The Secret of Pembrooke Park (35 page)

They returned to the drawing room, where tea and a somewhat streaky-looking iced cake were waiting. Fortunately, it tasted much better than it looked.

Jacob forked down large bites, as if sending pitchforks full of hay into a barn. Then he looked up at the long-case clock. “Is that the right time?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Will you excuse me?” He rose. “That is, if you don’t need my help with anything else?”

“Of course. You’re all through.”

He turned to his brother. “I promised Fred and Colin I’d join them for a match at four.” Jacob looked back at Abigail. “William
was the best football player in the county before he went and became a parson.”

William demurred, “I don’t know about that.”

“You were,” Kitty insisted, then set down her fork as well. “May I go along?”

Jacob scowled. “Only if you promise not to go all moony over Colin. We all know you like him.”

Kitty shrugged. “So?”

William nodded. “Very well, but behave yourselves. Jacob, look out for your sister. And be home by five.”

Jacob grabbed his cap from the sideboard and let himself from the room. Kitty thanked Abigail politely and dashed after her brother. A moment later the large front door banged shut in the distance.

William set down his cup and saucer and looked at her expectantly.

Abigail sipped her tea and avoided his eyes.

“Well? You do trust me, I hope, Miss Foster?”

“I do, but . . . now I feel so foolish.” She glanced toward the door and, seeing no one about, said, “I studied the old plans, and had reason to think the secret room might lie behind that wardrobe.”

“I thought it might be something like that,” he said gently. “I am sorry, Miss Foster. Life is full of disappointments sometimes.” He looked as if he knew that fact from firsthand experience.

“Miss Foster, I—”

Suddenly Miles Pembrooke appeared in the open doorway, his eyes darting around the room. He looked expectantly from one to the other, his smile faltering somewhat on finding the two of them alone together. “Hello.”

“Hello, Miles.” Abigail smiled brightly, hoping to dispel the awkward moment. “You have just missed Kitty and Jacob Chapman. They left only moments ago. Do come in and join us for cake.”

Miles set aside his hat and gloves and approached the tea table. “And where is the rest of your good family?”

“Gone for a drive. Father wanted to show Mamma and Louisa the progress at Hunts Hall and its grounds, which I have already seen.”

“Ah. I see. What lucky timing then that Mr. Chapman should call when you were otherwise alone, and keep you company.”

“Yes. And what have you been up to today, if I may ask?”

His eyes glinted. “I shall tell if you do.”

Beside her William stiffened.

Choosing to ignore the implication of impropriety, Abigail prompted, “Have a good ride?”

“Yes, I went to pay another call on our former housekeeper.”

Ah!
Is that whom Miles had visited instead of his sister? Abigail said, “That must have been pleasant.”

“Yes. It was very . . . interesting. Mrs. Hayes said it would be ‘poetic justice’ if I married my cousin.” Miles gave her a sly smile. “I wonder what she meant,
cousin dear
?”

Or whom,
Abigail mused, thinking of Eliza. Glancing at William, she saw his jaw clench and quickly said, “You mustn’t take anything Mrs. Hayes says to heart, Mr. Pembrooke. I am afraid her mind isn’t what it once was.”

Miles nodded. “Ah. Well. Happens to the best of us.”

William rose. “Thank you for tea and the delicious cake, Miss Foster. Lovely icing. Perhaps we might talk about this further another time?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Talk about what, pray?” Miles asked. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Not at all, Mr. Pembrooke,” William said. “I was just leaving.”

At dinner that night, Abigail listened distractedly while her mother and sister told her everything they had seen and everyone they had met during their afternoon drive and tour of Hunts Hall. Afterward, Abigail took herself to bed early, while the rest of her family lingered over coffee in the drawing room. Polly helped her undress, and when she went to return Abigail’s pelisse to the closet, suddenly drew up short at the sight of the relocated wardrobe.

“When did you go and do that?” she asked, brow puckered.

