Page 32 of His Wicked Charm

“Anyway, Con, this is absurd. Why would Mr. Blair stick some gold in a chest, lock it up and hide it somewhere?”

“I refuse to give up on my buried treasure,” Con said. “But I admit it’s odd. What if it—whatever it is—wasn’t Mr. Blair’s? He and Dearborn were friends, weren’t they?”

“Yes, they were all three friends—Mr. Dearborn, Mr. Blair and my father.”

“If Sabrina’s father was close enough that when he died he entrusted his daughter to Dearborn, might he not have been holding some family heirloom or other valuable for Dearborn?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Dearborn was smart enough to know he couldn’t keep from spending it if he held it himself. Or maybe he gave Blair money to invest for him, Blair obviously being better with money than he. Now, with creditors at his heels and Sabrina’s fortune no longer there for him to ransack, Dearborn wants to get whatever it is back. ‘Family honor be damned. I need cash in hand.’”

Lilah drew breath to speak, but Con held up an admonitory finger. “However...his friend Blair hid it away safely somewhere, hid the key, then died without telling Dearborn where it was. Sabrina’s father died unexpectedly, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Apoplexy, I believe.”

“There you are. Blair was young to die, had no reason to think he would, and so he didn’t tell Dearborn where he hid the key. He didn’t even think to leave a letter.”

“But why did he find it necessary to not only store this unknown ‘thing’ in a secret place but also to hide the key?”

“Fear of thieves,” Con replied airily.

“You should write novels.”

Con laughed. “I doubt I have the patience for it. Besides, I understand it requires at least a modicum of skill.”

“If you’re right, that makes it even more likely that he would hide it in the country. That’s where they always met.”

“Met?” Con’s curiosity was piqued.

“The Dearborns regularly came to visit Sabrina’s family for a week or two.”

“A house party?”

“I’m not sure you’d call it that—they didn’t invite any other guests. There weren’t hunts or organized entertainments. It was just our families. They’d have dinner, play cards, that sort of thing. Mr. Blair and Mr. Dearborn often rode over to our house for an evening—I presume so they could leave their wives behind and have a cozy time drinking and chatting. Sometimes Mrs. Blair would host a ball and invite some of the local people, but most of the time it was just them and my father and aunt.”

“Mrs. Summersley lived with you?”

“No, no.” Lilah chuckled. “My father’s sister, Aunt Vesta.”

“Aunt Vesta—now there’s a name with a ring to it.”

“No doubt you would like her,” Lilah said bitingly.

“I’d wager she had a hand in naming you Delilah.” Lilah didn’t deign to respond to that, and Con went on, “They did this often?”

“Oh, yes, I’d say three or four times a year.”

“Good Lord—even Aunt Hermione only dropped in once a year to bedevil us.”

“It’s odd,” Lilah mused. “I don’t think my father liked Mr. Dearborn.”

“Discerning man. Why do you think he disliked him?”

“I’m not sure that he disliked him. But I never had the impression that Father was fond of him. They didn’t correspond, and Father never went to London to see him, whereas he and Mr. Blair called on each other often. My father and Niles were very different.”

“Fortunately for you.”

“I don’t mean only that the Dearborns are cheats and liars and Father was not—though that is true. But they didn’t enjoy the same pursuits. My father was a solitary man. He was quiet and stayed at home, rarely went to London. Niles Dearborn, on the other hand, thrives on social activities. I understand his parties are lavish. He spends a great deal of time in the city—going to his club and parties and the theater. Gambling.”