The Stanforth Secrets (31 page)

Laughter from the billiard room. She heard Randal’s voice and Macy’s. They sounded on the go.

“. . . her garter round the statue’s neck!”

Laughter. “Reminds me of the time the Duchess of Glenatherton fell off her horse . . .”

Chloe retreated rapidly. Was Justin taking part in that carouse? She doubted it, but had no intention of going in search of him. As long as he wasn’t baiting Randal, it could wait until the morning.

Compared to her precipitate travels down the stairs, she crept back up them like the most cautious thief. She was terrified that at any moment Justin might appear and put the worst possible interpretation to her midnight wanderings.

Once safe again in her room, she sighed with relief. Why had she ever thought she wanted an adventurous life? This business was likely to drive her mad. The thought of tranquil, predictable days was as sweet as cool water in the summer.

She slipped with a sigh back into her bed, still pleasantly warm from before. Her mind seemed less tangled now. She tried to consider again who might be the French agent in the house and how to catch him, or her. Gradually, however, tiredness began to drift over her. She wasn’t sure whether she had slept or not, when a sudden notion popped into her head and jerked her fully awake.

Vegetables? In
potpourri
?

The Dowager’s wanderings often made sense. Had the older lady discovered a vegetable in her
potpourri
? She tried to recollect exactly what the Dowager had said. She’d talked of Belinda’s unusual mix, then mentioned vegetables . . . then something about perfumed beans. . . .

Sitting straight up in bed, Chloe thought furiously. No one could get a potato in the
potpourri
jar. On the other hand, it was a very strange design. Perhaps there was a way of removing that wire grid, after all. Would anyone else be made curious by the Dowager’s words?

She would be unable to sleep until she had investigated the possibility. She leapt out of bed.

Her fire was out, and the room pitch dark. Chloe drew the curtains back, but the moon was clouded over and only the faintest light entered. Her eyes were accustomed to the gloom, however, and she could make out shapes. There was no need to light a candle. She knew the house perfectly and there was always a night lamp in the corridor. After the day’s events, Chloe did not want to be discovered creeping around the house so late.

Carefully, she eased open her door and slipped out into the passage.

Justin heard a noise. It was faint, possibly the natural sound of an old house settling in the cool of the night.

He had been unable to sleep. The disastrous outcome of the search haunted his mind. He had considered a hundred alternative ways of handling it, from laughing the whole thing off, to murdering both Randal and Chloe.

He had undressed, but made no attempt to go to bed. In his loose banjan, he sat by the window and suffered. Beneath his conscious attempts to think through the situation, he was aware of lurking suspicion. Why had Randal been in Chloe’s room? Had they been plotting together? Would they attempt a tryst tonight? It would hardly be discreet, but desire could overwhelm common sense. Justin knew that only too well.

Almost against his will, he was on his feet and moving quietly to the door. In his hand, he held the pistol he had prepared and laid on his dressing table. The click as he cocked it seemed to echo through the house.

If anyone was creeping around Delamere tonight, surely it was his duty to investigate.

 

 

As Chloe opened her door, she stopped, disconcerted. It was pitch dark. The corridor lamp had gone out.

Still, she knew the place well. It was only a matter of going down the passage to the end, where the Dowager’s rooms were located. There were two right-angled bends as the passage worked around the stairs opposite the master suite, but she would expect those. She knew the placement of each of the four chairs and two tables that lined the passage.

She began to walk forward. It was disconcerting to step into the black even when she knew what to expect.

She heard a noise and froze. A mouse? No. A sharp sound, as if someone had knocked against one of the chairs. She almost called out, then realized the other person could be the villain, on exactly the same mission as herself.

What should she do?

She should get help. Justin’s door was to her left, not very far ahead.

No. Impossible. With things as they were, she simply couldn’t creep into Justin’s room at night.

Randal’s room was a little farther down. She shuddered. That option was even worse.

Curse the events of the day which had led to her being unable to call upon help without scurrilous doubts. Nonetheless, she would press on. It was not so large a house, after all. If she found there really was evil afoot, she would scream and all her gallant swains could come running.

There had been no other sound, but now she found herself stretching her senses for any hint of movement. Had she imagined it? Could she herself be heard? Her soft leather slippers made no sound on the carpet, but her silk robe brushed against the floor. She gathered it up around her.

At the head of the stairs there was the faintest trace of light from windows on the lower floor. It only illuminated shades of gray but was a relief. Chloe thought of going back to her room for a candle after all, but she hoped the other person, if there was one, was unaware of her presence. She wanted to catch the villain red-handed.

She came to the place where the corridor turned back. Randal’s door must be to her left. She again considered seeking his help. But, apart from other considerations, if she opened the door and spoke to him, she would surely be heard by anyone else around.

She wasn’t, however, looking forward to rounding the corner into the stygian dark again.

Resolutely she crept around.

Something touched her, fumbled. A hand grabbed her arm.

“A sound and you’re dead.” The voice was a murmur.

Shocked, Chloe hesitated for a fatal moment. An arm came around her throat and something cold touched her there. She felt as if she’d stopped breathing, then a small squeal escaped her as the edge of a knife scraped against her skin.

The arm jerked her. “Quiet! I have a blade at your throat and I will use it if I have to.”

The voice was still a murmur, but Chloe recognized it and the portly body pressed against her back. Macy! Though she had put him on her list of suspects, she could hardly believe it. Humphrey Macy, man about town, intimate of the Prince of Wales, a spy? A desperate spy, she realized with terror.