“This afternoon. Just wanted to try a different arrangement. The Chapman brothers helped me while Kitty played with the dolls’ house. I’ll move it back before we leave.”

“Don’t fret. You can move the furniture where you like. It’s your house now—for the time being anyway. Come tomorrow, I shall give the floor and wall there a good cleaning. Likely hasn’t seen the light of day—or a mop—in years.”

“Thank you, Polly. But I can do it. I don’t want to cause you more work.”

“No bother. Now, anything else before I go?”

“No, thank you. That’s all.”

“You’re turning in early tonight. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes. Fine. A little tired is all.”

Polly closed the shutters and turned to go. “See you in the morning, then, miss.”

“Good night.” After Polly had gone, Abigail lay in bed, listening to her retreating footfalls and staring across the room at the newly exposed wall. The very ordinary-looking wall.

Even as she told herself she was becoming worse than Miles and Duncan combined, she rose, lifted her bedside candle lamp, placed it on the nearby dressing table, and regarded the wall again.

She pressed her palm against the four-foot panel, then tapped it, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet room. How odd to feel self-conscious in her own bedchamber! Did it sound hollow? She tapped again, then tapped against another section of wall to compare. The two did sound different. But a difference in the structure of an interior versus exterior wall, or one with windows versus without, could account for it. She felt along the seams, coming away with dusty fingers. Then she lifted her candle lamp and held it nearer the wooden trim. Was that the narrowest slit—a simple seam where the wallpaper met the trim, or something else?

Her heart rate began to accelerate. She knew that sometimes servant doors—doors that led onto the back stairs, allowing servants to silently slip in and out of bedchambers—existed in many old manors. And often these doors were hidden to keep from marring
the décor of the room—wallpapered to look exactly like the walls until they were opened. She pushed against the seam hidden along the slat of wooden trim . . . and felt it bounce back, as though she’d triggered a spring latch. She sucked in a breath, looked behind her to make sure her door was still closed, then pushed again. The four-foot section of wall popped ajar, opening toward her. A waft of cool, musty air met her nose.

She had found it! Found . . . something, at least.

Once again she looked over her shoulder, and then, on second thought, crossed to her door and turned the key in the lock.

Pausing to slip on her shoes and tie on her dressing gown with shaky hands, she returned to the hidden door. What would she find inside? Was there really treasure worth the lives it had cost and ruined?

As her fingers came to rest on the hidden door again, someone rapped soundly on her bedchamber door, causing her to gasp, jump back, and press a hand to her heart.

“Who is it?” she called, voice high, shutting the door and making sure the wall panel appeared undisturbed.

A muffled male voice responded. It didn’t sound like her father’s voice, but surely Miles would not come to her bedchamber at night. Or would he?

On impulse, she set a ladder-back chair in front of the hidden door as quietly as she could, wincing as it scraped the floor. Yes, the chair helped the wall look less noticeably bare.

“Coming! Just tying on my dressing gown . . .” She hurried over and unlocked the door. Since she already wore her dressing gown over her nightdress, she silently asked forgiveness for the lie.

She opened the door several inches. Miles stood there, waiting expectantly.

“What is it, Mr. Pembrooke?”

His gaze swept her nightclothes, and his brows rose. “Forgive me. I didn’t think you’d be dressed for bed already. It is still quite early.”

He was right. So perhaps his call wasn’t so audacious after all.

“I hope you aren’t ill,” he added.

“I was just . . . tired.”

“You look positively flushed.” He reached out and pressed a hand to her forehead. “Are you sure you’ve no fever?” The act pushed the door open farther, and she noticed his gaze dart about the room.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” She took a half step back from his hand. “Was there something you wanted?”

His gaze hovered on the wardrobe. “Done some rearranging, I see.”

Abigail hesitated, then asked, “And how would you know that? I don’t recall your being in my room before.”

“Your father gave me a tour that first evening, when you were at the ball.”

