C
HAPTER
14
E
va closed the sitting-room door after Julia and Miles Brannock left, effectively preventing Lady Phoebe from following. She had news to tell her.
“You've learned something,” Phoebe correctly guessed, her voice a low murmur. She sat back down, this time on the settee.
Eva took the liberty of sitting beside her on the hundred-year-old Regency piece, her serviceable black dress making a dreary contrast with the fine silk. “Mr. Hensley managed to speak with Lord Owen, and he's been able to piece together that Lord Allerton had invested in the Seabright woolen mills.”
Phoebe's eyes went wide, then narrowed. “Oh, Eva, the nail is being driven farther and farther into Lord Owen's coffin.” Her brow furrowed.
“And that grieves you, my lady?”
Lady Phoebe nodded, her cheeks turning pink, but then she quickly said, “But no more so than with any other occupant of this house. It certainly makes a decision for me.”
Eva didn't like the sound of that, or the seriousness of Phoebe's tone. “What decision, my lady?”
“I need access to Lord Owen's room.”
“Absolutely not.” Eva had been saying that a lot lately, usually to no avail. “Look what almost happened when you tried to search Lord Allerton's room.”
“Yes, I caught Lord Owen removing a document or something from Lord Allerton's travel desk. Now your Mr. Hensley has discovered a connection between the two men that Lord Owen lied about when I asked him how well he knew Lord Allerton.”
“My ladyâ”
“Don't tell me to go to Constable Brannock, at least not until I find something definite. All I need is a good plan. . . .”
“My lady, I could ask Mr. Hensley to search Lord Owen's room. It would be much easier to explain his presence there than yours, since he is serving as his lordship's valet.”
To Eva's frustration, the obstinate girl shook her head. “No, I won't have Mr. Hensley risk his future. Were he caught, and Lord Owen proved innocent, the consequences could be dire. As for me, at worst I would suffer from acute embarrassment and a scolding from my grandparents. Nothing I couldn't recover from.”
“At least let me stand guard somewhere, so that if Lord Owen were to return to his room, I could warn you somehow.”
Phoebe grinned. “Now that is a very good idea. But not you. You would run the same risk as your Mr. Hensley.”
It didn't escape Eva's notice that Phoebe had termed Nick Hensley
hers
not once but twice. Could she somehow know what occurred in the service room this morning? No, that wasn't possible. The door had been closed. Phoebe would have to have been crouching on the ground outside and peering through the ice-glazed windows.
“He is not
my
Mr. Hensley, my lady. We knew each other a long time ago, and then not very well.”
“Then why are you blushing?” Phoebe crossed her arms and waited for a response. But pointing out Eva's blush only sent another rush of prickling heat to her cheeks.
“My lady, I . . .”
“Eva, don't be silly.” She laughed, a sound filled with delight. “It's perfectly all right with me if you've taken a fancy to Mr. Hensley, and he to you. I promise not to breathe a word of it in Mrs. Sanders's hearing.”
“Please don't tease me, my lady.” Eva had yet to decide how she felt about Nick's overture. If only she could be certain of his motives and his regard for her. But a man who steals kisses without warning must be viewed with some measure of suspicion, mustn't he? It could very well mean he didn't hold her in high esteem or believe her worth the time and effort of proper courting.
Was she reading too much into this? And wanting too much from him, more than she herself had suspected?
“Eva.” Phoebe came to sit beside her and took her hand. “Mr. Hensley seems like a good man. Why, he might have gone straight to the inspector once he learned you and I were attempting a search of our own, but he didn't. Or he might have washed his hands of the whole affair, but again, he did not, but insisted on accompanying us, and then questioning Lord Owen.”
Eva nodded, her spine rigid. “He has been most accommodating.”
Phoebe released her hand. “All right, have it your way. Be mysterious. Just know I'm on your side, come what may.”
Eva was about to thank her wholeheartedly, but the door abruptly opened. Lady Amelia regarded them both from the threshold and fisted her hands on her hips.
“Were you looking for me?” Phoebe asked her.
