“Oh, very well. Just this once.” Stephen turned to the butler. “Please escort our guest to the western parlor via the trapdoor, as the dungeon is currently safer than the modified entranceway. The footmen will help you with the rolling staircase.”
McCarthy murmured something unintelligible while casting Stephen a disapproving glare, then hurried down the corridor to retrieve the new guest.
Miss Wynchester arched her brows. “How many trapdoors are there? They’re not on my map.”
“Just one,” he answered. “The original owners of medieval castles were serious about fortification. The only entrances are the frontdoor, which leads to what you call the murder room, and a hidden trapdoor on the ground behind the castle, which leads down to the dungeon. Reddington does not appear to know about the latter. The rear of the castle must not be under surveillance.”
“Amateur,” Miss Wynchester murmured.
“And yet more than dangerous enough.” Stephen held out his elbow. “If you’ll come with me…”
Miss Wynchester started to take his arm, then hesitated and touched her hip. The slightest wince flickered across her face.
He frowned. “Is everything all right?”
Her guilty gaze sprang to his and she grabbed his elbow firmly. “I was just noticing that I’m not carrying a sword.”
“I thought you trusted Miss Oak. Have we invited her in despite misgivings?”
“One can never be too careful.” Miss Wynchester’s voice held an ominous tone. “Perhaps my blade is meant for you.”
“Hmm. Well, if you think it necessary, I can send someone up to your rooms to fetch a weapon.”
She brightened. “Would you? Have them bring the sword stick lying on the bed.”
“Not the battle-axes?” he asked in surprise.
“Sometimes it’s better to carry what looks like a cane.”
“Ah.” He put it together. “Miss Oak doesn’tknowyou’re a sword-wielding berserker.”
“That’s right,” Miss Wynchester said quickly. “Which way to the parlor?”
“Down this corridor.” Stephen murmured instructions to a footman, then led Miss Wynchester to a small enclave outfitted with a circular Axminster carpet, bookshelves covered in colorful figurines, an ornate desk and matching tea cabinet with gold-filigree-covered drawers, four bright tangerine armchairs, and a small yellow sofalined with daffodil-embroidered pillows. The rest of the ceiling and walls were covered in Stephen’s contraptions.
Miss Wynchester took the sofa, which was farthest from the machines.
Before Stephen could seat himself in the armchair closest to her, McCarthy swept back into the room with a pink-cheeked, salt-and-pepper-haired woman at his side.
“You must be Miss Oak,” Stephen said, as though he had not seen her through his telescope on multiple occasions. “I am Stephen Lenox.”
“Densmore’s cousin?” she said in obvious surprise, then peered at him closely. “Why, I might have thought youweremy nephew! You could almost be twins.”
“Aren’t I lucky,” Stephen murmured. He waited for Miss Oak to take a seat before settling into his own chair.
She folded her hands over a cloth satchel in her lap and sighed with obvious frustration. “I’m sorry to bother you. I know that if Miss Wynchester had uncovered the will, she would already have informed me. I was just so hurt to think my nephew opened his door to a stranger and not to his own aunt.”
“No one opened it for me, either,” said Miss Wynchester. “I had to chop my way in.”
Miss Oak looked startled. “You mean that metaphorically?”
“I promise to repair the damage before the children arrive,” Elizabeth assured her.
Stephen raised his brows. “Children?”
Miss Oak leaned forward. “I don’t know if my nephew or Miss Wynchester already told you, but my sister and I spent decades planning to turn Harbrook into a school and orphanage. Arminia didn’t live to see its completion. I don’t want to die before realizing our dream, too.”
Stephen nodded his understanding. It was not an enemy attack that Miss Oak feared, but time itself. She was more likely to be felled by a bad case of the ague than the blade of a sword.