“Ah. What a keen memory you have. I’ve only moved a few things about. Making the room more comfortable. I hope you are not offended?”

“Not at all. Why should I be?” His eyes swept the exposed wall. “Find anything interesting?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sometimes long-lost treasures show up when one moves things that haven’t been touched for decades.”

“A great deal of dust, Mr. Pembrooke. That is all I have found.”

That was true. So far at least.

“Tut, tut, Miss Abigail. I have asked you to call me Miles. We are family, after all.”

That again. “I shall endeavor to remember,
Miles
.”

“That’s better.” He reached out again and tweaked her nose, a fond smile curving his lips and revealing the space between his front teeth.

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask to come in?” he pouted. “Though I hear a whole tribe of Chapmans spent time in here earlier today.”

“Oh, and who told you that?”

He shrugged. “I forget which of the servants mentioned it. Duncan . . . or Polly, perhaps.”

“Kitty is quite taken with the dolls’ house. Her brothers kept us company.”

“And helped move furniture?”

“While they were here, yes.”
Wonderful,
Abigail thought sarcastically. Word had reached Duncan and Miles already. “But that was during the daylight hours,” she added. “It would be quite a different matter for you to come in now. Alone.”

“Because I am a man, you mean?”

“Well . . . yes, I suppose.”

Another thin smile curved his lips. “I am glad you are aware of that fact. We are not
so
closely related, after all.”

Footsteps paused outside her room, and Louisa appeared. “Oh. Mr. Pembrooke.”

Miles stepped back from the door. “Another fair cousin. How delightful. I was only checking on your dear sister. When she retired so early I feared she might be ill.”

“I wondered the same.” Louisa looked at her, something sparking in her eyes that Abigail hadn’t seen in years—that old conspiratorial gleam when they had teamed up as sisters, covering for each other with their parents. She feared Louisa would suspect a liaison, finding their houseguest at her door at night, Abigail in her nightclothes, no less. But that wasn’t what that look said. It told her she understood.

Louisa said, “Excuse me, Mr. Pembrooke. But I simply must speak to my sister alone. Girl talk. You understand.”

He nodded amiably. “Oh yes, yes, perfectly. Well, no, not at all, really. But I shall go just the same and bid you both good night.” He bowed and swept down the passage.

With a relieved sigh, Abigail ushered her sister inside and closed the door behind her.

“Thank you.”

“Are you quite all right, Abby? You were thoroughly distracted at dinner. I doubt you heard half of what we said. And barely reacted at all when I told you we met the Morgans and saw Gilbert when we stopped at Hunts Hall.”

“Sorry. I’ve been . . . preoccupied.”

“Not with our
dear cousin
, I hope.”

“No.”

Louisa patted the bed. “Good. Well, I saved you from that man, so now you need to repay me by listening.”

“Very well.” Abigail climbed back in bed, and Louisa sat beside her.

“I wasn’t eager to visit Hunts Hall when Papa suggested it,” Louisa began, “for I met Andrew Morgan in London you see, a few weeks ago. And I . . . Well, he was quite rude to me, truth be told. I hate to say something so unneighborly, but there it is.”

“Really? I am surprised,” Abigail said. “I have only met him a few times, but he was quite kind and perfectly polite. And a friend of Mr. Chapman’s.”

“Yes, well. I am ready to forgive him everything, now I’ve seen his house.” Louisa winked. “Don’t look so scandalized. I am only teasing. I will say that once Papa formally introduced me as his daughter and your sister, his demeanor changed toward me. So perhaps things in London were all a simple . . . misunderstanding. Or he feels quite mortified by his treatment of me, now he knows who I am. That we are to be neighbors, I mean.”

“What do you mean by ‘his treatment’ of you? What did he do?”

Louisa shrugged. “Since he seems determined to put it behind us, I shall endeavor to do the same. Give him the benefit of the doubt.”