring at the figure round-eyed. “My God—that’s Fiona! What on earth is going on?”
It was the third time she’d asked, but the explanation wasn’t going to be easy, and they didn’t have all the answers.
“We’ll explain tomorrow.” Luc swung around and strode out of the room; they heard him running down the corridor toward the stairs.
Amelia started after him.
“Amelia!”
She turned back, met Anne’s eyes. “I truly can’t stop now, but I promise we’ll explain all tomorrow morning. Please—just go back to bed.”
Fervently hoping Anne would do so, Amelia hurried out, closing the bedroom door behind her. She started down the corridor, then remembered Emily. She paused by Emily’s door, listening, then eased it open. She tiptoed in, just close enough to be sure Emily was still sound asleep—doubtless dreaming innocent—or possibly not so innocent—dreams.
Inwardly sighing with relief, she retreated, then hurried on toward the stairs. At their head, she came upon Helena and Minerva being escorted down by Simon.
Simon looked up. “They’ve got her.”
“I know. I saw.”
Minerva sighed. “The poor child. We’ll have to get to the bottom of this, for I simply will not believe it was all her doing. She was never a bad girl.” She paused, one hand gripping the balustrade, a frown forming in her eyes. Then she glanced upward. “Someone should check on Portia and Penelope.” Minerva glanced at Amelia.
She nodded. “I will. Then I’ll come down.”
Minerva resumed her descent. “Tell them they must stay in their beds.”
Already headed up the stairs, Amelia doubted any such injunction was likely to stop those two; to her mind, their only hope was that they’d slept soundly and hadn’t been disturbed.
That hope was dashed the instant she cracked open Portia’s door—and discovered Luc’s younger sisters fully dressed, leaning far out of the window, presumably watching Fiona being led into the house two floors below.
She stepped inside, shut the door with a click. “What do the pair of you think you’re doing?”
They glanced back at her; not a glimmer of guilt showed in either face.
“We’re observing the culmination of your plan.” Penelope turned back to the window.
“They’ve got her inside.” Portia straightened, then walked to Amanda.
Penelope followed. “I really didn’t think the plan would work, but it has. I did think it might be Fiona—she was at all the places where things were taken, after all.” She fixed her spectacled gaze on Amelia’s face. “Do we have any idea why she did it?”
Amelia had no idea where to start in the task of putting these two in their place. She wasn’t even sure it was possible. Nevertheless, she drew a deep breath. “I bear a message from your mama—you’re to stay in your beds.”
Both girls looked at her as if she’d run mad.
“What?” Portia said. “While all this is going on—“
“You expect us meekly to close our eyes and fall asleep?”
One breath wasn’t going to be enough. “No, but—“
Amelia broke off, raised her head. Listened.
Portia and Penelope did, too. An instant later, they all heard it again—a muffled scre
am. They rushed to the window.
“Can you see . . . ?” Amelia asked.
They all scanned the gardens, even darker now; the moon was rapidly waning.
“There!” Penelope pointed across the lawn to where two struggling figures were just discernible on the path beside the rose garden.
“Who . . . ?” Amelia asked, but the clenching of her heart told her.
“Well, if Fiona’s downstairs,” Portia said, “then that must be Anne.”
“The fool!” Penelope said. “How senseless.”
Amelia didn’t stop to argue; she was already out of the door.
“No—just think,” Portia said. “That man must be part of the syndicate—“
Amelia left them to their deductions—they were better at it than her—and with luck it would keep them where they were, arguing, well out of harm’s way. She plunged down the main stairs, screaming for Luc, knowing she dared not stop to explain.
As far as she’d been able to see, the man—whoever he was—had his hands around Anne’s throat.
“Luc!” She hit the front hall at a run, skidded on the tiles as she turned and flung herself down the east corridor. Via the garden hall was the fastest route to Anne—she took it without thinking.
She burst onto the lawn, much closer to the struggling pair—still struggling, thank God! As she pounded on, she realized, and called, “Anne! Anne!”
The larger figure stilled, then the configuration rearranged itself—then with a curse she heard, the man flung Anne aside and raced for the wood.
She was gasping when she reached Anne; at least the blackguard had flung her onto the lawn, not into the stone wall. Anne was coughing, gasping, struggling to sit up. Amelia helped her to sit. “Who was it? Do you know?”
Anne shook her head. “But—“ She wheezed, then tried gamely again, “I think he was among the guests last night.” She hauled in another breath. “He thought I was Fiona.” Her fingers clutched Amelia’s. “If you hadn’t called . . . he was trying to kill me—her. As soon as he looked and realized I wasn’t her . . .”
On A Wicked Dawn Page 41