“Yes, I'm looking for you,” Amelia said with no small amount of sarcasm. “I'm tired of being shoved in the background. I want to know what is going on.”
Eva rose and headed for the door. “I'll leave you two alone.”
“Stop right there, Eva.” Amelia's command halted her in her tracks. “You're as involved as Phoebe is, no use denying it.”
“Amelia, please.” Phoebe stood and reached out to finger the lace trim on Amelia's collar, adjusting here, smoothing there. “Nothing is going on. The constable simply had some questions to ask Grams, and she wanted us with her for moral support.”
“That much may be true, but you and Eva have been conspiring like a pair of thieves. I wish to know what's going on. I'm almost sixteen. I'm not a child anymoreâ”
“Yes, you are.”
“You know I am not, Phoebe, and I wish to help. Don't you think I care about what happens to Vernon? Don't you think I want justice for Henry?”
The tiny catch in Amelia's voice tempted Eva to put her arms around her, or better yet tuck her into bed with a cup of warm milk and cinnamon. Yet she heard too much of Phoebe in this younger sister's demands. Had she thought Phoebe the only young Renshaw with spark? How wrong she had been.
Lady Phoebe saw it, too, for she stopped fussing over Amelia's collar and stepped back to regard her. “I'm sorry, Amelia. It's all too easy to go on seeing you as you were. I suppose the same way Grams and Grampapa see us all, as sweet little dolls who never change and never grow up. They want to keep us safe all the time, but if we allowed that we'd never see much of life, would we?”
“No,” Amelia whispered. Louder, she said, “Then you'll tell me what you know and let me help?”
Phoebe turned to Eva. “What do you think?”
Eva raised both hands. “It is not my decision, my lady, and it sounds to me as if you already made up your mind anyway.”
“I have.” She grasped Amelia's shoulders. “I have an idea how you can help me this very night. Eva, don't scowl. I promise my little sister will neither come to harm nor find herself in trouble. Now, here's what we're going to do.”
Â
At the sound of footsteps in the gallery, Phoebe and Amelia poked their heads outside Phoebe's bedroom door. “It's him,” Amelia announced in an excited whisper, and Phoebe shushed her.
“I can see that,” she said calmly, though inside she felt anything but. Strolling along the gallery, Lord Owen gave an adjusting tug on his tailcoat and pressed two fingers to his bowtie as if to test the integrity of the knot. “He's dressed for dinner. It isn't likely he'll return upstairs until sometime after the dessert course.” She eased out of her bedroom and down the corridor, acutely aware of Amelia following so close behind her she could hear her breathing and even felt an occasional puff against her nape. At the edge of the gallery, they stopped and listened to Lord Owen's receding footsteps downstairs in the hall.
“He's gone to the drawing room,” Phoebe said.
“About time. Let's go, then.” Amelia took a step, which brought her thumping into Phoebe's back.
“Hold up a moment.” Phoebe impatiently straightened her bodice where it had slid askew thanks to Amelia's bumping into her. “We know the others have gone down, all but Lady Allerton.”
“She's probably eating in her room again. . . .”
“Probably.” But Phoebe made no move to cross the gallery until she felt satisfied that if Lady Allerton had decided to dine with the others, she would have made an appearance by now. Minutes ago, Amelia had made her excuses to their grandparents by saying Phoebe needed help with some tangled strands of beads and didn't wish to bother Eva. That meant Phoebe had at most a quarter hour to make a quick search of Lord Owen's room while the others mingled in the drawing room before dinner was served. Should she linger past that, Grams would surely send someone looking for both her and Amelia.
“All right, let's go.” Together they scurried across the gallery, their breaths held lest they be seen from below. Thankfully the hall remained empty. They made it across and into the guest wing without mishap. “Now, then, you remember what to say should Lord Owen take it into his head to return to his room before dinner?”
“He won't, will he?” The sudden worry in Amelia's eyes fractured Phoebe's confidence in having recruited her sister as her accomplice. Too late now. Phoebe didn't dare enter Lord Owen's room without a lookout. She had promised Eva. Actually, Eva had made her take a solemn oath.
