Temptress in Training (37 page)

Almost.

“Very well, Feasel, we will assume the worst. If Warren is working with Eudora, then that changes things a bit. We are going to need help.”

“Yes, sir. I was hoping you'd see it that way.”

“But there isn't much time. You try to find Tom. I've got to locate Fitzgelder, then head to Loveland and search for Miss Darshaw. If you and Tom find her before I do, by all means, keep her safe. And keep Warren away from her!”

Feasel actually had the nerve to laugh at that. Lindley supposed it did sound a bit obviously possessive. Well, hell. He
was
possessive. Sophie Darshaw was his, and even though he'd always thought of Warren as a friend, he wasn't about to take any chances with her. Especially as the more he thought about it the less likely it became that Warren truly was a friend.

“I'll do my best for her, sir.”

Feasel went on his way still chuckling. Well, Lindley wasn't so giddy. Too many things had gone from black to white—or vice versa—overnight for him. What he thought he knew didn't seem so solid right now. He wasn't even certain he could count on Dashford or Rastmoor for help.

All he knew for certain was that wherever Sophie was, she was in danger and he was not there to help her. That hurt.

He stepped back into the house and caught his reflection in a mirror. Immediately he understood why Feasel had been laughing. Lindley was clownish. His head was swollen and misshapen from Fitzgelder's boot attack, his cravat spotted with bootblack, his coat dusty and askew, and there was that inexcusable bow wagging under his chin for all to see. He had truly never looked more ridiculous.

Nor did he have the slightest inclination to tidy up. Sophie needed him. Who cared what sort of fool he must look like?

 

S
OPHIE STOOD IN
G
RANDMAMMA'S UPSTAIRS BEDROOM
and listened as the footsteps approached. They were heavy, large.
A man's footsteps.
Was it Papa? Lindley? Or any of the numerous people she most certainly did not wish to run into just now? Her heart pounded and her breath caught in her throat.

She could not be found here, alone, armed only with needles and pins and a few sundry items she'd rather leave hidden in her pack. She glanced at the window and for a wild moment thought about leaving that way. But as she reminded herself she could not fly, it seemed another exit was in order. Ah, she recalled the secret passage!

Quickly she scurried into Grandmamma's tiny dressing room. As a child she'd played in there and imagined all sorts of adventures. It seemed the most romantic thing in the world to live in a house that had secret passages. She only hoped that all these years later her memory was not faulty.

There she found it, the almost invisible latch that would open a narrow panel that served as a door. Surprisingly, it swung open noiselessly. Sunlight from the room behind her fell onto the floor, and Sophie could see inside enough to know that things were very much as she recalled them.

A small landing and then a wooden staircase led down. She slipped through the panel and pulled it shut behind her. Everything went dark.

Did she dare tiptoe down the stairs? She wasn't sure. The wooden steps had been ancient when she knew them. Were they still sturdy enough to carry her down to the stair landing at the kitchen? Or should she perhaps try to go farther, all the way down to that damp, musty cellar where Grandmamma would occasionally send her to retrieve potatoes or apples in the winter?

She would prefer to avoid that. The mildew and spiders had been bad enough when Grandmamma was here to look after the place every day. She guessed the spider population in the cellar had probably not diminished in the years since Grandmamma's passing. Perhaps she would be safe enough right here, concealed behind the secret panel two steps away from daylight and two floors away from spiders.

Yes, that sounded best. She held her breath and waited. The footsteps were close now, on the first floor and coming into Grandmamma's bedroom. Hopefully it would turn out to be only Papa, and she could rush out and throw herself into his arms. Or even better, perhaps it was Lindley, and she could race out throw herself into
his
arms. Until she knew for certain, though, she would rather wait.

She strained her ears. The man appeared to be studying the room, moving toward that hole in the floor she had discovered. She heard sounds as if he were investigating that area. Then he swore. His voice was completely unfamiliar to Sophie, but whoever he was, he showed an expert grasp of colorful language.

Either he was a lover of preservation and was furious to see the destruction of a fine floor or he expected to find something hidden beneath it that was now gone. Sophie suspected the latter. And she was very happy not to rush out and throw herself into his arms.

