Checkmate, My Lord (22 page)

She ran to Sebastian’s desk and lifted the ink blotter to see if any more names had been added to the sheet of paper she found there a few days ago. The list was gone. “Blast,” she whispered.

The realization that she would need a light to continue her search struck terror in her heart. She took precious minutes to see if her eyes would adjust to the gloom. Although she could see a little better, it wasn’t enough.

She located one of those lovely Argand lamps on Sebastian’s desk, but discarded the notion of lighting it. From what she’d read, they provided the same amount of illumination as six candles. Catherine only needed the light of one.

Unable to locate a taper anywhere, Catherine swallowed her fear and lit the lamp. Golden light flooded the room, momentarily blinding her. She glanced at the crack beneath the door and rushed to retrieve a throw from the chaise longue to place in front of it.

The clock on the mantel mocked her with its incessant passage of time. Perspiration dampened her skin. She searched his desk, his bookshelves, and any other drawer she could find. Nothing.

Recalling the hidden compartment in her writing box, she returned to his desk and bookshelves to poke, push, pull anything she could get her hands on. Still nothing.

Frustration seethed beneath layers of fear and desperation. She whirled in a wild circle, seeking some other source for secreting away valuables. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

She drew in a ragged breath, grappling with a sense of defeat and utter relief. Pulling herself together, she extinguished the lamp and replaced the throw on the chaise. She stood in the gloom-filled study, hesitating. Her gaze lifted to the upstairs bedchamber, where a handsome, complicated earl slept in a halo of repletion. Repletion she had given him.

Shrugging off the maudlin thought, Catherine opened the tall paned doors leading out to the garden, closing them behind her. She made her way down to the stables to fetch Gypsy, ignoring the burning sensation in the back of her head. She could not worry about a pair of searing steel-gray eyes watching her, not when she was busy repairing the ruins of her wall.

August 16

“Still no sign of the list, daughter?”

Catherine finished entering the date of Mr. Tucker’s repair on her schedule before answering her mother. Once the notation was made, Catherine surveyed the meadow for their two gaolers from beneath the small tent Edward had erected for them. Silas was nowhere to be found, a condition that made her more nervous than if he’d been standing five feet away.

She located Mrs. Clarke kneeling on a blanket out in the middle of the field, instructing Sophie on how to build a kite. With nothing more than a couple of sturdy sticks, yards of string, and silk from an old ball gown, her daughter was well on her way to flying her first kite. Catherine wished the joyful moment weren’t tainted by an undercurrent of fear.

“No,” Catherine said. “Two evenings of searching, and not a single treasonous note.”

Her mother drew a long, red thread through a square of linen. “Have you searched Lord Somerton’s rooms again?”

“Not yet.” Catherine dropped her quill pen onto her portable writing box. “Now that I’ve completed the lower level, his private chambers are next.” She hated speaking of such things with her mother. Although the words were never spoken, Evelyn Shaw knew how her daughter spent her evenings. Thankfully, her mother understood the situation well enough not to cast judgment on Catherine’s actions. “Last night, I caught a glimpse of a half-composed letter on the writing desk in his bedchamber. From the few sentences I had time to read, the words were disjointed and illogical.”

“Disjointed,” her mother repeated. “Could it be a coded message, like Ashcroft’s letters?”

“Perhaps.” Catherine stared at her daughter, standing now with the framework of a kite. “I’ll copy it tonight, so that I might study it in more detail on the morrow. If I can’t obtain the list of agents, Cochran might be appeased with an important message instead.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes until Sophie’s laughter broke into their musings.

“My granddaughter seems to be taking to her new governess.”

“Yes.” After the initial shock of their gaolers’ invasion had passed, Sophie had gradually warmed up to her constant companion. Mrs. Clarke’s kindness and inventiveness kept Sophie’s mind occupied with games and an assortment of crafts, rather than the disastrous way in which they were introduced. “In many ways, Mrs. Clarke is the perfect governess for Sophie.”

Proving Cochran’s contemptuous comment true. Why would a woman such as she align herself with so despicable a man? The question piqued her troublesome curiosity.

“I am sorry that you have this to deal with in addition to the loss of your father and husband.”

“No need to fret on my account.” Catherine clasped her mother’s cold hand in hers, forcing a light tone into her voice. “Although I would rather be in Brighton, basking in the sun and listening to the waves, my situation could be far worse. I could be consorting with a man weighing twenty-five stone, thrice my age, with a propensity for greasy foods.”

An image of Silas skulking in her entrance hall surfaced. After her first evening with Sebastian, she had returned home before the sun had crested the horizon. Silas had been waiting. He’d emerged from a darkened corner, the play of shadows over his ugly features making him appear more insidious than ever. The sight of him had come close to dropping her in a dead faint. Every night thereafter followed the same routine. His only greeting was a question: “Do you have it?”