“There is no reason why he would, Amellie.” She used Amelia's nickname from when they were little, and it had the desired effect. The worry vanished from her gaze and she gave a determined nod.
“Well, then,
if
he were to return, I'll pretend I was just coming from Lady Allerton's room and claim I was checking to see if she intended coming down for dinner. I'll say she didn't respond to my knock and is probably sleeping. Then I'll ask Lord Owen to escort me to the drawing room.”
“That's right. Being a gentleman, he cannot refuse. Just remember to speak in a loud voice so I'll be sure to hear you.”
Amelia nodded her understanding, and Phoebe left her to continue down the hall to Lord Owen's bedroom. To her relief the doorknob turned in her hand. She opened the door only wide enough to slip inside and then closed it securely behind her. She went straight into the bathroom, not expecting to find anything there but wanting to rule it out quickly. As she supposed, nothing but extra towels, bars of soap, and Lord Owen's leather-encased shaving kit occupied the shelves. She returned to the bedroom.
The layout of the room was similar to Henry's, with a carved bedstead flanked by two end tables, a towering armoire, a seating arrangement around the fireplace, and a heavy mahogany desk. She went there first.
And found nothing of importance. As with the other guests rooms, a writing tablet, each page emblazoned at the top with the Wroxly coat of arms, sat on the leather desktop, accompanied by an assortment of pens and a pot of ink. A gilded porcelain bowl in the shape of an oak leaf held a few coins. She slid out the first drawer to her left and then the one beneath it. Both were empty. She made short work of the others and found only a few scraps of paper and a stub of a pencil most likely left there by a previous guest.
She took another quick survey of the room. If Owen Seabright had brought a travel desk as Henry had, he'd apparently hidden it. Quickly she crossed to one of the end tables, pulled out the drawer, and then flung open the cabinet beneath it. Both were empty but for a book:
Don Quixote,
an 1885 English translation by John Ormsby.
She paused and flipped to a page, then another, and stared down at the familiar words. She and Grampapa had spent weeks reading this book together. It was one of her favorites. She'd found it at once whimsical and sad, filled with hope and yet so tragic. She would not have thought a man like Owen Seabrightâa commander, a leader of menâwould read such a fanciful story. It showed another side to him, to be sure. A more tender side. The notion made her uncomfortable. Her snooping was meant to yield evidence that he was involved in the attack on Henry, or not. It wasn't meant to provide a window into the man's soul.
Carefully she replaced the book and closed the drawer. If Lord Owen had something to hide, where would he put it? Under the mattress? She knelt and slid her arms beneath the down tick as far as they could reach, then ran around to do the same on the other side. She flipped over the corners of the Persian rug. Coming to her feet, she again scanned the room, struck by the impersonal nature of her surroundings. Did the man travel with nothing but the clothes on his back? She must remember to ask Mr. Hensley what he thought of Lord Owen's utter lack of possessions.
All right, then, that left the armoire.
Behind the left-hand door some dozen suits of clothing hung above a perfectly straight row of shoes and boots, while to the right a bank of drawers held shirts, collars, ties, accessories, and such parts of a man's wardrobe that aroused a sense of inappropriate intimacy. She was about to roll the last drawer back into place when a bit of paper peeked out from beneath a linen under chemise. Upon reaching for it she realized it was not merely paper, but something thicker. A photograph. With shaking fingers she turned it over and beheld an imageâalbeit a clouded, slightly blurry one as if taken at a distance through a windowâof Julia standing on the threshold of what appeared to be the open door of a city building, perhaps an apartment building or a townhouse.
With a man.
The breath went out of her. Even given the fuzzy quality of the photograph, she recognized the straight black hair, wide mouth, and the slight bump in the bridge of his nose: Lord Bellington, one of Henry's friends and the individual who wrote Connie's false letter of recommendation. In the photograph, Julia had her face angled to receive Lord Bellington's kiss on her cheek.
Phoebe pressed a hand to her throat. Lord Bellington was married.
Married.