by Jane Ashford
Flora had gotten a general sense of the geography of the house during her visit. There were two long wings, on opposite sides, both older than the central block. Which was odd, suggesting that the center had been rebuilt between them at some point in the past. “The rooms in the wings don’t seem much used.”
“No. The Salbridges are barely settled in here.”
They began with the east wing, for no particular reason, walking through a series of parlors that opened into each other. Early sunlight filtered through the windows, revealing disused furniture and, as they got farther from the central block, worn carpets and draperies.
Plato sniffed at the wainscoting here and there. “Yes, undoubtedly there are mice,” Robert said to him on the fourth such occasion. “But they are not our affair.”
“You talk to him as if he was a person,” Flora noted.
“It is an increasing concern to me,” Robert replied with a wry smile.
Though they stepped softly, their feet seemed loud in the empty rooms. Movement on the left made Flora jump, only to face her own indistinct form in a large mirror. Many old houses were said to be haunted. Flora half wondered if they would encounter a ghost. But they reached to the end of the wing without finding anything worse than a creaking floorboard.
They retraced their steps to the more inhabited part of the house. Flora rubbed her arms. The rooms without fires were chilly on this late-autumn day. “Get a shawl from your room,” Robert suggested.
“I’m all right.”
“You’re cold. I’d offer you my coat, but that would look odd, should we encounter anyone.”
“I don’t need—”
“When I said I missed our disputes, it was not this kind,” he observed. “Where you argue against your own interests just to disagree with me.”
“I am not doing that.”
“You want to be cold?”
“Our search is more important.”
“Granted. But we have time for you to fetch a shawl.”
Flora started to pose another objection, and then conceded that he was right. A few minutes would do no harm, even if the interruption was irritating. She turned.
“Plato and I will lurk in the library.”
Flora choked, well aware that he’d used the word to make her laugh. Then she let the laugh out. “I’ll be quick.”
“You always are,” Robert answered.
She tried to rush without appearing to do so. Fortunately, it was still early, and she met only two other guests in the corridors. A simple nod and greeting was enough for both. Quite soon she was back in the library, fortified with warm cashmere.
At first, the west wing was much like the east—disused chambers, not dusty but somehow forlorn, their colors faded by time. They’d passed through several parlors, and Flora was getting worried when they found what they’d been looking for.
A room near the end of the wing was much as the cardplayers must have left it. Chairs were shoved carelessly back from two card tables that had been pushed together. A deck of cards lay untidily upon them. Empty glasses were scattered about. A sideboard held an array of decanters. The scent of stale cigars from the stubs left in ashtrays filled the air. Robert was reminded of Durand’s complaints about the cramped smoking room. Clearly, he was ignoring his hostess’s wishes as cavalierly as his host’s.
It didn’t take long to search the plain, shabby little room. There was no other furniture; there were no convenient secret closets. Robert was examining individual playing cards when they heard footsteps approaching.
Moving quickly, Robert pulled Flora into the next room along the wing, leaving the door open a crack. Unlike others they’d seen, this chamber was cluttered. It seemed to be a storeroom for unused pieces of furniture too fine for the attics.
Someone entered the card room. Glasses clinked, and chairs scraped across the floorboards. This person was taking no particular care to be silent. Robert leaned sideways and took a quick look. It was one of the Salbridge footmen, clearing up. He’d undoubtedly been bribed to take care of this room on top of his other duties.
Flora jostled Robert in order to peek through the crack herself. Plato was staring into the card room at his feet, Robert noticed. A neat little trio of spies. He smiled at the thought.
Silently, they waited for the servant to finish. He didn’t approach their hiding place. Robert hadn’t expected that he would. Durand and his cohorts would have no use for this cluttered room. There was barely space to move among the crowded furniture.
The footman shifted the chairs away from the card tables and separated them. Picking up his tray, now laden with glasses, he went out. They waited a while longer to make sure he wasn’t going to return.
“We could hide in here and watch the game tonight,” Flora said then. “You could see how Durand is cheating. There are plenty of places to duck out of sight if anyone should suspect.”
Robert surveyed the room—a tangled pile of straight chairs, many broken; a tattered sofa; a large wardrobe; and several small tables. Flora opened the wardrobe, releasing an overpowering scent of camphor; it was packed solid with clothing. She squeezed around it to a large cupboard shoved against the wall. When she turned the wooden catch, a broad door sagged open, revealing a long dusty space with a litter of broken shelves at the bottom. Flora stepped up and in, pulling the door closed behind her. “You see?” she said from behind the panels.
Robert didn’t laugh aloud. He wasn’t foolhardy. He kept his expression bland as Flora emerged from the cupboard, shaking dust from her skirts. His mind was busy with arguments proving that he should take over their efforts from here. He was not sanguine about their reception. “The door to this room was shut when we arrived,” he pointed out. “Durand would expect it to remain so.” The other players might not notice a change, but he was certain Durand would.
Plato starting scratching at the door in question. The pressure of his paws pushed it closed. “Stop that,” said Robert. This wasn’t like his phlegmatic dog.
