Let Me Be The One (20 page)

The servants were required to absent themselves for this entertainment. They had a merry time of it in the village, making the most of the two hours with drink and dance, and being none the worse for it at midnight. They did not allow themselves to dwell on what might be going on in their own preserve. There would be time enough later to put things to right again.

Battenburn's guests were free to explore the kitchen and basements, the shoe room, the knife room, the quarters where the footmen slept three to a bed, the attic, the laundry, the folding room, and even the cubby rooms, so out of the way they could only be reached by ladder. This tour of the great hall's underbelly was greeted with a mixture of fascination and horror; some of the baron's guests had never seen their
own
kitchens. Still, as they tracked down clues in apple barrels, linen closets, and under straw mattresses, they were agreed it was an inspired idea.

The narrow passages that ran along the gallery and between the drawing rooms, the staircases that were hidden tightly in spaces shared with chimneys, and the panels that opened to closets and then to other rooms, were not found by everyone. Sometimes voices could be heard on the other side of a wall with no visible sign of how they had got to be there.

"You know, Lady Elizabeth," Southerton said as they sat on the servants' backstairs, contemplating their next clue, "North is not such a bad sort."

Elizabeth was silent for a moment. "I did not believe he was," she said carefully.

"It is just that I have a great regard for him. We were chums, you know, at Hambrick."

"He mentioned that... about Hambrick Hall, I mean. As for the other, it appears to be mutual."

"Yes, well, we were a tight little group and did not invite outsiders. Called ourselves the Compass Club. Sworn enemies of the Society of Bishops."

She knew about the Bishops. Their association at Hambrick was legendary. This other was unfamiliar to her. "The Compass Club?" Her brow puckered, then dawning smoothed it again. "Oh. North. South. East. West. Though I don't understand about Mr. Marchman."

South shrugged. "He will grow into it."

"Lord Northam said much the same thing." She risked a glance at South. The candle he held illuminated his handsome face and softened the sharper edges of his features. "Did he ask you to speak to me?"

South's surprise was genuine. "Bloody hell!" The oath was out before he could collect himself. He apologized immediately for his lapse and went on. "You can't know North if you'd think a thing like that."

"That's true," she said. "I don't know him. We have spoken perhaps on a dozen occasions since his arrival. About nothing very remarkable."
Oh, and he had me against a wall with one leg over his shoulder and his face buried in my thighs. Did he tell you that?
"I have had little opportunity to form an opinion."
Ask me about his tongue, though, and I will describe perfectly what it felt like thrusting in my mouth and between my legs. Has he described the same to you?
"He has made some judgment of me, I take it."

Southerton's brow lifted. "I don't know. He's very close-mouthed, North is. Doesn't chatter on about women the way East does." It was not strictly true that Eastlyn did either, but South felt a need to place Northam in the very best light. It was not strictly meddling, he told himself. It was his assignment from the colonel, and not one he particularly relished. He had tried to tell Blackwood that playing cupid was not his forte, but the colonel was having none of it.

Southerton was greatly relieved when he had not had to perform the introductions between North and Lady Elizabeth. The connection he had to her through his dear sister Emma was thin, and Northam would have seen through it. South had been content to observe things proceeding smoothly for a few days and then... He couldn't finish the thought because he had no idea what had happened, only that the course had most decidedly been altered. It was easier to navigate a skiff through the rough seas of the Channel than find the proper heading for true love.

South actually groaned aloud as he realized how hopelessly banal he had become. Raking back his dark hair in a somewhat sheepish gesture, silently cursing Blackwood, North, and, yes, even the lady at his side, Southerton gave the slip of paper in Elizabeth's hand his undivided attention. They had taken the time to copy what they hoped was their final clue, leaving the original in place for others to find. It was a long and rather difficult passage to commit to memory.

"What do you make of it?" he asked. "Are we to go up or down?"

Elizabeth barely heard him. Northam had said nothing...
nothing
... to his friend. She wanted to weep with gratitude. Hug herself. Shout. What she did was hold up the paper for Southerton to get a better view. It was a matter of some amazement to her that her hand was not shaking violently. In the aftermath of her fear, sustained over so many days, she knew the trembling that accompanied relief. "I think we should go down," she said, her voice reed thin but steady.

"But you're not certain."

"Yes." She laughed a bit self-consciously. "No. I mean, yes, I'm not certain."

"Then let's study it a little longer. Something will occur to us. We have done very well so far."

Elizabeth nodded. For the first time she felt completely comfortable in Lord Southerton's company. When Louise had informed her that she would be partnered with the viscount, Elizabeth had begged her to reconsider. Not, as she told South, because she had no head for riddles, but because she did not want to have to fend off his advances in corners and cubbies throughout Battenburn. She did not think her brief acquaintance with his sister—a friendship that had not endured beyond a single Season—would be enough to hold him at bay if Northam had shared the particulars of their lovemaking.

Northam was under no obligation not to do so. She had not asked for his silence. Indeed, she considered that her own insistence that she was a whore would lead him to believe it was an opinion shared by others. It was, but those others were confined to a very small number, and they had their own reasons for not speaking it aloud.

Southerton, however, had been naught but a considerate and congenial companion. Far from taking a single liberty, he had defended his friend, apologized for cursing, and summoned enthusiasm for a game whose outcome he could not have possibly cared.

Elizabeth regarded her escort in a new light. "You are very kind, I think."

South's head tilted to one side. "You don't intend to bandy that about, I hope. It would ruin me."

She solemnly crossed her heart.

"Good." He stood, took Elizabeth's hand, and helped her to her feet. "I don't mind if it gets out that I'm brilliant, though."