And each time, she would shake her head and brace herself for his reprisal. Other than his lips thinning in displeasure, he had not reacted, simply stepped back and nodded toward the staircase. She had wasted no time in complying.

“Given that dreadful image,” her mother said, “I shall view this situation in a more positive light, but I still prefer that you were not involved at all.”

“Had I not drawn attention to myself and Jeffrey’s letters, neither Lord Somerton nor Mr. Cochran would have given me a second’s thought.”

“Where do we go from here?” her mother asked.

A good question. “I must proceed with my search until I find something of value for Mr. Cochran. With any luck, the indecipherable missive I found will assuage their demands.” Catherine squeezed her mother’s hand. “Can you continue watching over Sophie?”

“Of course,” her mother said, sounding put out that she even had to ask.

“Thank you.” Catherine recalled Cochran’s parting words.
Finish
what
you
started, Mrs. Ashcroft, or I will slit your daughter’s throat.
“Promise you will send for me the moment you believe something has gone amiss.”

Her mother patted Catherine’s hand. “Be at ease, daughter. I will not let you down in this.”

The muscles in Catherine’s throat constricted. “I never doubted it, Mother.”

She sent Catherine a wan smile, appreciating the small falsehood.

A whoop of laughter broke into their reverie of past failures and future happiness. They looked up to find Sophie tearing across the meadow, her kite flying thirty feet above, Mrs. Clarke running alongside, encouraging her with gentle instruction.

Before she realized what she was about, Catherine was on her feet, clapping. Chagrined, she glanced over at her mother, who stood beside her, wearing the same proud smile, her hands clasped together at her chest. They grinned at each other and then turned as one to cheer on their little girl.

***

Sebastian cursed his impatience, even while the heel of his boots tore into the graveled path leading to his stables. With hours to go before Catherine made her nightly appearance, he could no longer tolerate the sound of his own interminable pacing. He needed something to take his mind off the widow and her penchant for vacating his bed in the middle of the night.

For the last two evenings, they had indulged their carnal desires, and afterward, she would crawl from his bed and set about searching his home with a thoroughness that would put many of his agents to shame. After their first night together, when he was still suffering the effects of his beating and fell into a deep sleep, she had made the mistake in thinking he was not easily awakened. But sleep was something he needed very little of and, as a result, it took him awhile to fall into slumber. Had she waited a little longer before deserting him, she might have pulled off the deception without his knowledge. But she had not, and he had been forced to follow her about the house as she combed through his personal items.

A movement by the paddock fence caught his eye. His steps slowed as he made out the form of a small child sitting atop the rail and watching his groomsman exercising Sebastian’s prized white Arabian.

Sophie
Ashcroft
. Sebastian closed his eyes and counted to five. He could pretend he hadn’t seen her and continue on to the stables, where he intended to muck out stalls, brush down horses, clean tack—anything—that would release the tension strumming through him.

Opening his eyes, he noted her precarious perch and knew he couldn’t walk away. Her mother would never forgive him if he allowed harm to come to the child. He would not analyze why he cared about the feelings of a woman who made passionate love to him one moment and deceived him the next.

Blowing out an exasperated breath, he headed for the horse-hungry imp. Even from this distance, he could make out her rapt expression. What he wouldn’t do to feel such unreserved joy for something. Anything.

“Miss Sophie,” he called.

She started, grabbing the rail for balance. Once she had recovered, she shoved a piece of paper into the pocket of her red pelisse, then glanced over her shoulder with a guilty expression.

“Do you remember who I am, child?”

She nodded. “You’re the Lord Earl.”

Leaning his forearms against the fence, he followed Cira’s progress. He shared the girl’s fascination with the Arabian. The horse’s trim lines and graceful maneuvers had been perfected over centuries of solid breeding.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” he said with the same patience as her mother. “I am an earl, but the proper way to address me is by using my title—Lord Somerton.”

She wrinkled up her nose. “Lord Somerton.”

His lips twitched. “Or you may call me Sebastian.”

She perked up, but her gaze never veered from the Arabian. “Bastian.”

He smiled, liking her version better. “That’s right, Sophie.” A few silent minutes passed while they both admired the white beauty.

“Did you know Arabians are the oldest purebred horses in the world?” she asked with wonderment.

He did. But how did she? The child couldn’t be more than six or seven. “I had heard something to that effect. What else can you tell me?”

She turned wide, expressive eyes on him. Her father’s eyes. “King Sol-lom—”

“King Solomon,” he offered.