He must know she would recognize him. Her life was not worth a farthing. She could not help but tremble as she waited for the cut of the knife which would end everything.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly by her ear. “I won’t hurt you.” She didn’t believe him. “I need those papers and we both know where they are, don’t we?”

Terror was threatening to deprive her of her wits, but she fought against it. If he did not kill her here and now, there was a chance. Strangely, it was the thought of Justin’s grief at her death which was her strongest motivation to survive.

“Yes,” she choked out.

She had hoped to make the sound louder, in the hope someone might hear, but fear tightened her vocal cords. Had she heard a sound somewhere in the corridor? Was help at hand? Macy’s breathing in her ear and the terrified pounding of her own heart shut off all other sound.

“Sensible, my beauty.” Macy spoke directly into her ear. “Are you not a little disappointed at your lover? I expected more from that letter and that handkerchief. If he really cared he would have killed Ashby.”

She had been correct in her suspicions. The thought of the pain he had caused strengthened Chloe’s nerve. She remained very still, waiting for a chance to escape.

“Ah well,” said Macy, when she wouldn’t react to his tauntings, “let us go forward slowly. You will take me straight to the Dowager’s
potpourri.
Once I have destroyed what is there, you have nothing to fear.”

Does he believe I am stupid? Chloe thought as they inched awkwardly forward. He cannot let me live.

He also had no intention of letting her escape. He was half a foot taller than she, and he kept one hand tight on her upper arm. The other held the knife pressed to her throat. She felt it at every move, scraping against her skin. When she stopped so as not to collide with a heavy oak chair that stood near the Dowager’s door, she felt a sting and then blood running down her skin. She couldn’t hold back the gasp of fright.

“Did I nick you?” he said without concern. “Don’t worry. It’s no worse than a man cutting himself when shaving. That’s what you’ve got against your delicate throat, my pretty. My razor. If I cut your throat, you’ll know the difference.”

They had arrived at the Dowager’s rooms. Surely, Chloe thought, she heard voices somewhere behind them. Who was still awake? How could she alert them?

“Why?” she whispered, as loud as she dared. “Why are you a traitor?”

“No noise!” he said sharply, but always in that quiet murmur that would not carry. “I am no traitor,” he added, and Chloe could hear the desperate need to excuse what he had done. “The petty information I give the French makes no difference to anything, but it pays me well. It’s not cheap, being the Prince’s friend. What is the layout of the Dowager’s rooms?”

Chloe thought of lying, but could see no benefit in it. “The door on the left opens into her
boudoir.
The door on the right into her bedroom. There is an adjoining door.”

“What about the companion?”

“She has a small room off the Dowager’s bedroom.”

“Where is the
potpourri
?”

“I don’t know—” Chloe gasped as his hand tightened viciously on her arm.

“Don’t lie. I’m no fool.”

“She moves it around,” Chloe lied. Then she had an idea. “It is usually on her dressing table.”

He pushed her forward. “Open the
boudoir
door, quietly.”

Chloe wished Delamere were less well maintained, for Miss Forbes had often complained of being a light sleeper. Chloe longed for a creaking floorboard or a squealing hinge. The turning of the knob caused only the faintest click, however, and the door swung wide without the tiniest squeak.

They walked forward a few steps, and he turned her back. “Now close it,” he said.

When she had done so, she felt him relax slightly. “Good girl. If I’d known you were so sweet and docile, my dear, I’d have courted you myself.” Something in his voice made Chloe feel sick. She gave thanks that he was too involved in saving his neck to pursue any other matters.

“I think we’ll open the curtains,” he said, allowing his voice to grow a little louder now that they were in a room. “There may be a trace of light.”

He gave her no chance to escape, however. They accomplished the maneuver without the blade ever leaving her throat. The heavy brocade curtains made a noticeable swish when she drew them back, but surely not enough to waken someone two rooms away.

Dawn was approaching and gray light trickled into the room, still giving only the hint of detail. For Chloe, who knew the room well, it was enough. For Macy, she hoped it would not be.

“Find the jar,” he said curtly, and she felt a tremor in his hand. He too must be terrified, she realized. His name and his life were on the line, and she hardly thought he was accustomed to this sort of brutality. She hoped it would confuse him a little. To assist the process she affected even more terror than she felt.

“I will. I will. Please don’t hurt me!”

“Keep your voice down! Behave yourself, and I won’t hurt you.”

“The dressing table. It will be on the dressing table.” She pulled him forward and felt the blade move a little away from her skin. He didn’t want to kill her. Yet.

“You’ll have to let go of my arm,” she said, “if I’m to search. I have to do it by feel.”

He released his bruising grip, but before she could move, his hand twisted in her hair. “No tricks,” he snarled.

Chloe heard the desperation. At any moment he could decide she had served her purpose, and the blade would bite. . . .

She groped with trembling hands among the half-seen shapes. She wondered what he would do if she sent one crashing to the floor—kill her? She really thought he would.

Oh God, she didn’t want to die before she had told Justin she loved him.

Was that a sound? Was it Miss Forbes?

Chloe had found the two identical jars. She needed only the slightest distraction . . .

“Hurry up,” he said, giving her hair a vicious tug. Chloe gasped and tears came to her eyes. Fear fled before blinding fury.

“There are dozens of bottles here,” she snapped, hardly bothering to lower her voice. “Do
you
want to try to find it?”