"You'll have to find the treasure first."

"This way, my lady. I believe we are almost there."

* * *

The gallery was a magnificent room designed during the time of James I by one Inigo Jones. Jones drew the plans for the Battenburn gallery some five years before he was named England's chief architect in 1615. Almost as tall as it was long, the gallery was the repository of the finest artwork acquired by the former Barons of Battenburn, as well as a history of the family in a succession of portraits, starting with the first baron in 1535.

Southerton recited the clue as he and Elizabeth stepped into the gallery.
"The Creator of church and chapel bids you welcome to His house.
What do you think? Was Lady Battenburn referring, perhaps, to this place?"

They had already been to the chapel and found nothing more in this clue to guide them to the treasure or another set of clues. The church in the village was beyond the limits the baron had set, so they did not consider it.

"I don't know," Elizabeth said."What is the connection here to church and chapel?" She studied the portraits on the far wall. None of the former barons or their wives had ever struck her as particularly welcoming or God-fearing. "I can tell you, I've always found this to be a rather cold and godless place."

"Oh, it is," Southerton agreed, regarding the portraits with a critical eye. "But I don't think the creator in this clue refers to the Almighty. Didn't you tell me when we passed here earlier that this room was the work of Inigo Jones?"

"Well, yes," she said slowly. "But I don't see—"

Southerton interrupted her and expanded on this thinking. "Covent Garden
Church
in Westminster and the Queen's
Chapel
at Saint James's Palace each had Inigo Jones as their architect. He was their
creator."

Elizabeth could imagine South thought her truly simple-minded. "I warned you, I am very bad at riddles." She was surprised when this comment seemed to invite Southerton's protective instincts. He put his arm around her shoulders and gave them an affectionate, brotherly squeeze.

"You're a good'un, Lady Elizabeth." He examined the paper in her hand. "Now, what is next?"

"Quite the crush, would you not say, Northam?"

Elizabeth began to turn rather awkwardly in the direction of the distinctly feminine voice, but Southerton stayed her, his grip on her shoulder becoming more insistent than friendly.

Northam regarded the picture his friend and Elizabeth made with only a little less distaste than he had for the gallery of rogues on the wall. "I believe they are but two art admirers," he said evenly. "Come, we will have a better look ourselves." He escorted Lady Powell into the room, closing the great doors behind him. "If they are here, then we must also be in the right place."

Southerton's voice was cool. "As long as you remember that we were here first." He removed his arm from Elizabeth, folded it with the other in front of him, and feigned great interest in Baron Battenburn's ancestors. "Read the next part of the clue to me."

Elizabeth realized her hands were trembling now. She took a steadying breath, hoping Northam was paying as much attention to the portraits as his friend. "The line is,
A fall from grace in this place, removes a face without a trace."

Southerton grimaced. "The baroness is no Byron."

Northam cleared his throat to cover his small, strangled laugh.

"Well, what does it mean?" Lady Powell wanted to know. "My Christian name is Grace, you know. Does it have something to do with me?"

Southerton did not spare her a glance. "Only if you trip and flatten that pretty upturned nose of yours, my lady."

"Oh, that is very bad of you," she said, not at all mollified that he had called her nose pretty. To say it was upturned was a gross exaggeration of the pert appendage. "If that is an example of your wit, this hunt is a very dull entertainment, indeed." She left the trio standing in front of the portraits and flounced to the row of chairs on the carpet's perimeter, her nose angled several degrees higher than it needed to be.

Across the crown of Elizabeth's head, Northam and Southerton exchanged wry glances.

"Do you have a different clue?" Southerton asked North.

Northam shook his head. "I didn't have the foresight to write it down. Thought I could remember it all." His eyes darted back to Lady Powell, who was now sitting and making unnecessary repairs to her gown, a stubborn mien marring her features. "There were... er, distractions."

Southerton nodded, his own expression commiserating. "I think it would be wise if we join forces," he said."What say you, Elizabeth? Northam is a great deal cleverer than I am."

Her eyes looked to neither the right nor the left. She continued to stare at the slip of paper and made an effort at politeness. "Then we will be fortunate to have him helping us."

There was no mistaking Elizabeth's lack of enthusiasm, but Southerton would not be discouraged. "Wonderful." He reached around Elizabeth and clapped Northam on the back, shaking the cobwebs loose from his friend's brain. "Go on, North, take a crack at it. What do you think it means?"

Northam read it again.
"A fall from grace in this place, removes a face without a trace.
Well, if we're all agreed it has nothing to do with Lady Powell, then I think we should have a careful look at all the paintings. A fall from grace could signify a number of things."

"The archangel's banishment from heaven," Southerton said. He began to stroll the length of the gallery in search of an appropriate depiction of this event.

North followed. "It might be the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah."

Elizabeth realized she was standing alone again, quite without a purpose now that two members of the Compass Club were working in tandem. She started to go to Lady Powell, hoping in some manner to soothe the woman's ruffled feathers, when Southerton called to her.

"Bring that paper here, will you, Elizabeth? I find it helps to look at the clue from time to time."

Elizabeth gave Lady Powell a small apologetic smile, feeling somewhat guilty that Southerton should single her out. "Excuse me," she said. "I will only deliver this into their hands."

The lady did not warm to this overture. "Do not concern yourself," she said airily. "I am resolved to observe the workings of such brilliant minds from afar."

Elizabeth accepted these words at face value, preferring to ignore the complete lack of sincerity in the delivery. Lady Powell looked as if she had swallowed something sour when she used the word
brilliant.
Sarcasm, Elizabeth decided, was ineffective when it was pressed too hard.