But what could this stranger have been looking for? Did Grandmamma leave something behind here? Something hidden under her floor? No, she was certain the old darling would have told her if there was some sort of hidden treasure in…

Oh, but could this be the treasure everyone else was talking about? She hadn't believed such a thing, but perhaps it was real. Papa's horse was just outside, and there was a hole in the floor here that this foul man was cursing to every level of hell and back…Could this possibly add up to mean the story of treasure was real? Did Papa really have a treasure that Madame was trying to take from him?

Then heavens, where was he? She'd found no sign of Papa beyond his abandoned horse. If he'd taken the treasure, why had he not taken his horse? She was quite certain he'd rather liked the stubborn animal. Something must have happened to him.

And then she heard the house creak. Only, it seemed a bit loud for just the ordinary creak of tired beams in a tired old building. The man in Grandmamma's bedroom must have heard it, too. His footsteps went silent and he cursed again, much softer this time.

Now there were more footsteps, running up the stairs. Sophie had to cover her mouth to keep from letting any nervous sounds escape. She clutched her pack to her, praying the scissors didn't fall out and announce her presence as they'd done at Fitzgelder's house.

Oh, she had scissors! Indeed, those could be a formidable weapon, couldn't they? She dug carefully into her pack to wrap her fingers around them. Just in case.

 

T
HE GARDEN OUTSIDE
L
OVELAND LOOKED LIKE A REGULAR
livery. Three horses, all saddled and ready, wandered aimlessly about the gardens. One seemed particularly thrilled to have found a rose trellis with flowers in full bloom, one looked suspiciously like an old nag he'd seen in the stable at Haven Abbey two nights ago, and the other was an attractive beast that was freshly lathered from a long ride. This one he recognized.
Warren's.

Lindley pulled his own horse up to a halt and dismounted quietly. He couldn't believe any of the men Warren might have brought along with him rode either of these others. But who was Warren meeting here? He held his pistol at the ready and decided to be especially cautious as he entered the cottage to find out.

He heard Warren upstairs. The man was not taking pains to be silent, stomping around and then cursing as if it were a second language for him. There were no other voices or footsteps he could detect, but he trod very carefully as he made his way up to the first floor. Near the top, his foot slipped and he was forced to transfer his full weight rather quickly.

The stair tread creaked violently.

Warren ceased stomping and cursing. Lindley knew the man had heard him. Damn, he'd lost his element of surprise. It appeared he'd lost his element of D'Archaud, as well. The man had accompanied him from Hartwood, then claimed he knew a secret entrance into the house. Where was he now?

Lindley would simply have to face Warren alone. Sophie's life might depend on it. Praying for luck and an unarmed Warren, Lindley charged up the rest of the steps and into the bedroom from where the sounds had been emanating.

He found the man ready and waiting for him. With a pistol. It rather matched the one Lindley had. It appeared they had a stalemate.

But who had Sophie?

“If you're here to get the treasure, Lindley, you're too late,” Warren said. “It's gone.”

He waved his gun in the direction of a rough hole made in the floor when someone had pulled several boards up. Lindley nodded. Yes, D'Archaud had told him he'd found the box under the flooring.

“You're too late. I'm afraid the treasure's already been located and divided between the owners.”

Warren grumbled. “Owners? What, you shared it?”

“No, it's not mine. It belongs to two gentlemen from France.”

“D'Archaud,” Warren said, hissing the name as if it were another curse.

“And his brother-in-law, Albert St. Clement. He's an actor; perhaps you've heard of him.”

“Yes, I've heard of him.” Warren was clearly disgusted by the very thought of it all. “So what did they give you to buy your blind eye? How much did it cost them to make you turn your back on justice, to let them keep their ill-gotten spoils while your family rots in their graves?”

“Those are not ill-gotten spoils, Warren, and I think you know that. That treasure belonged to D'Archaud from birth. He and his sister's husband brought it with them when they fled the Terror. They hid it to keep his greedy brother from following and taking it from them.”

