Lady in the Stray (15 page)

Vashti did not share her brother’s enthusiasm. In point of fact, she shuddered. “I don’t want you to go exploring on your own, Charlot. Anything could happen. You could get lost and no one would ever find you. Promise me you will not.”

How had he come to be saddled with so cravenly a sister? No lad with a healthy curiosity could refrain from investigating a house crammed with staircases concealed in walls and chimneys, hidden rooms and passages, secret ways of coming in and going out. However, Charlot could and did promise not to get lost.

“Lionel says some of the spaces were left when a new outside wall was built around the main part of the Tudor building, and that the gentleman who ordered the Gothic renovations made good use of them, as well as the brick Tudor drains.” Charlot’s amber eyes sparkled; he had saved the best for last. “And what’s more, I found some spy holes, sis. One of them looks smack into your bedroom.”

“Into my—” Vashti’s voice was faint. “Charlot!”

Definitely, his sister was a pudding-heart. Charlot reminded himself that she had recently suffered a severe blow to the head, no matter how it had been induced, and therefore was in no fit frame of mind to appreciate being spied upon. Personally, Charlot should have adored to have a spy hole in his chamber, but apparently females viewed these matters in a different light.

He perched beside his sister on the couch. “You should have stayed in bed, like the sawbones told you, Vashti. You’re looking worn to the bone.”

“And leave you to wander about alone? Thank you, no! You may not believe we are in any danger, Charlot, but I happen to know otherwise.” Looking worn, was she? Vashti felt positively grim. “May I remind you of Marmaduke’s treasure? And the missing memorandum? We aren’t the only ones with an interest in what may be hidden in this old house.”

“Then you should let me
look
for it,” retorted Charlot, “instead of sticking as close as a court-plaster to me, and in general moping about!”

Even Charlot didn’t believe her. Vashti gazed upon that young man. He was a sight to startle any intruder, with Python wound loosely around his neck and Bacchus nestled in his hair. Disposed in various pockets were Greensleeves and the turtle, which in the excitement still remained unnamed. To add to the bizarre effect, boy and snake and rat were all liberally festooned with dust and cobwebs. For all Vashti knew, the frog and turtle fared no better. She knew that she did not.

Not only was Vashti very dirty as result of their explorations, she felt more than a little out of sorts. In addition to her sore head, she was fuddled with exhaustion, due not to her injuries, but to her inability to fall asleep without vividly recalling Lord Stirling’s mocking face, and consequently becoming so angry that she spent long hours awake.

How to coax Charlot out of the sulks? “I didn’t tell you that I saw a ghost.” She pointed. “Sitting in that very chair.”

“A ghost? Jupiter!” Charlot observed the chair in question with awe. “You’re hamming me, Vashti.”

“I wish I were.” Vashti also eyed the chair, cautiously. “We even carried on a conversation, or so I thought. Doubtless the blow to my head deranged my senses, but it seemed real enough at the time.”

Charlot was not prepared to accept so dull an explanation as his sister’s temporary onslaught of lunacy. “I don’t see why Mountjoy House shouldn’t have a ghost; it has everything else! What manner of ghost was it, Vashti? Did it say why it haunted us? They generally have a reason. Maybe Cousin Marmaduke murdered it!”

Vividly, Vashti recalled the malevolent old woman. “The ghost is more likely to have murdered Marmaduke! We talked about my invasion of her privacy— she called me a hoity-toity little twit. Yes, and she said someone had hit me over my head with a walking stick!”

“She?” Charlot was disappointed. He had been envisioning ghosts of quite another sort. Cavaliers, smugglers, villains of every sort intrigued him—but not members of the weaker sex.

“Yes, she. An old woman wearing clothes that were a good half-century out of date.” Vashti frowned, a painful act. “Now that I think on it, she said that she would have to tell the others of my presence in this room. But it was Minette who directed Stirling to this chamber, was it not? I must have imagined the incident. Before we came to this wretched house, I never imagined anything. It is all very strange!”

Charlot had scant interest in ghosts who acted in so unadventurous a manner, and even less in old women, for which latter failing his Aunt Adder must be blamed. He bounded up from the couch and continued his explorations. Over his shoulder, he grinned at his sister. “I’ll say this for you, Vashti! You know how to set a household on its ear. Minette was on pins and needles when you turned up missing, and Orphanstrange looked like he was about to go off in an apoplexy.”

