“There’s no one here but us.” Yet she could not shake the sense of unseen eyes, of a villain who would stop at nothing to find the valise.
“Then you should know I’ve touched all your belongings.”
“All except my corsets, it seems.”
“No,” he mused. “I touched those as well.”
These playful exchanges reached some desolate place inside her. It was surprising that a man as sombre as the marquess could bring light to her darkness.
“I’m sorry to say you’ll need to handle them again. We must pack with haste, fetch the valise from the mausoleum, and leave here before the devil returns.”
“The valise?”
“I’ll explain once we reach Studland Park.”
They moved to the stairs. The tacks she’d scattered across the threshold were gone. “You swept the hall?”
“Kincaid did. I was too busy with your petticoats.”
Pushing aside the image of his hands on her undergarments, she mounted the narrow stairs. He followed, casting the steps in shadow, his nearness causing an odd flutter in her belly.
She held her breath before entering her chamber. The space was neat, almost as if a maid had set it straight, yet a beast had prowled through her domain, and she wasn’t referring to the marquess.
As they packed her clothes into the portmanteau, the marquess asked, “Where are the gowns you wore to the recitals at The Jade? I see nothing here but serviceable dresses.”
“I hired them from a second-hand dealer in Covent Garden. Borrowed some from the countess. I left my father’s home with nothing but the few belongings I could carry, a pouch of sovereigns and my mother’s jewels.” And a message to run and never look back.
His mouth tightened. “A father should protect his daughter, not feed her to the wolves. This whole business reeks of neglect.”
Her throat constricted. Anger rose, not at Lord Rothleybut at the memory of the man who had failed her so completely. “I’m a stronger person for it,” she said, though she was so tired she could sleep standing. A wave of heat swept through her, and she pressed a hand to her brow. “Is it hot in here? I’m finding it a little hard to breathe.”
“No, it’s so draughty one wonders how you slept at night.”
Perhaps it was the daunting prospect of opening the coffin that made her head spin so fast she felt dizzy. “Let’s hurry. I’ll take the bonnet in the bandbox. That should suffice.”
“What about the key to the mausoleum?”
“It’s here, hiding in plain sight.” She plucked the key from the armoire door and tucked it inside her glove.
He gave a hum of approval. “Ingenious. Who would think to take the key when the door is already open?”
“Precisely.”
“You should have been a spy, Miss Woolf.” He lifted her portmanteau as if it weighed nothing and headed for the door. “You certainly think like one.”
She laughed lightly, hoping it hid the frisson of panic. If only he knew the truth: she’d grown up in a house where secrets were daily fare, her father the greatest conspirator of them all.
Outside, Mr Kincaid loaded her luggage, then did as his lordship requested and readied both pistols he’d taken from the walnut box beneath the seat.
The Scotsman fell into step behind them, the gate groaning as they entered the deserted graveyard. “They say the earth weeps when a man dies. Dinna look like it weeps much here.”
In the cold light of day, the place looked less like hallowed ground and more like a neglected garden, withheadstones leaning at odd angles, grass growing wild between the paths. A blackbird trilled from the yew, heedless of the silence that hung heavy over the stones.
Fragments of memory burst through her mind: gloved fingers at her throat, the horrid bird mask, her stumbling, scrabbling to her feet, the fear that every breath might be her last.
She gripped Lord Rothley’s arm, and he started as if he’d heard a coffin creak. “Forgive me. I feel a little unwell.”
“After what you endured last night, it’s to be expected.” He drew her hand tighter around his arm. “Lean on me.”
