Skylark (9 page)

She tugged on the handle of the central drawer—and it slid out. She almost laughed with surprise. It didn’t hold letters, however, but only the necessities for writing them. There were sheets of paper, pens, and some open boxes holding sticks of sealing wax, sand, a penknife and such.

She closed that and tried the top one on the left.

Locked.

That was to be expected, but the center one had given her hope. She quickly tried the others, but all were locked. She muttered the sort of word that ladies were not supposed to know and considered again whether it would be possible to force the drawers open. The locks did not look sturdy, but she couldn’t see how to do it without leaving marks.

She glared at the desk. Expecting difficulties didn’t make them any the less disappointing, but she regrouped and put her mind to work. If the key was here, where would it be?

She lifted and examined every object on the top of the desk, even peering into the inkwell. At that insanity, she reminded herself that the key wasn’t hidden in that sense. Lord Caldfort presumably used it every day. He wouldn’t fish it out of ink.

She felt under the kneehole and down the inner sides. She was about to crawl under when she realized that her father-in-law was incapable of that.

So where?

She looked around the room at a daunting array of bookshelves and objets d’art. The key could be anywhere, but the more she thought about it, the more sure she was that Lord Caldfort would not want to be heaving himself up out of his chair to get the key or to hide it.

So where?

It seemed too careless a place, but she opened the center drawer again and explored it all the way to the back. Nothing but dust. She poked through the box of sand—nothing—then tipped out the box of sealing wax into her lap.

A small ornate key glinted in the light of her candle.

Hardly able to believe it, she tried the key in the lock of the top drawer on the left. It clicked sweetly. Could she take this as divine approval? No. This intrusion was wicked, but she had to do it. She put back the sealing wax and closed the center drawer, then settled to her search.

The top left drawer contained ledgers and estate portfolios. No letters. She closed that drawer and locked it, then opened the next one down. A few more ledgers. The bottom one was empty. Of course, bending so low would be difficult.

She opened the top one on the right.

Letters!

They were all folded, but the seals she could see were broken. Ones received, not ones waiting to be sent. This was what she was looking for.

There was more than a day’s worth, however. Laura tried to remember how many had been on the desk this morning when Lord Caldfort had given her the letter from Juliet. Perhaps six? She counted quickly. Eleven.

Did he keep the letters in order of arrival? She wanted to intrude as little as possible in this search, but she might have to at least glance at them all.

She picked up the top one and unfolded it, the rustle of paper sounding loud in the quiet house. A quick glance showed it was about a purchase of a bull. She couldn’t see how that could be a cause for alarm.

The next was about a case before the courts in London, but nothing dangerous or controversial. Then a letter from France from an old friend. She read it all the way through, but saw nothing strange.

She continued opening and glancing at letters, trying not to read any more than she had to. Then she picked up one that was clearly on cheaper paper—thinner and less white. She tensed with excitement. Unlike the others, it had been sealed with a wafer rather than with sealing wax. It was addressed to Lord Caldfort, and the only indication of sender was the place of origin.

Draycombe in Dorset.

That startled her. She came from Dorset. Draycombe was on the coast near the western edge of the county and she’d never been there, but could this alarm have something to do with her?

She unfolded the paper with unsteady hands, terrified of tearing it or doing anything else to show that it had been disturbed.

She expected uneducated writing to match the paper, but the contents were neatly written, though there was something a little strange about the handwriting. An angularity, perhaps. A weight in the use of the pen.

She looked first to the bottom, seeking the sender’s name.

Azir Al Farouk.

What sort of name was that?

Ten thousand guineas! That was certainly enough to give Lord Caldfort a nasty shock, but apart from the figure, the letter mystified her. This had to be the letter she was looking for, however.

HG. Henry Gardeyne?

Her Harry? Surely not. He’d not been anywhere for “some years” and certainly not with Oscar Ris, whomever that might be. The Gardeyne family tree was full of Henrys, however, in one form of the name or another.

She started to run through the recent ones in her mind, but stopped herself. She could think in a safer place. Fearing that she would forget some detail, she took out a sheet of paper, dipped the pen, and made a precise copy. When she was sure it was exact, she refolded and replaced the original.

She looked around the desk for the item of relevance. There was nothing there except letters, and she was sure there was nothing unusual in the central drawer.

She couldn’t search further now. She had no idea what she might be looking for. A scrap of fabric, a button, a lock of hair, a picture. She might not know it even if she saw it. She was sure she’d found the troubling letter, but she glanced at the remaining three, just in case. They were all ordinary correspondence.

After checking that the pile of letters looked as it had before, she locked the drawer and replaced the key. Once she was sure that the center drawer was in order, she closed it with sweating hands, picked up her candle—and froze.

Was that a sound?

She stopped breathing to listen, but the house seemed dead around her. She was tempted to race up to the safety of her room, but she must appear innocent to the end.

She went to the shelf of road guides, found the one that included the road to Merrymead, and slipped her copy of the letter inside it. With her excuse in hand, she left the room feeling as if guilt were stamped on her forehead.

If it was, there was no one to see it. The house slept except for the ticking of clocks. Even her slippered footsteps sounded loud.

She went up to the nursery again, compelled to check that Harry was still safe. He was sound asleep, but she realized that her arrival here had not woken Nan.

Just as easily, Jack could have returned to the house, come quietly upstairs, and smothered Harry with a pillow. Or thrown him out of the window with the explanation of sleepwalking. There were so many ways to kill a child without it clearly being murder.

She hated to leave, but she must. She would be thought unbalanced if she slept up here, and she needed to study the letter. She couldn’t stop thinking that there was a connection between it and Lord Caldfort’s insistence that she take Harry away for a month, and thus a connection to Harry’s safety.

