The Pursuit of Pleasure (37 page)

“The house is magnificent.”

A lovely concession. It was something. And it was so much better than the part when he had called her a whore. They would simply have to stick to architecture. But she would do it on the move. If he would not retreat, she would.

Lizzie stepped away from the wide French doors and across to the open door to the hallway. The lime-washed, paneled casement surrounding the door was just as wide as the others. In fact, there was another little face, which she had never noticed before, in the carving.

“How pretty,” she prattled. “I have never noticed this one before. Such beautiful carvings, such detail. I have always admired it, and no doubt you have too?”

“Are you … are you refusing me?”

“I am but newly bereaved, Mr. Wroxham, and a good deal of that time I have spent unjustly imprisoned.”

He colored, two vivid spots high on his cheeks. Yes, perhaps he’d forgotten that little blight on his potential wife’s character.

“It is simply too soon for me to make any sort of decision regarding my future. I need time to recover.”

“You didn’t need time when you married my cousin.”

“No. You are correct. We didn’t take any time. And that was a decision I came to regret.” She had since, in fact as recently as last night, gotten over that regret, but that was nothing Wroxham need to know. She only needed to extricate herself delicately from this ridiculous situation. “Please, Mr. Wroxham, I beg you would understand. I bid you good morning.” And she closed the door in his face.

Well, she thought as she hurried, lest Wroxham decide to follow, up the stairs and down the hall to hallway to her bedchamber, she certainly hadn’t seen that coming. Such an extraordinary proposal.

He must be very hard up for money. Maguire had confirmed that his pockets were completely empty. And the way she had lavished so much spending on Glass Cottage, she had practically advertised herself to the county’s gamesters:
rich widow to let.

Lizzie threw herself on the top of the bed. She couldn’t possibly get to sleep now, even though she was almost shaky from fatigue. What a night.

She turned to see if Mrs. Tupper had been so kind enough to leave a glass of water the previous night, and there it was, asmall decanter and glass resting on its usual tray in the corner cabinet.

Lizzie heaved a long-suffering sigh and slid her feet off the bed. She hoped a long drink of cool water would help her pounding head. It must be the fatigue. She had been too busy last night to drink more than a few sips of wine or champagne, so she couldn’t be cup-shot.

She reached to refill her glass and she saw it, another small face carved into the decoration, this time in mother of pearl. Lizzie stooped down to contemplate this laughing, impish face.

Why, they must be all over the house. Whoever had originally built the place must have had a marvelously puckish sense of humor to place these delightful imps throughout the place. It was almost as if the spirit of the place were laughing at her.

A strange feeling, like floating in cold water, came over her. She felt suspended, staring at the carving, repeating her own words in her head. The house was laughing at her.

Could it be so simple?

She looked around. The casements on the windows. The depth they gave the walls. And here in this room, she was directly above the library. Directly above the wide casement she had leaned back against this morning. Directly above the first carving she had noticed. The Green Man.

Lizzie clasped the little mother-of-pearl face with fingers suddenly slippery with nerves and pushed. Nothing happened. She pushed up, down and to each side. Nothing. Perhaps she was wrong and the house was laughing at her in more ways than one. But then she pinched the delicate little creature’s nose between her fingers and turned.

There was an audible click, and slowly, carefully, Lizzie pulled the whole cabinet away from the wall. It squeaked and creaked loudly on its hinges. The mechanisms hadn’t been oiled in ages.

That was the sound: the hinges creaking. That was the sound she had heard from the library that night, the night Dan Pike had broken in. He must have tripped a noisy panel in the library casement.

Lizzie peered into the dark and dusty space behind the wall. What a discovery! A tight, dirty passageway led to a hole in the floor. No, not a hole, but an opening with a ladder built into the far end of the wall. It led both upwards to the floor above and down.

She checked the back of the cabinet to see if she could discover how the panels opened from the inside. She was nearly beside herself with excitement, but she hadn’t become so foolish as to lock herself into her own walls. The thought of being trapped inside
this
enclosed space made her heart start to tighten and pound.

She left the first cabinet open and went over to the other corner, found the elaborately carved flower face in the same spot, and twisted. It popped open as well. Good Lord, it was just like the caves in the cliff face—the house must be riddled with them. This one didn’t appear to lead anywhere. Just a safe hiding place—a priest’s hole.

