But I was decided—the less time she spent in the company of these two unsuitable men, the better. ‘Yes, Lucy, please.’
‘All right,’ she grumbled.
‘If the day is fine tomorrow, then we can go raspberry picking,’ Mr Hart said to her, and she seemed cheered by that.
We ladies bid the men good night and left them to their port and sordid conversations.
I nudged Jane as we went upstairs.
‘Shall we tell her now?’ I whispered.
‘Maybe it is best to let her get a good night’s sleep,’ shewhispered back.
I nodded mutely in agreement. Keeping silent was preferable than being up all night with Lucinda sobbing her heart out. But how on earth were we going to get her onto the mail coach tomorrow? It was worrying me a lot, especially now that Mr Hart had promised to take her raspberry picking.
I waited until I thought Lucy and Jane were asleep and crept along to their doors and safely locked them in again. But my anxiety about the next day meant sleep eluded me entirely. Not only did I have the godawful painting of Royden Hart in the room, but alsoTeaching Molly. So the room was roiling with bad energy. I wanted to throw the volume out the window, but when it came to it, I could not bring myself. It was a book, after all—even if it was an unsavoury one. However, if I could not rid myself of the book, at least I could do something about the painting—and get my shawl back.
Avoiding looking at Royden Hart, I unhooked it from the wall, fumbling a little as the gilded wooden frame was heavy. With some difficulty, I dragged it over to the door and nudged it out into the passageway. I then shut and locked the door. Instantly, I felt lighter and more at ease from not having him in the room.
Wrapping my shawl around me, I held the candle up to the panel where the painting had hung to make sure I hadn’tdamaged it. Outlined in the flickering yellow light was a small square measuring about as broad as a hand’s width. Intrigued, I inspected it more closely. Was it a repair? If so, it was badly done as there was a small gap around three of the sides. I inserted a fingernail and tugged at it lightly, and it swung open like a flap of skin. Inside the panel was a small knob-like brass lever. Tentatively, I grasped it, but the knob did not yield no matter which direction I yanked it. In frustration, I pushed at it with the heel of my palm forcefully and got a fright when it suddenly sunk in. A light cracking noise around the panel accompanied it; and I discovered, with some experimental tugging, the panel could be opened like a door!
I could not believe my eyes. So this was what Royden Hart had been guarding—a secret passage. Did Mr Hart know about it? Presumably, he did. Thrusting my candle into the space, I saw the passage was dark, but quite dry with a slight downward slope. If I angled my head to accommodate the ceiling, I could probably walk along it quite well. But where on earth did it lead?
Fear and curiosity battled for supremacy, but curiosity won, as it always did with me. We were leaving tomorrow, so I would not get another chance to explore, and I was too inherently nosey to let the opportunity pass. I mightdiscover some kind of evidence I could use against Mr Hart in court, if it ever came to that. Decision made, all I had to do was take the first step ...
I was half expecting the passage to lead nowhere more interesting than the dungeon. But after a short cramped walk, I came upon a wooden door. Turning the handle, I found it wasn’t locked and that it opened into a small chamber.
A desk and chair were the only furniture in the room, but it had a lived-in feel. An opulent oriental rug covered the floor, and the chair was wide and slouchy with a footstool. But as the walls were papered with sketches (half-drawn birds in flight, autumn leaves, and bucolic landscapes, in the same style as those in Mr Hart’s study), it convinced me without a doubt that I was in his art studio. If I was going to find anything to use as evidence, it would be here in this room.
Eagerly, I set my candle on the desk and started pulling out the desk drawers. But sifting through the papers contained in them turned up nothing but receipts for art materials sent from London. I was busily leafing through a sketch pad when a voice said softly behind my left shoulder, ‘Can’t sleep, little mouse?’
Swivelling, I saw another doorway had openedwithout my noticing, and a shadowy figure was standing in front of it. I almost screamed bloody murder, but then the figure came forward into my circle of candlelight. It was Mr Hart, sans cravat, wearing loose linen trousers and a black silk dressing gown. He did not appear to be wearing a shirt underneath.
‘W-where did you c-come from?’ I stuttered, my heart thumping in my throat.
He shrugged. ‘The library. The door is behind one of the bookshelves. But it seems you are cleverer than most guests, little mouse, as no one has ever discovered the other entrance behind the painting.’
‘D-do not call me t-that,’ I stuttered, still trying to catch my breath in lieu of the fright he had given me.
‘I can call you what I like since I have caught you red-handed going through my private affairs.’
Mr Hart sauntered over, and I slapped the sketchbook shut guiltily. There had been nothing in it but similar drawings to those on the wall anyway. He flopped into the chair beside the desk and propped his legs on the footstool, crossing them at the ankles. The edges of his dressing gown parted, baring a smooth chest ridged with muscle; and I gulped, averting my eyes, and pulled my shawl tighter around me. Thank goodness I had not changed into mynightgown and was still wearing my day dress. Being alone with him like this was improper, but my situation was even more precarious since he was an unscrupulous rake.
‘If you want to peruse my drawings, these might be of more interest.’ He reached down the side of the chair and tossed a sketch pad on the desk. It landed with a smack, making me jerk backwards. I hesitated, staring at the soft brown vellum cover. The way he was looking at me with a lazy smirk made me reluctant to open it.
‘Well, go on, since you’re so curious,’ he urged. ‘I must say, it is quite flattering to have someone take such an interest in my artwork.’
I flipped through the first few pages, which were pencil sketches of Cecilia Spencer sipping tea (she was easily recognisable as he was a good artist—I would give him that much!). Then came one with Cecilia looking over one bare shoulder with a faint smile.
I puffed out my cheeks. The next was drawn from the shoulders up, with her hair loose and fanned out around her head on a pillow. But the expanse of skin made it obvious she was not wearing much. I gulped. Mr Hart was watching me closely as I turned the pages, no doubt wanting me to gasp in prudish horror so he could laugh. I was not going to give him the satisfaction.
He shifted his hips in the chair, causing hisdressing gown to fall open wider and reveal more of his chest. He did not bother to cover himself when he saw me looking.
‘What do you think of them?’ he asked (as ifmyopinion mattered to him!).
‘They are well drawn,’ I said slowly. ‘Did Miss Spencer agree to model for you?’
He nodded. ‘I think she thought I was Vermeer or something, and she’d end up in the National Gallery. Dear Ceci.’
