One Week as Lovers (6 page)

Nearly shaking with energy, Lancaster stalked to the ancient shutters that covered the window. He had a vague idea that he might throw them open with a dramatic flair, but the damned things were swollen shut. It took him a good minute of prying and tugging to get them open, but when he did he was rewarded with the sight of a long line of deep pink rising above the horizon. Dawn, or near enough. Mrs. Pell was likely up by now.

He’d pulled on trousers and a shirt long before, so he only had to tiptoe into his bedroom to retrieve his boots before slipping out the door. Cynthia slept on.

Before reaching the kitchen he heard female voices, one of them raised in anger.

“If you leave now, you’ll never have a job in his lordship’s home again.” Mrs. Pell’s voice quivered with outrage.

“But I don’t plan to work here again,” a girl replied, nervousness clear in the shaky words. Lancaster snuck his head around the corner.

The two new maids cowered near the door. “It’s haunted! We heard ghosts running through the walls!” Mary cried, and Lancaster jerked back with a smile. Perfect.

“Come now,” Mrs. Pell scoffed. “’Twas only a mouse.”

He dragged a reckless hand through his hair to muss it, then took a deep breath and lurched around the corner. “Damn big mouse if you ask me.” All three women gasped and stepped back before dropping hasty curtsies. “I heard it too,” he continued. “Banging and rustling. Even a scream, I daresay.”

“Yes!” Lizzie cried. “Screams and horrible moaning.”

Moaning? Oh, my. Well, perhaps he’d moaned a bit after she’d bashed him in the head. He raised a hand to touch a careful finger to the lump at the edge of his eyebrow.

“Now, milord, I’m sure you’re just not used to the sounds of this old place settling at night—”

“I was attacked.” He touched the aching spot with a bit more flair. “Pounced upon in my bed while I slept.”

The two maids let out little screams and scrambled for the door, but Mrs. Pell’s face paled to a sickly white that even the frightened maids couldn’t match.

“Attacked?” she croaked.

The door banged against the wall and the maids were gone, vanished into the dim morning.

“You won’t be paid!” she called after them, though the words fell weakly from her mouth.

Lancaster pushed a chair toward her and Mrs. Pell sat down hard.

“I do believe those girls have a fear of restless spirits,” he said, his mood inching up to even greater heights. If there were no maids about, Cynthia would be free to live openly in his home. “I say, Mrs. Pell, is there tea this morning? I’m parched.”

“Yes, sir.” She stared at the open door for a long moment before she blinked back to her wits. “Oh, pardon me, milord!” She jumped to her feet so quickly that her skirts flared around her. Her eyes darted to the wound on his head. “I’m so sorry. The water’s ready. I’ll have breakfast for you in a moment, if you’d like to relax in the library. You’re an early riser today, sir.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Aye…Well.”

“And I’ll take breakfast in my chambers, if you please—”

“Of course.”

“Cynthia will likely wake soon and I’m sure she’ll be famished.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll…” The whites of her eyes showed all around as his words finally sunk in. “Pardon me?”

He was unkind enough to thoroughly enjoy the stunned disbelief etched across her features. “That vicious ghost who attacked me in my chambers last night? I managed to catch her. She’s quite lively for a spirit.”

“You…You caught the…ghost?”

“I did.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Lancaster relented and smiled. “Thank you for helping her, Mrs. Pell. She looks quite healthy for a young woman who’s been living in the attic for weeks.”

The housekeeper’s face didn’t move.

“But we shall have to find her a proper chamber now.”

Her eyes turned liquid. “Milord?” she whispered, just before the tears overflowed her eyes.

Oh, no. He couldn’t bear to see a woman cry. “I’m sorry,” he said in a rush. “I shouldn’t have teased you like that. Cynthia is well. Everything is fine.”

“Sir!” Her face crumpled.

“Ah, Christ.” Unable to take it a moment longer, Lancaster jumped forward and pulled her into his arms, hoping she wasn’t the kind of woman who’d cry harder when embraced.

She took a deep breath. Lancaster held his. Her shoulders ceased their trembling. “I’m so sorry, milord. I should never have kept it from you.”

His deep sigh of relief ruffled the few strands of gray hair that weren’t pulled tightly into her braid. “Nonsense. You had no reason to trust me.” The truth of his own words stung.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Pell pulled away. “You’ve always been a kind soul, sir. Always.”