But the other, she would lay odds, led down to the library—the room where all her troubles with Dan Pike and the smuggling confraternity had begun.

She ran back down the stairs and tore straight back into the library until she was face-to-face with the Green Man. She reached for his long, pointy nose and gave the Green Man a tweak.

The lime-washed wood panel beneath the bookcase popped open with a loud creak. Lizzie ducked down and peered in, and this time she could see it clearly—the metal latch mechanism. She moved into the space and touched it, and a second door panel swung open to the outside. She crawled out onto the library terrace. She’d found Dan Pike’s most likely entrance route.

It was a very promising start.

“Mrs. Marlowe?”

She screeched. And jumped. And then dissolved into nervous laughter. It was only Wroxham, where she had left him, sitting woebegone in a chair, nursing a brandy.

“Mr. Wroxham, you will forgive me. But I’ve just made the most astonishing discovery.”

He rose and came towards her, peering in astonishment through the open panels. Bloody persistent man. He had to be got rid of. Immediately.

“Mr. Wroxham, yes. I need your help. I need you to call Mr.—” She almost said Mr. Marlowe. Lord. “Mr. Maguire,” she finished. “No. Don’t bother.” She could see Jims trudging across the lawn, coming to the kitchens for his breakfast.

“Jims,” she called across the lawn and waved her arms to get his attention. “Get Mr. Maguire.”

The boy stopped, turned back to look towards the stables and then turned back toward Lizzie. “Don’t know where he is, ma’am,” he called back.

“Just find him,” she shouted.

Lizzie reentered the library through the French doors and found the carving on the opposite panel. When it swung open, she could see this was the passage connected to the ladder and corner cabinet in her bedchamber. But this passage was larger, slightly wider, running behind the bookshelf. And it had a narrow stairway that led down. She couldn’t possibly go in there. Certainly not alone.

Wroxham was still standing there, still as a statue, gawping at her.

“Mr. Wroxham, if you would be so kind as to fetch the steward, Mr. Tupper. You know the house. He’ll most likely be in the kitchens. Tell him. He’ll know what to do.”

Wroxham looked strangely undecided.

“Mr. Wroxham. I must insist you find Mr. Tupper for me. I need to wait here for Mr. Maguire.”

“What goes on here? Jeremy?” Of all people, Lady Mary Wroxham had risen supremely early from her bed to join them.

Lovely. This was not good. If this kept up, she’d be leading guided tours of Glass Cottage’s subterranean passages. Like the Catacombs in Rome, full of delightfully horrified pilgrims. Only these guests were all suspects.

This was a very bad idea.

“She’s found the passageway.”

Lady Wroxham brushed by her son for a closer look. “How?”

“Some carving on the wall.”

Lady Wroxham was close to Lizzie now, crowding up to her, peering her birdlike face into the dusty gloom. Her look was not one of idle fascination.

“Fascinating isn’t it?” Lizzie edged back towards the doors to the lawn.

Lady Wroxham ignored her. “Who else knows?” she asked her son.

“No one. Yet.”

“Get a light. There, the branch on the table. Light it with the taper on the mantle. Hurry.”

“Lady Wroxham, I do understand your excitement, really, I share it, but we must not be hasty.” Another moment and she’d be out the door, and onto the lawn where she could get help.

“Shut up,” the lady snapped over her shoulder. “Bring it quick. Here.” She took the candles from her son. “Now get her in there.”

And before Lizzie had a chance to tell the stupid old bat to shut up herself and go to hell while she was at it, Wroxham was obeying his mother and bundling her roughly through the larger opening. He was faster than she had expected. She’d underestimated him. She’d underestimated them both. Lady Wroxham stepped in behind them and shut the door.

Lizzie’s heart began to pound. Oh, Lord, it was just like Dartmouth Gaol. Only worse. Here the walls were much closer; she could touch them on each side. The air was dank and still and unused. And the only light was from Lady Wroxham’s candles.

“Here,” and the lady passed the larger of the two branches over her head to Wroxham.

Tall, Jamie-like Wroxham. There were certainly bastards enough to go around in that family, weren’t there? He still held her arms in a tight, painful grasp.