Flora came to stand beside them. “Look.” She pointed at the spot Plato had been addressing. “The panels are old and dry. They’ve shrunk back from the joins.” Flora knelt and peered through the biggest crack. “I can see quite well. Good dog, Plato!”
Disgruntled, Robert joined her on the floor. It was true. The warp in the door gave him a wide horizontal view of the room. If he put his eye right up to it, he could see up and down as well.
“Splendid.” Flora rose and brushed away more dust. “We should bring cushions for our knees. We will have to be in place well before the gambling begins, and then who knows how long we’ll have to watch.”
“Very tedious, no doubt,” Robert said. “And physically taxing. Perhaps I should take on the task.”
“You can’t be trying to exclude me.” Flora’s fiery blue eyes drilled into his.
“Not at all. Though I am the more experienced cardplayer, and more likely to spot whatever methods Durand is using to cheat.”
“I shall be here,” she declared. “You can’t stop me.”
And it would be a mistake to try, Robert concluded. He thought he could see a flicker of fear in her gaze, along with annoyance and defiance. This had been her plan, and she needed to act on it, not sit by and wait for someone else to step in. He gave up the idea. The spying wasn’t physically dangerous, after all. Just taxing, as he’d said. Faintly ridiculous, perhaps. Potentially embarrassing. If they were discovered, Sebastian would laugh himself sick at the story. Perhaps, in that event, Robert would be making use of Flora’s cupboard after all.
They walked side by side back through the west wing to the central block. They were about to part at the staircase when Harriet Runyon came down it. “Wherever have you been?” she said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She eyed the dust still clinging to the hem of Flora’s gown. When Plato came from beh
ind them to gaze up at her, she blinked in bewilderment. “Victoria has been asking for you. Your absence has been noticed.”
“We were just looking around the house,” said Flora.
“There’s a magnificent eighteenth-century clock in the east wing,” Robert offered.
Mrs. Runyon gave him a sardonic glance. “I am your chaperone,” she said to Flora. “I have a reputation to maintain, too, you know. If you keep haring off together to parts unknown, tongues will wag. Or perhaps you have some news for me?”
“News?” said Flora.
“Don’t play games with me.” Harriet’s tone was amused.
Flora could see that Robert wanted to speak. It had developed somehow over the last few months, this ability to understand his feelings without words. Flora had had an intellectual bond with her father, and she felt an emotional connection to her mother. But she’d never experienced this kind of deep link, which encompassed both of those and a great deal more. It promised so much for the future. “We’re engaged to be married,” she said. She felt rather than saw Robert’s slow smile.
“Ah.” Harriett looked delighted. “Splendid.”
“But we’re not announcing it just yet,” Flora added.
“Why not?”
“There are one or two things to be settled first. I must write to Mama.” Harriet would certainly agree that Flora’s mother must be told before any public announcement was made.
“Well, do so,” the older woman replied. “And settle these…things. Because after a while, if there is no announcement when all the signs point to one, there will be talk.”
“I am so very tired of thinking about gossip,” said Flora.
“There you are then. Put an end to it by announcing your intentions.” The older woman turned around on the stairs. “And now come with me and join the other young ladies in the drawing room.”
“Must—”
“Yes, you must.”
Eighteen
Flora pleaded a headache that evening and went up to her room not long after dinner, before the gentlemen had left their wine. In her bedchamber, she changed into her drabbest gown and then set herself to wait. She and Robert had snatched a few minutes earlier to make plans for the evening. They’d agreed that nine would be a good time to take up their posts. Durand was always in the drawing room till at least that hour.
The waiting was difficult, but it was easier here alone than downstairs, trying to make conversation. Flora sat in the armchair before the hearth and told herself to be patient. She put her head back, closed her eyes, and set her thoughts adrift. Inevitably, they fixed on Robert, like a boat carried on a steady current. She so wanted all to be well for their future. Surely when they had bested Durand, she’d be able to put the past behind her. Robert deserved her whole heart, without old fears rising to plague them both.
Just before nine, Flora rose, went to listen at her door, and heard nothing. She bundled a small cushion into her shawl and slipped out. If she met anyone, she planned to say she was going down for a book. Most guests would still be in the drawing room. Those who weren’t probably had affairs of their own in mind.
In fact, she met no one. She reached the library without incident and found Robert waiting for her there. No sign of Plato this time. “Here I am,” she said.
“Right on time.”
“You’re not going to try again to dissuade me from coming?” She found that a bit surprising.
“Not at all. On the contrary, I hope you will maintain a general view of the game as it progresses. All the players. I intend to focus my attention on Durand’s hands.”
“Of course.”
“Shall we go?”
“You have nothing to kneel upon,” Flora pointed out. She showed him her cushion.
“Ah. I forgot. Well, never mind.”
“Nonsense. The floor will be terribly painful after just a few minutes.”
“We haven’t time.”
“A moment won’t hurt.” Flora began a quick search of the library. At last she found a miniature pillow tucked into the seat of one of the armchairs. “Here. This will do.” She strode over and handed it to Robert.