Not true. Not anymore. Lancaster glanced away and cleared his throat. “If you’d be so kind as to bring a tray up, we can all share breakfast while we formulate a plan. And celebrate.”

“Celebrate,” she repeated, finally daring a smile. “Yes, I do think this calls for a celebration. I have one last jar of cherry compote I’ve set aside. And a half loaf of pound cake left from last night.”

Cherry compote. His mouth watered at the memory of his favorite treat. Another vivid piece of his past that he hadn’t even dusted off in ten years. How much of his life had he left buried here in a vain attempt to forget that one single week?

“Give me half an hour,” Mrs. Pell said, already busying herself with the stove. “A celebration calls for more food than that.”

He wandered the ground floor rooms as he waited, opening shutters and curtains to let in light. Though he’d been here for days, the place had been inanimate—silent and unmoved by his presence. But now it came alive. Quiet and slumbering in the dawn, yes, but
alive
.

There was his father’s favorite chair, so wide that Nick had been able to squeeze in next to him for the first few years they’d lived here. There was the hearth his mother had always hovered near, chilled by the sea air that swept between stones.

They’d moved to Cantry Manor when Lancaster was eight. He’d believed it a magical place, overlooking the sea and riddled with hidden hallways. And named Cantry Manor just for his family, he’d assumed.

It had been lonely sometimes, especially for a boy like Nicholas who’d grown up the pet of all his mother’s friends in Hull. But he’d made friends with the boys in the village. And then there’d been Cynthia. By all accounts, she should have been friends with his younger brother. But Timothy had been disdainful of friendship with girls, and Jane had been far too young to care for anything but rag dolls.

So it had been he and Cynthia who would crowd together in front of the kitchen fire on rainy days to play cards or read books. Or lie on their bellies in the grass to play with his tin soldiers. Or creep through the servant passages to hide and surprise each other.

All these years, she’d remained that girl in his mind, never changing.

“Sir?” Mrs. Pell’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Shall we wake her?”

Yes,
he thought, like Sleeping Beauty saved from her rest.
But,
he amended hastily,
without the kiss.
Strangely, the thought set loose a cloud of butterflies in his gut.

“Cynthia…” The gentle voice crept through her dreams, but the mattress was a soft, sticky bundle pulling her down. She snuggled more thoroughly into the feathers and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. The bedcovers oozed warmth.

“Cynthia,” Mrs. Pell called. “It’s time to get up, sweeting. We’ve got a big day.”

Were they to make mincemeat pies then?

She snuggled into the pillow, telling herself the linen smelled of Nicholas.

Wait a moment…Her heart stopped. The linens
did
smell of Nick.

Cynthia opened one eye and tried to focus on the face angled close to hers. Messy blond hair, sparkling brown eyes, wide grin.

“Good morning, princess,” Nicholas cooed.

Cynthia’s heart shot straight out of her chest. “Good God!” she screeched, jumping up so fast that her flailing hand connected with his nose.

“Bloody hell, woman! Do you never tire of beating me about the face?”

“Language, milord,” Mrs. Pell scolded as if he were still a child in her kitchen. He apologized in the same nostalgic manner as he rubbed his nose.

They’d both gone mad. She looked from Nicholas to Mrs. Pell and blurted out, “I told you he would not sack you.”

Nicholas snorted. “You were not so sure of it last night. You seemed only moments from throwing yourself at my feet to beg for mercy.”

“I certainly did not!”

“Mm. I’d hoped a good night’s sleep would improve your mood.”

Mrs. Pell tsked. “She’s been a sourpuss for weeks, milord.”

Mad. Stark, raving mad. “I was forced to stage my own death! It tends to damage one’s mood.”

Mrs. Pell reached over to pat Cynthia’s hand where it clutched the coverlet. “Your situation has greatly improved, sweeting.”

“Hardly. I wasn’t actually dead even before Lancaster stumbled upon me.”

“Stumbled,” he muttered.

“But Cynthia,” Mrs. Pell scolded. “Lord Lancaster means to help you. You needn’t worry now.”

“I needn’t
worry
? Surely you jest.” She glanced toward Lancaster, feeling a momentary twinge of guilt, but there was no way around it. “I need money. And he’s got even less than I do.”

His eyebrows rose.

“Are you fleeing creditors? Is that why you’re here?”

