The Lion's Daughter (51 page)

“I
know your way,” he said. “Keep us all tied like puppets
to your purse strings. But not me, not any more, my dearest Mama. I'm
ruined. I've nothing to lose now.”

Her
eyes narrowed. “You'd better not be threatening me.”

Sir
Gerald took up the black queen's substitute. “I think my niece
should be told the truth.”

“You
mean your twisted version of it. She won't believe you.”

“Maybe
not.” He smiled at the chess piece. “It hardly matters.
I've nothing to lose, as I said.”

Lady
Brentmor put down her own glass and folded her hands upon the desk.
“I figured you was up to something. How much do you want?”

THOUGH
THEY'D KEPT their voices low, Esme had heard all she needed: It was
her grandmother who kept back the dowry, and all those grim warnings
about Sir Gerald were nothing but lies. The reason was obvious. Esme
had wed a man Lady Brentmor disapproved of. Since the willful old
woman couldn't dissolve the marriage, she'd tried to do the next best
thing. She'd probably hoped Varian would drink himself into an early
grave or come to any of the host of untimely ends fast-living men
were prone to. The dowager must have been highly annoyed with his
efforts to rebuild and restore his inheritance.

Luckily,
Percival had heard nothing. He appeared satisfied with Esme's brief
summary and her pretense of disappointment. “He only wanted
money,” she said, “and at last our grandmother agreed to
give him some.”

“As
she should have done in the first place.” Rubbing his shoulder,
Percival staggered to the narrow terrace leading to the salon and
collapsed onto a bench.

Esme
sat beside him and took over the task of massaging his aching
shoulder. “I did wonder why she would not bribe She told me he
was desperate for money. But I supposed bribery was against her
principles.”

Percival
frowned. “I shouldn't think so
—
though
one can never be sure about Grandmama
...
or Papa.” His worried gaze
met Esme's. “Neither of them mentioned the chess set?
It
w
as
there,
right under their noses. I saw it when the footman went in with the
wine.”

“Perhaps
they discussed it before I got to the window,” Esme calmly
answered. She wanted to get away and think. On the oth
er
hand, she suspected Percival knew
more about his elder's secrets than he let on. He had seemed very
uneasy since they'd reached London. “Not that it matters,”
he said. “Grandmama would never give hi
m
the black queen. If he'd had it,
Papa would have sold the set by now.” “That it is legally
mine would not stop him.”

“Not
when it meant so much money. He might make off
with
it
and
pretend it was stolen and
...”
Coloring, Percival, added
hurriedly, “But he doesn't have the queen, so it's perfectly
safe, and I expect Grandmama won't let him know she's
got
it unt
il
she
can make sure he can't touch the set at all.”

Esme's
hand paused. “Yes, I imagine she has hidden it very cleverly.
Somewhere in the country house.” “Oh, yes, yes.
Certainly. It's miles away. Quite safe from “Papa,” came
the hasty response.

Too
hasty. The wretched child knew it was not miles away.

Now
she
did,
too. Esme rose, her expression revealing only cousinly affection.
“Then we've nothing to worry about,” she said.

Percival
stared at his shoes. “Certainly
not. Nothing at all to worry about.”

Chapter
29

“COOK
WILL BE DISAPPOINTED,” SIR GERALD told his niece. “You've
taken no more than a spoonful of her famous syllabub. Or perhaps you
find it too rich? I find it so, but then, I've never had a sweet
tooth.”

He'd
been sickeningly genial from the instant Esme had entered his London
townhouse, and more so after meeting with his mother. She must have
paid him handsomely, Esme thought.

She
manufactured an apologetic smile. “I like syllabub very much,
Uncle, and I hope you will tell your cook this is the best I've ever
tasted. Every dish has been delicious. But my headache weakens my
appetite. Tomorrow I shall be well again and make the cook happy.”

Percival
gazed longingly at her dessert.

“Don't
stare like a begging puppy,” the dowager grumbled. “May
as well eat that, too. You've finished everything else for her.”

Percival
had, in fact, eaten as though he expected to be hanged first thing in
the morning. He'd taken at least two enormous helpings of every dish,
then disposed of everything Esme had left on her plate. She'd noticed
before that his appetite grew in proportion to his anxiety. His
conscience was troubling him. As it ought.

Sir
Gerald bestowed a fatherly glance of approval upon his son. “He
's
a growing boy, after all.”
The growing boy blinked once at this display of paternal affection,
then snatched up Esme's dessert and speedily disposed of it.

Sir
Gerald's kindly gaze returned to Esme. “I'm sorry you're ill.
Headaches can be dreadful. I suffer them myself.

You'd
want
some
laudanum, perhaps?” Esme accepted the offer and politely
excused herself shortly
thereafter.

While
the others adjourned to the drawing room for tea, she went upstairs
and made a rapid inspection of her grandmother's bedroom. Having
already thought the matter through, she wasted no time. Unless the
chess piece was upon the dowager'
s
person, it must be hidden where
even servants were unlikely to come across it. Which meant no place
that was dusted daily. Not a locked place either, like a drawer or
jewel box, for any determined person could pick a lock. And no place
so obvious as under the mattress. Thus it took Esme mere minutes to
locate the little box wedged in a corner of the underside of the
bedstand. She only made sure the chess piece was actually inside
before putting the box back. She dared not take it now. The dowager
might check

before
she went to bed. It was enough to know where it was. Esme quickly
slipped out and reached her own room minnutes before Molly arrived,
bearing a small pitcher of lemonade and the laudanum bottle. The maid
appeared so sluggish and stupid that Esme wondered if she'd been
drinking. Not that Esme minded. She was perfectly happy to see the
drowsy maid depart as soon as she'd prepared her mistress for bed.