“I’m not quite sure how I will explain this, if I am called upon to do so,” he said, tucking the item under his arm.
“Didn’t you once tell me that one secret of social success is never to explain?”
“Did I?”
“Yes. One night in Russell Square. You said that people would label odd behavior as a charming eccentricity, unless one showed uncertainty by trying to justify it.” Flora gave him a sidelong glance. She rather enjoyed teasing him with his own words.
“How, ah, wise of me,” he murmured with a smile.
They made their way carefully down the west wing, ready to step out of sight if necessary. They saw no one, but the parlor was once again set up for gambling—the two tables pushed together, the fire crackling, branches of fresh candles ready to be lit. They’d timed it well. The footman was gone, but none of the players had arrived.
They moved across the parlor to the far door, went through, and closed it quietly behind them. Flora placed her cushion on the floor and knelt to check the view. She could see the table quite well. “I wonder where Durand will sit?” she said very quietly.
“Facing the entry door, I imagine. He wouldn’t care for people coming in behind him.”
A sound from the other side of the door ended their conversation. Flora looked through the crack. Anthony Durand had arrived and was puttering about the room. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and set herself to watch in silence.
And then Robert was right beside her, his shoulder pressed against hers. He had to stoop a bit to look through the crack. He surveyed the scene, then turned his head to look at her, his face only inches away. He gave a little nod, as if to say, “Here we go.”
Durand circled the card room. He poured himself a glass of brandy from a decanter on the side table and carried it to the chair nearly directly in front of them. Their vantage point was perfect, Flora thought with some relief. She could see his hands on the table, a three-quarters profile, and his full figure in the chair.
Durand sat very still, as if listening. Flora held her breath. Against her side, Robert was unmoving. Apparently satisfied, Durand picked up the fresh deck of cards lying on the table and very carefully unwrapped it, picking at the paper so that it didn’t tear. Taking another deck from his coat pocket, he proceeded to trade the two. Then he wrapped the second deck in the discarded wrapping, fixing it closed with lick of his tongue so that it looked unused.
Robert hissed very softly at this blatant act. The sound was right in her ear. Flora shivered at the feel of his breath on her skin, his upper arm and thigh pressed to hers.
After a while, two young men came in, laughing over a shared joke. They poured brandies and sat at the table. Over the next few minutes, five others arrived. Flora recognized them all from various parts of her visit. She’d sat beside one at dinner. None had taken a role in the play or engaged her in any prolonged conversation. They were not the sort of gentlemen who bothered with an impecunious female.
Anthony Durand “unwrapped” the cards and offered them to the player opposite him. That man cut, the one next to him shuffled and dealt, and the play began.
Flora’s left side, pressed up against Robert, was warm. The other grew chilled despite her shawl. Her knees started to ache a bit. Flora suddenly remembered reading that medieval knights had knelt in vigil for a whole night before their elevation. She wondered if they had worn their armor when doing so, and whether that would have been more or less uncomfortable than her current position.
In the next room, hand succeeded hand. Durand didn’t win every one, but the clutter of banknotes before him steadily increased. Robert had no doubt, from the way the man handled his cards, that those he’d substitu
ted were subtly marked.
Durand kept the brandy decanter circulating, too. Each time it reached him, he seemed to refill his glass. But in reality the level remained much the same. Robert had seen that trick before, too. The other men grew befuddled; Durand did not.
It was tedious to watch people play cards, Flora thought. There was none of the excitement or strategy of managing one’s own hand. She glanced at Robert. His gaze was riveted on Anthony Durand.
Night deepened. Flora grew tired. She shifted on her sore knees. In response, Robert put his arm around her and drew her closer. She let herself lean a little. He was solid as a rock but far more comfortable.
Abruptly, Robert’s grip on her tightened. One of the young men in the next room had begun to rail at Durand’s run of luck, suggesting that it wasn’t natural. He was drunk and growing belligerent. The others were glancing at Durand and one another. Some looked uneasy; others appeared to be giving the accusation serious consideration.
Anthony Durand sat carelessly in his chair, left hand shoved into his coat pocket. The pocket where the original cards rested, Flora noted. The substituted cards were stacked in front of him. “You’ve overindulged, Trask, and you’re growing offensive,” Durand said.
“I can hold my liquor, damn you,” exclaimed Trask. He surged out of his chair, knocking it over in the process. He swayed and had to lean on the table to catch himself. It wobbled under the impact. All of the others looked at him.
In the instant when every eye was diverted, Durand picked up the deck before him. With his other hand, he casually slipped the original deck out of his pocket. Coolly, in one careless movement, he switched them, slipping his marked deck into the opposite pocket. Flora and Robert saw him do it from their hidden vantage point, but it was clear that none of the other players caught on.
Even if they’d been looking, they might not have noticed, Flora thought. The shift of Durand’s body had seemed so natural, the drop of one hand to his lap and simultaneous rise of the other to the table so quick and deft. If she hadn’t been staring right at him, from the back, she might not have been certain.