“Cynthia,” the housekeeper gasped, but Lancaster seemed entirely uninsulted.

“Still the same unruly child, I see. Perhaps a sweet will cheer you up.” He plopped down on the bed beside her, shaking the whole mattress, and gestured toward the tray.

Stung by his evaluation of her maturity, Cynthia looked away from him to stare at the tray. A few heartbeats passed in quiet. Guilt swelled from a kernel to a full bloom in her chest.

She was frightened and frustrated, so she was being rude. It was one of her faults, lashing out when under pressure. But surely Nick remembered that about her. If he remembered anything at all.

Mrs. Pell, clearing her throat, handed her a piece of compote-covered pound cake. She handed a second plate to Nick. “Regardless,” the housekeeper said, “he can help with your plan.”

Cynthia’s eyes flew to his in time to see them widen. “What plan?” he asked, the words muffled by a mouthful of cake.

She waited for him to swallow, then took a bite of her own cake, letting the tart sweetness melt over her tongue as she tried to think what to say. Her shoulders had bunched painfully at Mrs. Pell’s words. But of course, there would be no hiding the plan. Even she wasn’t childish enough to think so. She’d have to tell him, but her arms wanted to curl around her waist to hold the secret close.

“What plan?” he asked again.

She tried to swallow the cake, but it wouldn’t budge. Unfortunately, her dry mouth only bought her a few more seconds, because Mrs. Pell, whose eyes saw everything, handed her a cup of tea.

But she didn’t wait for Cynthia to clear her throat. Instead, she offered her own explanation. “She means to find buried treasure, milord.”

Oh, Mother of God. She’d swallowed the cake, but now the tea jumped into her windpipe. Cynthia began to cough wildly.

Lancaster’s hand landed soundly on her back, and he thumped her a few times. “Buried treasure? That’s quite a…scheme.”

She shook her head and knocked his arm away. Wonderful. And he’d thought her childish before. “It’s not buried treasure,” she croaked.

His doubtful hum conveyed understanding and pity at the same time.

“There’s treasure hidden in the cliffs.”

He took a sip of tea. “
My
cliffs?”

Damnation. In truth, even if she found the treasure, it should rightfully belong to him. “I can’t be sure,” she said carefully.

“Well, it’s either my cliffs or old Inglebottom’s and his start ten miles away.” He held her gaze, waiting for an acknowledgment she wouldn’t give. Finally, he shrugged. “Why do you think there’s buried treasure in my cliffs?”

“Not buried,” she repeated. “This isn’t a fairy tale.” Ignoring Mrs. Pell’s snort, Cynthia crumbled a bit of her cake, but didn’t dare take another bite. “I found an old journal a few years ago. It was written by my great-uncle when he was a boy. He claimed to have come across a smuggler’s stash. Said he found a great chest of gold coin and hid it in a sea cave.”

“Stolen pirate’s booty?” Lancaster crowed. “That’s even better.”

“It’s not a joke, you insufferable lout.”

She watched him try—and fail—to twitch his mouth into a serious line.

“It’s real, Lancaster. And I mean to find it.”

“Right. And why do you assume the gold is still there?”

This she could answer with certainty. “My great-uncle died very young. Only two years after the journal was written.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “All right. What do you mean to do with this gold when you find it? Pay for Richmond to be quietly murdered?”

Strange, but he sounded slightly hopeful at that. “Of course not! I mean to pay off my family’s debt and buy passage to America.”

“Ah. Why pay off your stepfather’s debt?”

“My sister. Mary will be fourteen next year. I don’t think Mother would let her be sent to Richmond, but…she’s never been able to stand up to her husband. I won’t see my little sister given in my stead.”

All the amusement vanished from his face, leaving a mouth that looked as if it hadn’t smiled in years. “I see. So you honestly believe this treasure exists?”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll help you find it.”

That seemed a bit too good to be true. “You’ll help me? And then you’ll send me off to America with well wishes?”

“Er…We’ll have to discuss that later.”

“No, we will not,” she said firmly.

Mrs. Pell, still fiddling with the tray, set the teapot down hard. “The viscount is a traveled man, Cynthia Merrithorpe, and you’d do well to listen to him.”

“I reach my majority in two weeks and I’ll do whatever I like.”

“Spoken like a true adult,” Lancaster murmured, and she had to fight the urge to punch him in the ear.