Kay Springsteen (9 page)

Brambles clawed her arms and snagged on the sleeves of the gray dress. Even the sturdy material was no match for the determined thorns. Using the slender box as a shield, she pushed some prickly stems aside. But the branch slipped off the polished wood and slapped her left arm. Searing pain exploded from her elbow to her shoulder. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she blinked furiously
until the sting cleared
.

What an ill-fated excursion her latest scheme was turning out to be. She should have stayed at the cottage, hidden in the scullery to open the wooden case. After all, Seabrook had absented himself on another mysterious outing shortly after tea, leaving her quite alone. Logic told her that Abby wouldn
’
t return before she delivered supper. Still, something about the way the case had been secreted in the wall… While it piqued her insatiable curiosity, it also stirred a bee
’
s nest of unease in her middle. She could think of no legitimate reason for its being set there. That
alone
seemed to call for the utmost caution when investigating its contents.

A branch whipped into her face and she gasped with surprise. Perhaps her decision to travel into the woods had been a bit extreme. She stared at the wall of tangled brush before her. The deer track had long since dwindled to nothing. But surely the secluded thicket where she and Juliet had once played was near. She turned to her right. A hedge of blackberry bushes loomed, delicate white blossoms fluttering in the light breeze. Hope soared. They
’
d often collected the fat, sweet berries and shared them, laughing at the way the juice stained their lips dark red. She must be close.

At the snap from behind her, Annabella glanced over her shoulder. Had she been followed? She stilled her movements and waited. The leaves overhead whispered in the warm breeze. In the distance, a lark trilled a lonely song. The brook bubbled somewhere ahead. She was definitely on the right trail. She waited a moment longer, but no more twigs snapped, and she didn
’
t so much as hear a rustle from the tall grass at her feet. Annabella moved forward.

As she slipped between two thick trees growing close together, the sound of the brook grew suddenly stronger.
T
his time when she shoved aside the clutching brambles and pushed through, she stepped into the tiny glade she
’
d been seeking.

The three flat-topped boulders that resembled a table and two chairs stood off to one side, the bases now partially obscured by lush green grass. Annabella picked her way carefully. If so much as a volemouse scampered across her feet
,
her courage would desert her.

The largest boulder was dusty, with small bits flaking off in patches, leaving shards of sharp gravel strewn across the top. She brushed at the me
ss but only managed to dirty her hand. With a shrug, she set the wooden case down.
She
studied the box
for a moment then pulled out a hairpin and jammed it into the simple lock. It took a few tries before she was rewarded by a tiny
snick
.

Thank you, Juliet, for showing me how to force a lock.

The hinges were stiff but the lid lifted without a sound. Papers fluttered and resettled with a sigh.

Annabella stared.
“
Banknotes!
”
She pushed them aside only to reveal more beneath.
“
Piles of them! There must be hundreds of pounds here. Maybe thousands.
”

One-pound notes, ten-pound notes. The case was filled with them. All with different dates and drawn on a handful of different banks. Annabella recognized none of the bank names but that was unsurprising
,
as she held little interest in financial matters.

She rifled through the notes, frowning. Who on earth would put such an abundance of wealth in the wall of a derelict old cottage? Surely the former tenants wouldn
’
t have left such a thing, even if they
’
d
had
the means t
o amass such riches.

She peered at the ten-pound note in her hand, drawn on the Salisbury & Shaftesbury Bank, and dated only a few months previously. And another from a bank in Middlesex, dated the previous year. Rose Cottage had fallen into disrepair years before, when her stepfather was still living.

“
What
is
all this?
”

As though in answer, a finch tittered at her from the bushes.

And what did it mean that it had been hidden in the wall? Should she return the case to the hiding place so its owner could find it? But once again, that brought up the dilemma of just who the owner might be. She shuffled the bonds again. They all seemed to be made out to
“
bearer,
”
so that was little help. She pushed more of the papers aside and picked up the last handful. Her ey
es fell on a name she recognized.
Graeme Roland Dominick Markwythe, Sixth Duke of Wyndham.

“
Markwythe!
”
These were
his
? It hadn
’
t been enough that he
’
d given them the cut? He
’
d concealed thousands of pounds worth of banknotes in an old cottage whilst she a
nd her mother had suffered in near poverty? Annabella had witnessed her mother struggle to keep Wyndham Green running on ever-dwindling funds. The lines around her eyes and across her forehead had deepened as she
’
d tried to hide her worry that one day they
might end up having to leave their home.
“
That hateful— Oh!
”
No curse was adequate for such despicable treatment.

Her ranting raised a grouse from the grass rimming her little glade. She grabbed up all the notes and shoved them back into the case. She had half a mind to storm to London herself and shove the banknotes in his face, demanding answers.

Juliet!

Annabella
’
s heart jumped into her throat. Of course, if she raced to London with her discovery of Markwythe
’
s treachery, their own deception would be found out. Juliet would be caught in the middle. Better to bide her time, perhaps use some of the funds to send for
“
Annabella.
”

Abby could help her. She wouldn
’
t want Juliet to be in trouble, either. Of course, that meant she
’
d have to confess to the maid what she and Juliet had done and pray Abby held
a bit of
sympathy
—
for Juliet at the very least.

Her mind made up to approach Abby, Annabella closed the wooden case, but the top wouldn
’
t
go down
. The notes seemed to want to spill over and the lid simply would not lower enough to set the lock. Frowning, she rubbed her hand back and forth, shifting the papers, trying to get the notes to
settle
into place
. When they still wouldn
’
t fit, she pulled out a wad of them, clutching the notes tightly against the tug of the capricious wind. About halfway down, the reason for the change became apparent. A leather pouch
rested in
one corner
,
pushing
up some of the notes. The metallic chink as she picked it up captured her full attention and she tugged on the ties. That sounded like…

She spread the top open and peeked inside.
“
Coins…
”
She eased a few into her palm. Mostly half crowns and shillings, but a lot of them.
“
Enough to get me to London so I can rescue poor Juliet.
”

As she moved to replace the pouch in the case, she brushed aside a handful of notes. Softness whispered against her skin. Surprised, she yanked her hand back then stared at the black velvet bag.
Oblong and fat
, filled with something of nearly equal proportion, it had been tucked into the case opposite the coins. Annabella lifted the bag and laid it on the stone table. Mindful of the increasing wind, she set the pouch
with the
coins next to the velvet bag, then quickly replaced the notes and shut the case.

The drawstring bag had been sewn of the finest velv
et she
’
d ever seen. A French
fleur-de-lis
had been embroidered in golden thread near the center, and under that a single name,
Lascombes
. Had the bag been brought from France? Surely not, with the war going on. Perhaps her discovery belonged to a refugee o
f the war?

Her hands shook with excitement as she eased the drawstrings apart. A
roundish
glass bottle lay cocooned in the velvet. As soon as she pulled it out, the flash of streaky sunlight brought the green glass to life with dancing glints. Corked and waxed, she could only assume the liquid sloshing inside was wine or some other spirit.