When
Molly had gone, Esme dumped all the lemonade and a small amount of
the laudanum into the chamber pot. If anyone checked, it would appear
she'd taken her medicine like a good girl. She opened the door just a
crack, then slipped under her bedclothes and prepared for a long
wait.

After
what seemed like many hours, she heard Percival mumbling to the
servant accompanying him. Soon thereafter, a grumbling Lady Brentmor
passed the door. A while later, Esme heard her uncle's voice. He must
have stopped only to say good night to his mother, because his
footsteps soon faded as he went on to his own room. That was on the
other side of the house, thank heaven.

Esme
continued to wait, though the house had already sunk into silence. It
seemed she waited hours, yet when the hall clock struck, she was very
surprised to count only ten chimes.

It
was odd that the house should be so still at such an early hour. In
the country, the dowager rarely retired before midnight, and the
servants were always about some while after.

Then
Esme recalled that the footmen who'd waited at dinner had seemed as
sluggish as Molly had. Sir Gerald had ordered a feast for dinner, to
celebrate his niece's arrival, he'd said. Evidently, the servants had
decided to celebrate, too. Not that they'd need to drink much if they
ate any of the syllabub, Esme thought. It had contained a great deal
more wine than any she'd tasted before. Even Percival was probably
drunk after three helpings of it, plus the glass of unwatered wine
his father had allowed the boy at dinner.

All
the better, Esme told herself as she got up and pulled on her
dressing gown. The family would sleep the more heavily for their
overindulgence. This would not only simplify her task, but give her
an earlier start.

Esme
opened the door fully and listened. The house was utterly silent.

She
padded quietly down the hall and opened Percival's door first. She
heard no stirring from his bed, only the sound of steady breathing.
In the faint moonlight, she spied his trousers and shirt set out
neatly on a chair by the window. After considering for a moment, she
slipped in, took the clothes, and quickly slipped out again,
noiselessly closing the door behind her.

The
dowager's room was as peaceful as Percival's. From the bed came the
low burr of heavy slumber. Esme got down on all fours, crept to the
bedstand, quickly freed the container, removed the black queen, then
returned the box to its hiding place.

In
less than a minute, she was back in her room. After covering the
narrow opening at the threshold with pillows, she lit a candle.
Though she'd little packing to do, she'd rather not fumble about in
the dark.

With
steady hands, she braided her hair and pinned it into a coil about
her head. Then she donned Percival's shirt and
trousers,
wishing she'd brought her own.
His were rather thin, and more snug than she liked. Still, they were
preferable to a frock. In England, lone females were subject to every
sort of annoyance.

Her
packing took little time. The small heap of garments rolled up easily
in a shawl. The queen and several hairpins she
wrapped
in a handkerchief, which she
stuffed in her waistband. After arranging the pillows under the
bedclothes to resemble a sleeping form, she put out the candle. A
moment later, she was creeping down the back stairs, her boots under
one
arm,
her
bundle under the other.

Despite
the darkness and an unfamiliar house, it was not so difficult to find
the study door. It was the only one Esme expected to find locked. The
Brentmor's studies, Percival had told her, were constructed like
vaults, with walls and doors of double thickness. When she and
Percival had tried to eavesdrop from within the house, they'd been
unable to make out more than a murmur, even with their ears pressed
to the door or to the wall of the adjoining salon. Had the study
window been securely closed, Esme would never have learned the truth
about her wicked, selfish grandmother.

Kneeling
at the study door, Esme felt no qualms or pricks of conscience
whatsoever. The chess set was rightfully hers. Soon, she would put it
into Varian's hands. Then she'd learn for certain whether it was
simply his poverty that kept them apart. If the truth turned out to
be painful, she would endure it. Always was better to know the truth.

The
lock yielded at last. Esme opened the door
...
and froze, her fingers still on
the handle.

There
was light in the room.

A
quick glance assured her there was no one within. The candle had been
forgotten, that was all. It was a wonder if this was all the drunken
servants had neglected.

Esme
studied the door for a moment, then closed it again.

Yes,
it w
as
the
same at the country house: the bottom fit snugly against the
threshold. No wonder she'd not seen any light. Yet how careless of
her uncle to leave a candle burning in a locked room. The house might
have burnt down about his ears ... unless he had meant to return
here.

She'd
hear him coming, she told herself. He was a large man with a heavy
footfall. Leaving the door open a crack, she made for the chess set.

She
unknotted the shawl and began wrapping the chess pieces in the
assortment of garments she'd brought. She didn't want a single piece
damaged in transit. She was about to knot up the shawl again when she
remembered the black queen, which she'd stuffed in her waistband
after getting the hairpins.

As
she was pulling the chess piece out, one of the gem-stones at the
base caught on the wool. Esme eased it free very gently. All the
same, she must have damaged it, for the base was coming loose.

Swallowing
an oath, she brought the queen nearer the light. Then she stood a
while, frowning at what looked like threads in the metal. She turned
the base. It unscrewed smoothly.

It
was very clever, she thought. She'd never have guessed the queen was
made of two pieces. Wondering why anyone would bother, she turned the
queen upside down. She was hollow. Or would have been, if a twist of
paper weren't wedged in the cavity.