“Take her down. Move.”

Wroxham complied, pulling Lizzie behind him towards the stairs as Mary Wroxham shoved at her back from behind. Lizzie decided this was as good a place as any to make a stand, now that she had been so foolish as to let them get her in here. And she had had just about enough of Lady Wroxham’s rude behavior. Really. It was hard to believe she was the rector’s wife’s sister.

“Don’t shove me,” she hissed, and even though Wroxham still had her arms, she kicked back viciously with her foot. She caught Lady Wroxham in the gut, and the older woman went back hard against the wall.

“Don’t hurt my mother.” Now it was Wroxham’s turn to yank hard on Lizzie and send her shoulder into the wall. Lizzie gave him a nasty, fierce jab with her elbow and heard him stumble on the top steps of the stairs.

Quite a pathetic little scuffle they were having within the walls—like huge rats arguing over a crumb of cheese. They’d have the whole house awake in no time. Speaking of which. Lizzie opened her mouth and let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“Shut up,” Lady Wroxham hissed from behind. And then there was the distinctive metallic snick of a gun hammer being cocked back. Lady Wroxham had pulled out a pistol. The deadly bore winked at Lizzie in the dim, wavering light.

“Down. Now.”

And so they went. Lizzie kept her hands out to either side, touching the wall to keep her balance and bearings as they went.

It was a very long way down. She counted sixty-two steps in all. The first twenty-eight had been in a straight line down wooden steps, putting them, she thought somewhere deep under the music room. But then the passage walls had given way to stone and they had taken a flight of twisting stone steps, curving down to the right. Then another close passageway carved out of the rock and another shorter left-handed stair. Which brought them to a stop in front of a thick door made of oak and covered with metal studs.

“It stops,” Wroxham called over his shoulder. “There’s a door, but no handle.”

“It’s broken,” Lady Wroxham stated.

“Broken?” her son echoed. “Then how do we go on?”

“We don’t.”

“Then why did we come, if we can’t get out?”

“We can get out, back the way we came. But first you need to kill her.”

Lizzie’s mind had been busy gleaning information, such as the fact that while Lady Mary was well familiar with the passages, her son was not. He had not been down here before. But such a command snapped Lizzie’s attention back to Lady Wroxham.

“Kill her?” Wroxham looked at Lizzie, standing caught between them, with genuine horror. Lizzie doubted Lady Wroxham had been brought up to date on Wroxham’s latest matrimonial plan to keep himself in money. “I don’t want to kill her.”

“You don’t think I’m going to do it? You killed the last one.”

“By accident, damn it. He cracked his skull on the stone floor.”

“Yes, before he could tell us what he’d done to break the mechanism. Well done.”

Wroxham’s face was pinched down hard. Oh, he surely was navigating his treacherous way between a rock and a whirlpool. And his mother was done with her explanations. She handed him the pistol and took the large branch, then lighted the single candle that had snuffed out when Lizzie had shoved her. She handed the single flame to Wroxham.

“Shoot her. No one will hear it this far down. We’ll get the body when we can get Pike and the others down here to open that door.”

“Don’t you think someone will miss me?”

Lady Wroxham turned the full force of her icy gaze upon her. “I really don’t give a damn.”

Lizzie was about to say that Maguire and Jamie and every servant in the place likely knew about the passageway by now, and they were probably on their way to save her, but maybe that would give Lady Wroxham too much information, give her an edge. No, best to take her chances with Wroxham. At least he liked her well enough to have asked to marry her. And he did seem sincere about his desire not to shoot her.

So she let Lady Wroxham go without another word. She would try her gambit on Wroxham.

“I think I know how to open it.” She turned and gave him her back, moving, making herself not a target, and thinking of the right thing to say while she searched. “It’s like a puzzle, all these catches. In the house they were all the same, but different. They were all up on the right.”

And then she saw it. A smooth pebble, seemingly stuck to a little ledge on the wall. “There.” She pointed. It was out of her reach. That made two things she knew about the man who had built Glass Cottage and all these caves—he had a funny sense of humor and he was tall. No wonder tiny Lady Wroxham was in such a bad state. “You get it. I can’t reach it. I’ll hold the candle.”