Lord, what should I do?
No answer was forthcoming.
She slowly tiptoed toward the chapel door, thinking she would peek in and see what was happening. If he or she was about to hide the weapon, maybe Rebecca could spy out the hiding place and return later with Sir Frederick.
Drawing near, she reached for the door, only to have it flung open in her face. Selina Newport emerged from the chapel in ordinary dress, nothing in her hands.
Miss Newport’s eyes widened. “Miss Lane! I almost ran you down. Forgive me. I didn’t see you there.”
“Is ... is anyone else in the chapel?”
“Only God, I hope. I was praying. Oh, but I did see a nun enter and leave again by the outside door. Apparently we have one staying here now.”
Rebecca blinked. She doubted Selina had told the truth.Now what?
Miss Newport took her arm. “Shall we go into the hall together? Perhaps I might play while you sing.”
Rebecca ignored the woman’s tug and remained where she was. “I ... don’t really sing.”
“Were you going in to pray as well?”
“I was, yes. If you will excuse me?”
Miss Newport gave no sign of leaving. Her eyes held Rebecca’s, alight with challenge and suspicion. Then her expression changed, like the drawing of a curtain, or the donning of a mask.
She smiled. “Of course. I won’t keep you.” She gave a little wave and sauntered away, hips swaying.
When Miss Newport had disappeared down the passage and, presumably, into the hall, Rebecca looked around to make sure no one was watching and then entered the chapel. Moonlight shimmered through the stained-glass windows. And someone had left tallow candles burning on the brass candelabra, flames casting flickering light and shadow on the ancient stone walls. Rebecca walked slowly up the aisle, then paused to survey the dim interior.
If Miss Newport had concealed the weapon and habit in here, where would be a likely hiding place?
The small adjoining sacristy? The altar ambry or communion cabinet?
Her gaze landed on the stone baptismal font with its heavy wooden cover, crowned by a cross. Her senses stilled, centered on the font, moonlight from the tall, narrow lancet windows shining on it.
She had never lifted the cover off a font before. Finding it exceedingly heavy, she widened her stance, pushed it to the side, and reached in, trying to feel whether anything was inside. She felt something hard lying in a nest of coarse fabric—a smooth handle followed by a bulbous knob. The mace.
She slid the cover farther, afraid it would topple with a clang and a shuddering wobble to the floor.
Rebecca carefully pulled the wooden handle until the mace’s brass head was free. Just touching it made her shiver. She setit down momentarily, tugged out the long swath of material, and replaced the cover.
Then she wrapped the mace in the material and wadded it up as compactly as she could.
She turned and started back down the aisle just as the outer door into the chapel opened. She ducked behind a column.
Footsteps slapped the stones, echoing across the vaulted space. Boot steps.
Pulse as rapid as a swift’s wings, Rebecca peered around the column and saw the shadowy silhouette of a man approaching the baptismal font.
A shaft of moonlight from the sword-shaped window sliced across his face.
Mr. George?
Rebecca tiptoed as quietly as she could to the door leading back into the hotel. She waited until the man was as far away as possible before taking a deep breath, pushing open the door, and sliding out.
“Hey!” the man shouted. “What are you doing there? Stop!”
For a fraction of an instant Rebecca considering running upstairs to her room and locking the door. In the next, she thought of the flimsy lock on the least important guest room, occupied only occasionally by a valet or lady’s maid without valuables to safeguard. She dismissed the idea. A strong man could likely break it down in a matter of seconds, and she had no idea how to use a mace.
