Lean on him? She felt like collapsing and relinquishing every burden. But the less he knew, the better. Though keeping secrets from this man was akin to holding back the tide with her bare hands.
“Do you recall anything about your attacker?” he said.
“You mean his build or hair colour?”
“Yes. Anything to help identify him.”
She tried to concentrate, but her thoughts were hazy, like a fog slowly closing in. “It all happened so quickly.”
“You must tell me if you remember anything.”
“I will,” she said, for it was one vow she could keep.
They stopped before the mausoleum, and as she drew the cold metal from her glove, she wondered again how her father had come by the key.
“I shall ask you one last time, my lord. Will you not turn back and forget you ever met me?” He risked his life for someone unworthy. Did that not make her as wicked as Miss Bourne? “I fear this won’t end well for either of us.”
He surprised her with an amused snort. “Nothing in my life has ended well, Miss Woolf. Why should this be any different?”
“Perhaps your pessimism is the problem?”
“Shall I try to be more cheerful?”
“Yes. Because if we choose this path, I’d rather our days be filled with hope than regret.”
He laughed, almost to himself. “I know what hope looks like to me. Though on that score, I doubt we think alike.”
To her, hope was a day without worry, a day when something other than sadness filled her heart, when she might glimpse the marquess at his washstand and feel every nerve tingle to life.
“So, the valise we need is inside the mausoleum?” he asked.
“I hid it there for safekeeping. I’m certain that’s why my father gave me the key. The poem speaks of a place of secrets, and where better to hide one than a coffin?”
“A coffin?” He drew his head back. “You opened a casket?”
“I had no choice.”
“Did he say what he wanted you to do with the valise?”
She shook her head. “Take it and run, I suppose. Will you wait here while I fetch the bag?”
Mr Kincaid chuckled. “Wait here? You’re askin’ the most inquisitive man in England to bide outside? Not a chance, lass.”
“As you can see, Miss Woolf, I’m but a puppet, and my coachman speaks for me.”
“Aye, and I’ve nae been wrong yet.”
She glanced warily about and stepped towards the iron door, but the marquess claimed the key, intent on playing the gentleman. The hinges groaned under his hand, releasing a rush of cold air, sharp with damp and decay.
Three tombs lay within. Two were fine stone, angels etched upon their lids, the inscriptions speaking of devotion.
“Mr Lucius Hathaway and his beloved wife,” she murmured.
“And the other?” Rothley nodded to the crude wooden casket on the floor. “Their servant, perhaps?”
“There’s no inscription. I searched there first because I lacked the strength to move the stone.”
Without another word, he crouched beside the coffin, his trousers pulling taut over his thighs as he set his broad hands to the lid and heaved. The wood creaked in protest. Olivia’s stomach clenched, her pulse quickening as she watched, praying the bag was still inside.
