“When I open the orphanage we planned together,” Miss Oak said with determination, “I shall christen the school in my late sister’s honor.”
“I already adore it,” said Miss Wynchester, “and I never adore anything.”
“You’ll like it much better once Harbrook looks like a proper home and less like…” Miss Oak gestured at the panoply of bits and bobs strung across the parlor. She turned to Stephen. “How long would it take you to clear all these contraptions out?”
“You may keep them,” he said magnanimously.
Miss Oak looked horrified.
Miss Wynchester leaned forward to whisper into his ear. “Orphans don’t need murder rooms.”
“I’ll take it with me,” he amended. “You’ll be able to enter freely through the front door.”
“Thank you,” Miss Oak said with feeling. A moment passed. She looked at him expectantly.
Damn it. Stephen was dreadful with small talk. Much better not to allow anyone in than to sit in awkward silence.
When he was a child, his school years had been torture. His parents had been glad to be rid of their peculiar little goblin who preferred to lock himself in his nursery with hammers and wires rather than interact with family and neighbors who openly castigated him for not sharing the same interests and behaviors as a “normal” boy.
His schoolmates’ scathing opinions had been a hundred times worse. What began as constant insults escalated into physical bullying and the gleeful destruction of whatever Stephen was working on. He’d learned to hide his true self in order to make himself morepalatable to others, and when that failed, he’d learned to shutter himself away altogether and never allow anyone in.
His cousin, the Earl of Densmore, was the only exception. The one person who didn’t look at Stephen as though he belonged in a circus. Gregarious Densmore was happy to deflect attention away from his awkward cousin.
But Densmore was not here now, and Stephen had absolutely no idea what he was meant to do with the people in his parlor.
Forester, a footman, arrived with Miss Wynchester’s sword stick, taking some of the pressure off Stephen. After the cane was delivered, however, Forester melted back against the far wall rather than leave the room.
Stephen wished he could drop to the floor and do some press-ups to relieve his anxiety.
To his relief, both women ignored him completely. Miss Wynchester turned her chair toward her client and asked, “Did you think of something that might aid in the search?”
“I’m not certain.” Miss Oak opened her satchel and pulled out a thick pile of correspondence tied with string. “Here is every letter my sister wrote me that includes any mention of the will. If she did leave me a clue… perhaps it’s somewhere in there.”
Miss Wynchester took possession of the letters eagerly and began to scan their contents at a truly impressive speed.
“Is she really reading that fast?” Stephen whispered to Miss Oak.
“Maybe she can’t make out Arminia’s horrendous handwriting,” Miss Oak whispered back.
“Bah,” said Miss Wynchester. “This is high art after having to decipher my brothers’ horrid scrawls. I’m delighted to report that I have good news.”
Miss Oak’s mouth dropped open. “Youdo?”
“And bad news,” Miss Wynchester added. “The good news is that your sister did indeed leave behind a clue for you.”
“But that’s wonderful!” Miss Oak exclaimed.
“The bad news… is that I have no idea what it means.”
“Youmustknow,” Miss Oak insisted, her eyes shining. “Think about your lice.”
Stephen edged his chair away from them both. “Lice?”
“Not mine. Homer’s. See what you think.” Miss Wynchester handed Stephen the stack of letters. “Blazes! It steams me that I cannot fathom it out. Absolutely boils my brain. Simmering saffron, I thought I was hot on the trail, only for smoke to rise from my ears. This is one hell of a puzzle. Really bakes my breeches.”
Stephen blinked slowly. “Are you making heat references on purpose?”
“Yes. So did the countess, in every one of these letters. I haven’t the least notion why.”
