Terror shook her. She had to act quickly.
On impulse, she tossed her reticule toward the stairway, hoping it might convince anyone pursuing her that she had gone up the night stair. Then she ran in the other direction through the cloisters. Out in the courtyard, rain was falling in earnest now, obscuring her view of the other side.
She hoped she could make it across the cloisters and into the safety of the more public reception hall, but from behind, she heard the chapel door screech open.
Rebecca ducked into the shadowy corner alcove, opened the low door, and climbed onto the spiral staircase, shutting herself inside just as running boot steps clattered across the cloister’s flagstone floor.
She had plunged herself into darkness, except for the thinnest crack of torchlight leaking around the door panels. She prayed the man had not somehow heard about the hidden entrance. How ironically awful to be caught in the abbess’s stairway by one of the abbess’s “ghosts.”
Heart beating hard, she pressed her free hand into her aching side, and told herself to calm down. If he came to the lower door, she would hurry up into room three and escape from there down the main stairway, in view of the clerk on duty.
The footsteps in the cloisters stopped. Hearing nothing for a time, Rebecca rose and carefully climbed halfway up the spiral stairs until she reached the squint. She positioned her eye to the slit... and saw Mr. George. Her mouth fell open. She had been so sure he was a chivalrous, honorable man.
He stood in the cloisters, head cocked to the side, hands extended, fingers splayed, as though alert to any sound. Dust tickled her nose, and Rebecca put a finger beneath her nostrils, hoping not to sneeze.
He began walking slowly, calmly, in her direction and stopped abruptly below the squint.
She held her breath.
Then he continued around the corner toward the hall or perhaps beyond.
Unsure what to do next, Rebecca thought again about slipping upstairs into room three. But what if someone was stayingthere now? She had not heard that the room had been put back into circulation, but she couldn’t be sure. She seemed safe where she was for now, so she decided to remain. However, if Mr. George opened the bottom door she would scramble up like a rabbit from its burrow and face whatever consequences or person she might find above.
At the thought, and aided by the faint light coming through the squint, she found and traced the childish rabbit scratched into the wall and the artist’s signature:John did this. Thank heavens those words had not turned out to be as prophetic as she’d feared.
Rebecca sat down on the stone steps to think. Setting the wrapped mace on the step beside her, she tried to breathe normally, swallowing often to dampen her throat, which had begun to feel scratchy from the stirred dust. She was afraid to cough.
How long should she wait? She couldn’t remain in that dark, cramped cocoon all night. Her bladder would revolt, not to mention the rest of her. She was growing chilled already. And even if she hid for hours, might not Mr. George simply wait outside her room until she returned?
Lord, give me wisdom. Please protect me.
22
Frederick was descending the main stairs when Mr. George strode into the hall, looking harried.
“Sir Frederick, have you seen Miss Lane?”
“Not recently. Why?”
“I came in through the chapel a few minutes ago. I’m afraid I may have startled her. She ran out in a fluster. Must have thought I was another ghost.” He gave a small chuckle, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes.
Frederick surveyed the hall. “I don’t see her. Which way did she go?”
“I thought this way.” George looked past him into the blue parlour, empty except for Thaddeus Edgecombe.
“Perhaps she returned to her room?” Frederick guessed. “I did not see her on my way down but may have missed her. Shall we go and see?” Mild concern simmered in his veins. Had Rebecca seen the abbess again? Might Miss Newport have threatened her?
“I am sorry to trouble you,” Mr. George said. “I am probably worrying for nothing.”
Together the two men went upstairs and through the gallery passage to number thirteen.
Frederick knocked and the door creaked open. Discovering the door unlatched increased his uneasiness.
“Miss Lane? It’s Sir Frederick and Mr. George. Are you all right? Are you in there?”
He tentatively opened the door wide, and by the light of a lamp on the dressing table saw the room was empty.
Something on the floor caught his eye. Frederick picked up the lamp and trained its flickering light on the wet, red smear. “What in heaven’s name? There’s blood here.”