She slipped downstairs and was at the door to her room when a soft voice said, “Is something amiss?”

She turned, heart jolting. Stephen stood outside his room, dressed for the night in a blue banyan over his nightshirt. He looked fully alert, however, not roused from sleep. Laura felt as if he could see into the book she was clutching and identify the letter.

“I’ve just been up to check on Harry,” she said quietly, astonished by the calm of her own voice.

“He’s all right, I assume.”

“Yes. Fast asleep. Good night.”

She turned back to her room, but he said, “You went down earlier. To get that book in your hand.”

She looked back at him. “Pray, what concern is that of yours? I wanted a road guide. We leave tomorrow for Merrymead.”

A flicker of amusement spoke of skepticism. “And you don’t know the way?”

“I wanted to remind myself of details along the way so I can amuse Harry with them.”

He strolled closer, and she made herself not draw back as if afraid. She was not used to thinking of Stephen as so tall, however, or so formidable.

“You travel home?” he said. “I wish I’d known. I would have accompanied you. I’m on my way there, but I’m promised to a meeting in Winchester tomorrow.”

“Alas,” she said, but thought,
Thank heaven!
The pressure of his company for days would be intolerable. For some reason, she couldn’t think clearly when Stephen, clever Stephen, was observing her. As he was now.

“So there is nothing amiss in the house? Nothing wrong with your son?”

She matched calm with calm. “No, nothing. I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Stephen. Good night.”

She went into her room and closed the door.

 

Stephen regarded the closed door thoughtfully and then returned to his room. It was a perfectly adequate room with all that a guest could require, and yet it spoke in subtle ways of a place unused to visitors.

Caldfort House was architecturally elegant and efficiently run, but it was not welcoming. It was not a home. He wouldn’t like to live here, and he couldn’t imagine Laura liked living here, either. Did that explain her tension, her . . . fear?

No, that was because of the threat to her son. He didn’t believe that she’d overreacted, and the only rational murderer was the boy’s uncle, the hale and hearty Reverend Gardeyne. Thus Stephen had spent the after-dinner session evaluating the man.

Sporting mad, clever enough but not brilliant, and the sort of man who put enormous stock in siring a son, as if it proved his virility.

Wanting a son was rational when a title was at stake, or any other inheritance that must go in the male line. But it would make no practical difference to Reverend Gardeyne.

Unless his little nephew died.

Despite hours of observation, Stephen had no certainty that Gardeyne was a potential murderer, but he was relieved to hear that Laura and her son would be leaving in the morning. It was only a respite, however, so no wonder she was wound tight with worry.

He smiled wryly. A fine time he’d chosen to come courting.

He’d planned it so carefully, too. Not earlier in her mourning, which would have been inappropriate, but before the end, just in case she moved back into society and the other men flocked to Lady Skylark.

To make his excuse ironclad, he’d arranged meetings with reformers in Oxford and Winchester, and devised a valid excuse to stop here. Pathetic cowardice, really. If she still regarded him as a brother, she need never know his intent.

So now what should he do?

Brother or lover, he could not abandon Laura when she was worried, perhaps terrified, especially when she’d been sneaking around the house in the night for some purpose.

The hospitality here didn’t run to decanters of spirits for the guests, but he kept a small flask of brandy in his bag and he sipped from it.

Laura.

He’d expected the brilliantly fashionable Mrs. Hal Gardeyne, and come prepared to entice. Or Lady Skylark, who would appreciate wit and high spirits. Instead, he’d found Laura, in a dress he remembered all too well, her hair disordered almost to a girlish state, almost at point of collapse from fear.

It had almost unmasked him. Threat to her or hers enraged him. He’d tear the world apart to make it right for her, but . . .

He laughed again and drank more brandy. But he had clearly been nothing to her but an inconvenient guest. Not even a friend, dammit. Merely someone to be taken care of in the name of hospitality. He hadn’t missed her exclamation at the time, or that she’d offered a bed at Caldfort House with reluctance.

Tempting, so tempting, to hurl the brandy flask at the wall, but the damn thing was metal and wouldn’t even smash.

Just because he’d never forgotten her, because he had loved and desired her longer than he’d known and shamefully taken the news of her husband’s death as a second chance, didn’t mean she felt the same way.

And clearly she didn’t.

He wanted to flee and lick his wounds as he had six years ago. To plunge into work, trying to persuade himself that Laura was no loss. That he didn’t need a skylark for his wife, a social flutterer who would drag him from ball to rout to frivolous house party.

It seemed that common sense was being reinforced by reality. She felt nothing for him at all.

He eyed the brandy flask, capped it, and put it away. Even if Laura didn’t regard him as a friend anymore, he couldn’t abandon her.

If Reverend Gardeyne was a Wicked Uncle, there had to be ways to keep her son safe. If she was leaving to visit Merrymead, that gave him time to investigate the situation. He had a feeling there was more going on, however.

After coming up to bed, he’d stayed alert in case Reverend Gardeyne returned to the house. Instead he’d heard Laura leave her room. From the upper landing he’d watched her go into her father-in-law’s study. A slight hesitation at the door had suggested that she wasn’t entirely at ease.

A road guide? She’d remained there a lot longer than it would take to find that, and he thought she’d emerged even more tense than when she’d entered. She’d gone to the upper floor, presumably to look in on her son. When she’d come back down he’d decided to interrupt her, hoping she’d share her problem as once she surely would have done. Instead, again he’d been an intrusive nuisance. But she needed a friend, needed help. He was sure of it.