“Do you see!” The man fell to his knees on the floor of his chamber and howled like a mother grieving for her babe. “All my beauties, ruined. The entire collection—gone!”
Nate entered the suite and froze. It was exactly as Angert had said. Someone had taken a knife to his daffodil paintings, slicing through each canvas multiple times and destroying them beyond repair.
Several guests crowded into Angert’s room, their faces aghast. Suddenly, Miss Jennings let out a single high-pitched squeal. Everyone turned to look at her. Another shrill sound escaped her throat. She put her hand over her mouth but could not stifle the growing feeling—be it excitement or nerves—that was building inside her, and she broke out into hysterical laughter.
“How dare you?” Angert sputtered with rage.
It was obvious that the poor woman could not stop herself from laughing.
“Stop it!” Angert shouted. “Stop it, at once!” He advanced on the woman, and Nate quickly stepped in front of him.
“Now, Angert, control yourself.”
“Control? Me? Are you mad?” He blustered. “It is she who—”
A sharp slap sounded, and the laughing ended abruptly. Nate turned to see Lady Matheson glaring down at Miss Jennings, who held her hand to her bright red cheek. She stared at Lady Matheson with a look of utter horror.
“She was hysterical,” Lady Matheson said. “Her shrieking was rattling my nerves. Someone had to do something.”
“What sort of a place is this?” Angert said, eyeing the guests. “Which one of you destroyed my paintings?”
“Perhaps none of us did it, Mr. Angert,” Lady Matheson said, her voice sounding savage. “Mayhap it was George.”
“George? He is dead.”
“Have you ever heard of a vengeful spirit?” she asked. “I’d destroy what’s left of those if I were you,” she said, and then she turned and walked out of the room, leaving Angert staring after her.
Miss Jennings, apparently emerging from her state of shock, suddenly dashed from the room.
Bridget ran out after her. Lady Matheson had had no right to hit her, no matter how upset she’d been.
“Miss Jennings,” Bridget called as she followed the woman outside and into the garden with Bijou at her heels. “Wait, please!”
The woman kept running but then came to an abrupt stop in front of the uprooted daffodils. Bridget slowed her gait and approached Miss Jennings cautiously. “I’m so sorry for what Lady Matheson did to you,” she said. “It was uncalled for. She had no right.”
Miss Jennings put a hand to her cheek. “Well, it’s not the first time a lady has slapped me. I seem to try the patience of my betters.”
“Don’t say that. They are not your betters. You have just as much right to be treated with dignity as they do.”
“That’s what Geor—Mr. Otis used to say whenever Lady Armstrong mistreated me.” She gave her a half smile.
“Were you very fond of Mr. Otis?” Bridget asked.
“He was kind to me. Few people have been in my life. I seem to be one of those people who are always in the way of others, so I try to stay quiet and go unnoticed, but Mr. Otis—well, he noticed me. He talked to me and asked my opinion—no one ever does—did—that.” She blinked furiously and Bridget knew she was trying to stop tears from falling.
“I liked him too. He was a dear friend.” Bridget paused. “And I do hope you and I can be friends.”
“I should like that. I miss my walks with Mr. Otis.” She stifled her laugh with her hand. “Do you know, I’d give Lady Armstrong a pinch of laudanum, a few minutes before I was due to meet Mr. Otis. She would have never allowed me out of her sight otherwise.”
Bridget felt a niggling in her stomach. It came as a warning. Then she pushed it aside. Would she have acted any differently were she under the thumb of a woman like Lady Armstrong? Probably not. Miss Jennings had limited choices, and if someone was keeping one as a caged pet and curtailing one’s freedom, then one had no choice but to steal it back.
*
“It had tobe Rupert and Charlie,” Nate said, once he and Bridget were alone in the garden.
“That’s rather unfair,” Bridget said.
“It’s the only logical explanation. Those pictures were painful to look at—even for me—can you imagine how horrible they must have been for Rupert and Charlie? And to think, Angert wassellingthem. People in town have miniatures in their pockets and on their walls. I hardly blame them for doing it, but I cannot condone such behavior at my inn.”