Her eyes opened wider. “Have you heard this story?”

Suppressing a chuckle, he said, “I’m not sure. Why don’t you tell me?”

“King Solomon housed forty thousand Arabians in his stable. Can you imagine? They’d fill your big barn.”

Sebastian nodded in agreement. “Indeed, they would. Yours, too.”

“Holy horses!”

A laugh burst from Sebastian’s chest, alarming Cira and the groomsman and sending young Sophie into a gale of giggles. The intrepid child reminded him so much of Cora at her age that he felt an answering pang of longing for simpler times.

“Ohhhh, no,” Sophie whined. The abrupt shift from laughter to a child’s pout surprised him. He glanced down and found her staring off into the distance, shrinking behind his shoulder.

He followed her gaze and noticed a feminine form headed their way. His heart stuttered for a moment, thinking Catherine had come to fetch her child. On closer inspection, the woman wore a light gray gown, rather than mourning black, and she had brown hair. Not his Catherine at all.

“Who is she?”

“My new governess, Mrs. Clarke.”

“You do not like her?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “She’s nice. This morning, she showed me how to build a kite.”

“Impressive,” he said. “How did it fly?”

“Really high. I ran out of string.”

“Well done.” Remembering the many times he had attempted to elude his tutor, he asked, “Are you hiding from Mrs. Clarke?”

“Not her.” She slanted a glance toward her governess again. “Him.”

Sebastian kept his pose casual while he scoured the area. The girl’s tone carried a distinctive note of fear that could not be easily invented. “I see no one.”

“He’s there,” she said. “He’s always there. In the woods, behind Mrs. Clarke.”

He peered beyond the governess, into the dense woodland. Still he saw no one.

“Have you told your mother about him?”

Her eyes widened, as if she remembered something important. “Ahh, I’m going to be in so much trouble.”

“Why is that?” He split his attention between the approaching governess and the treeline.

“Because I’m not supposed to tell anyone about him.” Her voice lowered and she fidgeted with a ruffle on her dress. “Especially you.”

Every muscle in Sebastian’s body hardened with fury. “How long have they been following you about?”

With her eyes downcast, she slid her hand into her pocket, and paper crackled.

He nudged her with his shoulder. “We’re friends now, are we not?”

Her blond eyebrows squeezed together, considering.

“Did you hear of my invitation to visit my stables?”

She brightened, nodding. “Mama said I had to wait until my birthday on Saturday.”

“That’s correct,” he said. “We must be friends, because I don’t let just anyone into my stables.”

“I feel the same way about Dragonthorpe,” she said. “I asked Mama if I could show it to you, but she cried.” Her lips pursed. “Not like that bad man made her cry. I think she misses my papa.”

Sebastian stilled, trying to keep up with the girl’s thought patterns. He had some experience with this particular malady from when Cora was young, but he was more than a little rusty. He tucked Dragonthorpe away, recalling Catherine’s mention of the castle. However, ignoring Sophie’s comment about Catherine missing her husband took a good deal more effort. He eventually managed it, as he knew he would.

“You miss your papa, too?”

Paper crackled again. “Sometimes.”

“Do you have something there of his?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, double trouble.”

The moment didn’t exactly call for humor, but the earnestness in the girl’s voice tickled something deep inside. “A letter, perhaps?”

“Yes,” she said in a small voice. “But it’s all gibberish. You’d think Teddy wrote it instead of my papa.”

Could she be carrying another letter of Ashcroft’s? Sebastian tried to keep his excitement under control. If Sophie had somehow filched one of her father’s coded messages, then Catherine hadn’t held anything back. She had given him everything.

He stared down at the child’s bent head, and a different sort of pressure squeezed his heart. Had she taken her father’s letter in a bid to be closer to him? Instead of finding reassuring words of love, she had found nothing but a confusing string of nonsense. “After your party, I promise to help you read your papa’s letter. How does that sound?” He would make sure Ashcroft’s final words were a comfort to his only child.

“Mama might get upset.”

“I’ll take care of your mama. Agreed?”

“Yes, Bastian.”

“Would you mind if I took a peek at it now?”

With obvious reluctance, she pulled a folded missive from her pocket and held it out for him.

“Thank you, Sophie.” He scanned the contents, no better able to decipher them than Sophie. But toward the end a name stuck out—Frederick Cochran. The name struck a chord of familiarity, but nothing came immediately to mind.

“Oh, yes,” he said, glancing down at Ashcroft’s words again. “I shan’t have any problems deciphering this tomorrow.” Another name stood out in stark contrast to the rest—Abbingale Home. Sebastian frowned, not understanding the reference and having no context in which to figure it out.

“May I keep this until tomorrow?” he asked.