Dust drifted as the lid gave way. Inside lay a long, shapeless form swathed in a grey shroud, the fabric brittle with age. Nestled at the bottom, tucked beneath the folds of cloth, was the battered leather bag.
Her breath caught. Relief warred with dread.
That bag was the bane of her existence.
“I cannot believe you dealt with this issue alone,” Lord Rothley said, removing the valise and swiftly replacing the coffin lid. “Why the devil didn’t you accept my help? I offered countless times after the robbery at your lodging house.”
Oh, she had longed to clasp his hand and say yes. But he was a marquess, and she the daughter of a spy. And the countess’ words had forced her to keep her distance.
If Rothley asks, you should dance with him. After all, he needs to know there are good, honest women in the world.
But she had deceived them all—even her closest friends.
Tears gathered behind her eyes.
She longed for an end to the nightmare. And the moretime she spent in his company, the more she suspected he might be the one to save her.
“Miss Woolf?” His deep voice pulled her from her reverie. “Are you ready to leave? Is there anything else we need here?”
He used the wordweagain, as if fate had bound them together.
“No, just the valise.” She pressed her fingers to her brow, surprised by the heat of her skin when the mausoleum was ice-cold.
“It’s light. Are you certain what you need is in here?” He weighed the bag in his hand, a faint rattle sounding as the contents knocked together.
“Quite certain. It’s empty but for a handful of curious things. We’ll examine them together once we’re safely back at Studland Park.”
There was an odd glint in his eyes. Perhaps intrigue. Or perhaps he was simply unused to being included in a woman’s plans.
They left the mausoleum, locking the door behind them.
Mr Kincaid eyed the valise in the marquess’ hand and gave a wry grin. “Best hope the soul in that coffin doesna come knockin’ for what’s his. Folk say the restless never sleep easy. ’Tis a bad omen, make no mistake.”
Lord Rothley shot his coachman a sharp look. “That will do, Kincaid. The valise belongs to Miss Woolf.”
The coachman looked at her and frowned. “Are ye well, lass? Ye look like ye’ve been toastin’ your cockles on the fire.”
“I’m quite well,” she lied, though her head throbbed and the ground seemed to tilt beneath her feet. “It’s nothing a little rest won’t cure.”
Lord Rothley’s hand closed over her arm, steady and unbearably hot against her already fevered skin. “Kincaid is right. We’ll not remain here a moment longer.”
She didn’t argue. Her eyelids felt heavy, her chest tight. Perhaps she’d caught a chill from the long ride to Islington last night.
They were about to climb into the carriage when Mrs Hodge came hurrying along the lane, waving and calling Olivia’s name. Heavens, her mind was so clouded she had forgotten to visit her landlady.
Olivia mustered a smile as the lithe, pinched-faced woman drew near. “Mrs Hodge. I was about to call and return the key to the cottage.”
“Return the key? You’re leaving?” Concern furrowed her brow as she studied the marquess with obvious unease. “You never mentioned a trip when you agreed to the contract.”
“No. My aunt is taken ill, and I’ve been summoned to Brighton.” The lie came easily. She was proficient at something at least. “The rent is paid until the end of next month, and you may keep my deposit.”
She dared not glance at Lord Rothley, though she sensed his eyes upon her, measuring every word.
“And these gentlemen are friends of yours, Miss Woolf? I only ask because I thought I heard shots fired on the road last night, and there’s talk of strangers roaming these parts.”
“There’s talk in town of highway robbers.” Lord Rothley spoke with cool authority. “We’re tasked with delivering Miss Woolf safely to Brighton.” He paused, his gaze sharp upon her. “I’m told you were the housekeeper at Canfield Manor.”
“That’s correct. I retired last year.”