To this compliment, Vashti returned a weak smile. She wondered how the old woman had passed away, if indeed the old woman was a ghost. If, for that matter, there had been an old woman—but there must have been, because Vashti’s imagination was not so well developed as all that, her opportunities to develop her sensibilities having been scant. Was it possible someone dwelt without her knowledge in Mountjoy House? That notion was even more absurd that the suspicion she’d spoken with a ghost. Very well, then, what had caused the ghost’s demise?

Unrequited love, no doubt. Vashti poked unenthusiastically at the cushions of the couch. Either the old woman had languished, or been murdered, or aggravated to death. In any case a gentleman was doubtless involved. Vashti paraded culprits before her mind’s eye, all clad in the garb of centuries past and all wearing Lord Stirling’s face.

With considerably more efficiency, Charlot continued his search. No detail was too minute to warrant his attention, not the plump chairs or the settee covered with Aubusson tapestry, the small portable desk, with its nest of empty drawers, not even the silver chamber pot. Nor did he neglect the room’s small window, which opened onto a chimney and thus could not be glimpsed from outside. His investigations turned up only additional cobwebs, and dust. “This ghost of yours isn’t the tidiest of housekeepers!” he muttered, brushing a cobweb out of his eyes.

He didn’t believe her about the ghost, either. Vashti supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.

Charlot abandoned his search and flopped down beside Vashti on the couch. “There’s nothing here,” he said. “Like there’s been nothing anywhere else. Sometimes I think Cousin Marmaduke didn’t
have
a treasure, sis.”

“Papa always said he did.” Vashti contemplated Bacchus, who had descended from Charlot’s dusty curls to perch upon her knee. “Although Papa hadn’t seen Marmaduke for a very long time, and there’s no telling what happened in the interim.” If the treasure was nonexistent, people were certainly taking a great deal of interest in it. Even Lionel had begun quizzing her about Marmaduke’s treasure, of late. “Or perhaps it is the missing memorandum that is the cause of our sudden popularity. Stirling, for one, will go to any lengths to secure that wretched paper for his godpapa.”

Charlot retrieved Bacchus from Vashti’s knee and tucked the rat tenderly away. It was time to change the subject, lest his sister fall into the dismals, as she was prone to do upon the mention of his lordship’s name. Charlot shared the opinion of the sawbones that Vashti should have remained several days in bed, charitably attributing her newfound gloomy silences to her enfeebled state of health.

From one of those silences, he now roused her, by prodding her with his foot. “Stop air-dreaming, Vashti! We’re wasting valuable time. What with Stirling and Lionel both haunting the house, there’s precious little chance to search.”

With a distinct lack of enthusiasm, Vashti rose. Devoted as she was to Charlot, she could wish for a more mature ally. Their father would have known how to deal with this abominable situation. As Vashti remembered him, the Comte de Fontaine would have known how to deal with anything.

But the comte languished in a French prison, at best; and at the worst, had already ascertained the truth of Marmaduke’s treasure first-hand. In the latter case, he afforded his daughter scant spiritual guidance from beyond the grave. Marmaduke’s solicitor, were
he
made privy to Vashti’s problems, would likely conclude she was spying for the French, while Stirling—

If only she could trust Stirling! Unconsciously, Vashti smoothed her soiled gown, patted the scarf that covered her hair. But Stirling had been a friend to Valérie—or rather more!—and was therefore not to be trusted an inch.

Though she didn’t trust his lordship, Vashti was indignant that he shared the sentiment. “Stirling thinks I am an impostor,” she said as she followed her brother out into the secret passageway. “He told me so himself. I’m not at all like the Vashti Beaufils
he
knew—and if ever I see Valérie again, I vow I shall wring her neck!”

Charlot had grown very weary of the subject of Lord Stirling, to which his sister continually returned. Vashti was in a fair way to being very foolish over his lordship, he thought. Perhaps it was due to the blow to her head. Charlot didn’t remember his sister ever before evincing any interest in this silly cuddling stuff.

If moping about was what happened when a person took another person’s fancy, Charlot wanted no part of it himself. “Look sharp about you, Vashti, else you take another tumble!” he scolded.

Recalled to her surroundings, Vashti surveyed them gloomily. There was little enough she
could
see, Charlot’s candle casting only a feeble light. They were in a narrow winding passage set in the thickness of the wall. “Where are we going?” she inquired.

