The fireplace was large and surrounded entirely by heavy oak carvings. The artist who had designed ithad decided to decorate it with a riot of heads andleaves and flowers and cherubs and demons. It was amonstrosity, Daphne decided, and she was glad thatthe fireplace in her room was a great deal more elegant. She stood before this one, her eyes roaming overthe carvings, and tried to feel a familiarity with thesight. She tried to feel an instinctive knowledge ofwhere a secret compartment might be. Would it beinside the grate or the chimney? Or behind part ofthe surrounds? Was one of these carved projections asecret handle?
Alas, Margaret was dead, and Daphne could no longer think with her mind or make use of any of hermemories. She was not even sure she had the rightroom. She was not sure that Sebastian had spoken thetruth. She was not sure the jewels had never beenfound, though the Countess of Everett believed thatthey had not.
But she had to do something. If she did not do this, she would be obliged to sit with Miss Tweedsmuir formuch of the day, since it was raining dismally outside.And if she had nothing to do but sit, then she wouldhave nothing to do but brood. There was no point inbrooding. Life had to go on. She could not spend whatremained of hers grieving for a man who had died acentury ago.
Daphne spent almost an hour pressing, poking, pulling, twisting. She had touched every single projection of the wood carvings at least twice, she thought finally, sitting back on her heels and rubbing her handstogether to restore some warmth to them. It was hopeless. Obviously there was no secret compartment. Orelse she was looking in the wrong room. She had toldherself at the start that she did not expect to findanything. But she could feel now how much she hadhoped. She felt like crying with frustration anddisappointment.
“You,” she said aloud to the carved head of a particularly hideous gargoyle on a level with her eyes. “Why cannot you be the secret handle?” She jabbeda finger at the rather prominent nose, as she had doneat least twice before. She took hold of the nose andtwisted.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to have a temper tantrum, she thought, to start throwing thingsand kicking things. But she was not naturally of avolatile temper. She merely sat on her heels andsighed.
“Justin,” she muttered, “I so wanted to prove your innocence.” And she so wanted, she knew, to proveto herself in one more way that she had been neitherdreaming nor imagining all that had happened. It hadbeen real. If she could just have found the jewels, thelast vestiges of doubt would disappear.
“Well,” she said to the gargoyle, “keep your secret. It is all the same to me. I don’t need the old jewelsanyway. I thumb my nose to you.” But instead ofthumbing her own nose, she thumbed the gargoyle’s,reaching a finger beneath it and flicking upward.
A whole large square of paneling tipped upward and inward to reveal a square, dark hole. Daphnesnatched her hand back as if it had been scalded andrubbed both palms over her dress at the knees. Herheart was beating rapidly and painfully. This was it.This really had been Sebastian’s room. There reallywas a secret compartment in the fireplace. It was alittle below the level of her eyes, its base almost atfloor level. She would have to stoop down farther topeer inside. She was afraid to do so. What if it wasempty?
Daphne drew a deep breath and lowered her head. A box. Very much smaller than she had imagined.She had pictured a treasure chest, a pirate’s chest.This was a velvet box, long and rather thin. Shereached in a shaking hand and drew it out. It wascovered with purple velvet, rather faded, not at alldusty as she would have expected. There were twometal clasps at the front. Daphne flicked them upwardand opened the lid after a lengthy pause.
Her hand shook more noticeably. She was looking down at what she knew must be a vast fortune. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, other gems, all set intonecklaces, earrings, brooches, bracelets, pins. Even ifSebastian’s debts had been astronomical, there would have been enough left after paying them to have kepthim in luxury for the rest of his life. It was no wonderthat he had been willing to kill in order to keep them.And no wonder that the hue and cry after Justin hadbeen so persistent.
Daphne closed the lid and bowed her head over it. She knelt where she was for a long time. Justin. Ah,Justin. The pain was raw. It tore at her heart untilshe felt she could not bear it. This was what he haddied for? But now, finally, it was real beyond anydoubt at all. She was Daphne, firmly anchored in thebeginning of the nineteenth century. And yet she heldin her hands very tangible proof that last night andfour nights ago she had been caught up in the realand tragic events that had led to the deaths of threepeople.
To Justin’s death.
Something splashed onto the purple velvet of the box top and darkened its color. Daphne set the boxon the floor, spread her hands over her face, and gavein to the misery and the luxury of tears.
She was wearing blue muslin, the best color for her complexion, she thought, and her favorite color, too.Of course it was ridiculous to be wearing muslin onthe second day of November and at Roscoe Castle ofall places, but it was her best and her very favoritedress. Besides, she was feeling too much nervous terror really to be aware of the cold. She had washedher hair and her maid had brushed it into soft curlsabout her face. The color in her cheeks was high, shenoticed at a glance into the looking glass, and her eyeswere bright. She looked for all the world like a younggirl awaiting the arrival of her suitor—which she supposed was just as well.
He was there at the castle already. She had not seen him arrive, but Miss Tweedsmuir had sent a messageto tell her that if she was not ready, she must hurryas his lordship’s carriage had just drawn into the courtyard. His mother was with him. They had sent a message that morning.
Of course, Daphne was discovering, she need not have hurried, though all she had needed to do waspush her feet into the slippers that matched her dress.The earl was closeted with Mr. Tweedsmuir, and adiscussion of the marriage settlement was taking anage. Daphne had wondered if the courteous thing todo would be to go to greet the countess, who wouldbe in the drawing room with Miss Tweedsmuir. Shewas not sure what correct protocol demanded and hadnot thought to ask Miss Tweedsmuir at luncheon. Shewould wait until she was summoned, she had decided.She just hoped it would not be long. There were butterflies dancing in her stomach.
She glanced at the purple velvet jewel box, which was standing on her dressing table. For some reasonshe had told no one about it yet. It was too much partand parcel of the events in which she had been caughtup. And she could never tell anyone about those.Though the compulsion was still there to clear Justin’sname. Justin. She dared not think of him. Not now.She hoped she would not be kept waiting muchlonger.
And then the maid she had dismissed fifteen minutes earlier reappeared at the door to request that Miss Borland attend the Earl of Everett in the library.The girl’s eyes were wide with excited anticipation.Everyone down to the lowliest scullery maid knew why his lordship was calling.
Daphne drew a deep breath. “Justin,” she whispered. But she must not think of him. She left her room with resolute steps.
He was standing in front of the fire, facing the door. She was aware of that though she kept her eyes onher hand as it transferred itself from the outer doorhandle to the inner one and carefully closed the doorbehind her. She had not once looked at him, and yetshe was somehow aware that he was tall and elegantand immaculately dressed. She had caught a glimpseof white-topped, tasseled Hessian boots.
She turned toward him after closing the door and lifted her chin resolutely, remembering the smile withwhich she had intended to greet him. But the smilenever reached her face.
Blond hair. Silver blond, cut fashionably short. Blue eyes. Very noticeably blue despite the distance between them. Regular, handsome features. An Adonis,no less. She stood very still and stared at him. Hestared back. Daphne was not sure if seconds passedor minutes before he spoke.
“Margaret?” It was a whisper.
Her mouth opened and closed. She swallowed. “Justin?”
They stood transfixed, staring at each other. One part of Daphne’s brain wondered if her own face wasas pale as his.
“You have cut your hair,” she blurted at last. The foolish words hung in the air between them. Theyseemed to have been spoken very loudly.
“And you,” he said at last.
“You died,” she said, her hands going behind her to grip the door handle. “The night before last. Ahundred years ago. He tricked you and you died.”
“And you,” he said. “I thought you died first, but you did not. You were still alive. You died alone.”