“Lindley, don't tell me you believe that? Clearly they invented that story.”

“It's the truth, Warren,” Lindley said.

And he was correct. His departure from Hartwood had been delayed by the unfortunate discovery that Fitzgelder had taken everyone hostage. Lindley had been forced to lend a hand in his apprehension while D'Archaud and St. Clement explained their situation. The real locket contained proof of D'Archaud's claims—and eventually provided access to the treasure. That little box Dashford had carried held nothing more than the final clue to its whereabouts. The actual treasure itself, when they found it, would have never fit in a dozen such boxes. And every bit of it was honestly obtained.

Sophie, when they found her, would come to discover she was quite a wealthy young woman. That was, provided they
did
find her.

“Not that I expect you to know much about such things,” Lindley added.

“So you are content to let the damn Frenchies have their treasure, are you?” Warren asked, his pistol still aiming Lindley's way.

“It is their treasure, Warren. They have every right to it; they and their daughters.”

“Ah, so that's how it is. You'd rather use D'Archaud's whoring daughter to get at it. Yes, she's a ripe little tart. I wouldn't mind using her for a few things, myself.”

Well, that was beyond enough. Lindley leapt at Warren and decided he'd much rather personally rip the man's windpipe out than waste the lead on shooting him. Unfortunately, Warren clearly disagreed. He tried to bring his pistol into line to fire, but Lindley was too quick for him.

The gun hit the floor half a second before the men did. Lindley found himself rolling and throwing fists in an effort to gain an advantage. His longer arms and greater weight soon gave him that, and in no time he had Warren pressed into the hard wood floor. Both pistols were flung just out of reach. He pinned his opponent there, determined to pry information out of him any way he could.

“Where is Miss Darshaw?” Lindley growled.

“In my bed wearing a smile,” Warren replied with a sneer.

“If you want to walk away from here, Warren, you'd better start telling the truth.”

“Oh, but I thought we were friends, Lindley.”

“I've heard we're a damn sight closer than that, cousin!”

“You heard that, did you?”

“Is it true?”

“Does it pain you to realize you share the same blood with a whore and a bastard?”

Lindley released his hold on Warren just a bit. Not much, but a bit.

“What pains me is to think someone I trusted has been using me for his own gain all this time. And that's what it's been, hasn't it? I was not helping bring justice so much as I was covering your tracks as you betrayed your own country.”

Warren eyed him, his breathing labored as Lindley still pressed him into the floor. “You've become quite perceptive, cousin. It appears you hardly need an answer from me.”

“You still have not told me where Miss Darshaw really is.”

“Because I don't know where your little moll really is,” Warren replied.

Lindley was tempted to believe him, until something clattered on the other side of the wall. He could see in Warren's eyes that he was as surprised by it as Lindley. Someone was there, just through the tiny dressing room. Although, from where Lindley was perched on his newfound cousin's chest, he could see through the doorway, and the small room appeared surprisingly empty.

He didn't have long to puzzle over it, though. Warren took advantage of this momentary distraction to twist his wiry frame, tossing Lindley off to one side and scrambling out from under him. Lindley lunged to get back in control of the situation, but Warren was quick. He grabbed the closest pistol and made it up to his feet.

Lindley was left kneeling ten feet in front of him. Any untrained idiot could shoot a man at ten feet. Warren was an accomplished soldier. Now it was Lindley's turn to curse.

“Damn it, Warren, put the gun down.”

“But then how on earth will I be able to shoot you, cousin?”

Lindley was about to launch into a touching homily about the tragedy of bloodshed between family members when what appeared to be the back wall of the little dressing room flew open and a shrieking female form came bursting through it.
Sophie.
Thank God she was unharmed!

She wouldn't be, however, if Lindley didn't do something quickly. As soon as she took in the situation, she cried out and immediately launched herself at Warren. Lindley dropped to his side and rolled in the direction of his gun, lying against the leg of the bed. His fingers wrapped around it just as he heard Warren's pistol go off, the jarring sound echoing in the house and driving shards of ice-cold dread straight into Lindley's soul.