“To the attics. I found a hidden staircase.” Charlot led the way. With a great deal less enthusiasm, Vashti trudged after him. Though Charlot might not credit her intruder, Vashti knew otherwise. Now she accompanied her brother to insure he suffered no similar mishap. Yet what could she do, did they surprise some other searcher? It would do little good to scream, and Vashti doubted she was capable of anything else.

At least, within this narrow, dark and dirty passage, there was no good hiding place. “Stirling,” she said abruptly, “has renewed his offer for Mountjoy House. The price he offers us would enable us to live comfortably for some time, even in France. In light of recent developments, I think we should consider selling the place, Charlot.” Let Stirling fend off would-be invaders and worry about his wretched memorandum! Whatever his sins, which Vashti suspected were innumerable, he was unlikely to be spying for the French. How would he next try and persuade her to assist his efforts? Thus far Stirling had utilized bribery and kisses and threats.

Charlot glanced over his shoulder. “You’re convinced he wasn’t your intruder, sis?”

Perhaps Charlot did not altogether disbelieve her? The thought left Vashti somewhat cheered. “I don’t rule out any possibility, but Stirling claims he wasn’t in Mountjoy House that night.”

“He wouldn’t be likely to admit it, sis, even if he was—that is, if nobody knew.” Charlot paused, raised his candle, stared attentively at one wall. “What a queer old house this is! I wonder why Lord Stirling wants it.”

“I suspect that what Stirling wants is not Mountjoy House, but the memorandum which he insists is hidden here. Were Mountjoy House in his possession, he could search at leisure. What did you mean when you said he wouldn’t be likely to admit being here, Charlot? How could Stirling deny it, had he been?”

Upon this further demonstration of his sister’s addled thinking, Charlot cast her a sympathetic glance. “He could deny it very easily, if no one knew he was here. What with all these secret passages, there might well be a means of entry we don’t know about; there probably is, in fact. What’s to prevent his lordship’s knocking you over the head with his stick, then dragging you into the secret room, then leaving the way he came, with no one the wiser? All he had to do the next day was pretend to be surprised.”

Though she might doubt his lordship, Vashti disliked criticism of him from any other source. “Stirling does not carry a walking stick,” she pointed out.

Exasperated, Charlot turned on his sister. “Goose! We don’t know that it was a walking stick he hit you with. You’re going on in a very bad way, sis. You’ve been wishing his lordship to the devil ever since you met him, but let
me
say a word against him and you take up the cudgels in his defense.”

So she had, and Vashti could not explain. She consoled herself that she was not the first inexperienced young woman, unversed in the ways of highhanded gentlemen, to make a cake of herself. This reflection did not lessen her growing resentment. And furthermore, Vashti realized, she knew precious little about his lordship, not even if he had a wife.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Had the explorations of Charlot and Vashti led them in a different direction, they might have discovered another peephole, which afforded an excellent view of the main gaming saloon. As usual at this late hour, the large room was crowded with fashionable gentlemen in evening dress. In one corner, a faro bank was in full swing. Among the players present there was Lord Stirling, who had already established himself as a gambler with a great deal of cool caution and a definite flair. Orphanstrange strolled casually through the throng, keeping watch on the dealers and croupiers and waiters as well as the guests. It was not unheard-of for a reckless plunger to come belatedly to his senses and realize he had staked his entire fortune on a throw of the dice. Orphanstrange’s ambition was not to prevent these unfortunates from suffering the consequences of their folly but to insure no fits of remorse were enacted on the premises. Scandal enough had already attached itself to Mountjoy House.

In this endeavor Orphanstrange was assisted by Lionel, stationed near the door—although the solicitor’s attention had a tendency to stray to another corner, where Minette set in motion an E.O. stand. Vociferous gentlemen surrounded her, their attention less on the gyrations of the little ball than on Minette herself, who was wearing an extraordinarily revealing gown. Recklessly, they punted on the spin of the table, frequently losing on one side what they had won on the other. Minette laughed gaily and flirted outrageously, to such good effect her admirers accepted philosophically that it was the way of E.O. banks to win. Not all the guests admired Minette’s sparkling frivolity, however. She earned countless reproachful glances from gentlemen at a nearby table, who took the game of whist very seriously and played for very high stakes and strongly deprecated distraction during the course of a hand.