Tomorrow's Treasure (21 page)

It didn't take long for regret to sidle up alongside Evy. Her steps on the dirt road slowed as she made her way toward the rectory. How could she
have let herself miss out on such a great adventure? No doubt Rogan would never ask her to accompany him on another one.
You have too much pride, Evy Varley.

It was not until she Went through the vicarage gate into the churchyard that she realized she had left her basket of mistletoe sitting in the Rookswood courtyard outside the mausoleum.
I hope Derwent notices and brings it back with him.

But Derwent did not return with the basket—in fact, when Evy and Mrs. Croft went to the rectory to fix supper for Vicar Brown, Derwent had not shown up at all.

“A bit odd, seeing as how it's his favorite meal of mutton pie and cider,” Mrs. Croft said to her.

Now I'll need to confess about going to Rookswood.
Evy bit her lip and glanced from Vicar Brown, who was scowling at the dining room table, to Mrs. Croft, who was clearly worried.

“Odd, I say, Vicar. Derwent is not one to be missing his meals. He asked me just this morning what was for supper tonight, and when I told him, he was very pleased. And you know how he loves his cider.”

“Yes, yes, very unusual. I wonder where that boy of mine could be?” The vicar's eyes glossed over the empty seat at the table and alighted on Evy, who sat with her hands folded in her lap, wishing she could vanish into thin air. His eyes fixed on her, and he smiled indulgently.

“Now, now, little Evy, maybe you have seen Derwent today?”

“Of course you did, Evy.” Mrs. Croft smiled. “They went together to the woods to pick mistletoe and holly, Vicar.” She frowned and looked at Evy. “Can't say I've seen where you put it though. Did you and Derwent not get it?”

“Um …”

Vicar Brown waited, his brows rising a notch, and Mrs. Croft continued to hold her hands under her apron as though it were a warming muff. When Evy fell silent, Vicar Brown's white brows climbed even higher.

“Yes, Evy?”

Bother.
There was no way out of it.
Drat Derwent anyway!
“Yes. We
went to the woods. We gathered the greenery. I … left it behind and … and”—she bit her lip and her eyes went down to her empty plate—“Derwent went back to find it.”

“Ah, well, then, that explains it.” Vicar Brown's brow unfurrowed. “He will soon be here, Mrs. Croft. Go ahead and serve supper before it gets cold.”

“Aye, and I'll warm him a plateful when he returns.”

Each bit of food Evy took seemed to turn to sawdust in her throat. She'd lied—and to the vicar!

After Vicar Brown went to his study, Evy slid from her chair. She had to find Derwent!

“Not feeling well, Evy?” Mrs. Croft eyed her when she cleared the table and saw her food hardly touched.

“No, Mrs. Croft. I shall go to my room if it is all right with you.”

“Yes, you run along now. No doubt it's from traipsing about the woods in all this damp weather. I'll be up later with warm milk.”

Mrs. Croft turned to leave the dining room, and Evy was edging toward the hall to find her cloak when there was a loud rap on the front door. Evy's heart jumped to her throat. Mrs. Croft went to answer it.

Evy heard voices, and when she entered the hall she recognized some of the fancy dressed footmen in hats and cloaks from Rookswood. They held bright lanterns.

A tall, slim young man with fair hair and skin stepped forward to speak to Vicar Brown, who had come out to see who was at the door.

“Good evening, Vicar.”

“Hello, Charles, what brings you here tonight? Come in, come in, have some cider.”

Evy hung back. She recognized the young man from Rookswood as Mr. Charles Whipple, the tutor who had come from London especially to teach Rogan.

“I cannot stay, sir. It is about your son, Derwent. He is quite beside himself about seeing Henry Chantry's ghost. We, er, have him outside now … We've taken the liberty of giving him something to quiet him down a little.”

“Good grief! Derwent thinks he saw a ghost? What perfect nonsense. I shall indeed deal with him about this, you can be certain.”

Evy winced.

“It might be best if you went gently on the boy, Vicar Brown. He is most upset.”

“Such poppycock. A ghost! I shall have none of that devilish nonsense in my son. Where is he?”

“In the coach with Master Rogan. The squire's son happened to hear him calling for help at Rookswood and rescued him.”

“Rookswood? You mean”—the vicar paled—“Derwent was up at the estate?”

“Yes, he was exploring the cemetery and wound up in the family mausoleum. The wind blew the door shut. He panicked in the darkness and could not get it open again. Master Rogan found him an hour ago. He's been looking after the boy ever since. They are together now.” The tutor stepped aside from the open doorway and looked down toward the Chantry coach, parked in front of the rectory. The flames in the lanterns beside the coach doors were flickering.

Evy's cheeks burned and her hands were cold and clammy. Why that scamp, Rogan Chantry! He locked Derwent in the mausoleum, with all those old family coffins. What a dreadful boy he was! She had half a mind to tell on him.

She watched the coachman open the door, and Rogan stepped out, decked in his fancy coat with gold buttons and matching blue hat with a feather in it. He helped Derwent down, and holding to his arm walked him with what had to be feigned gentleness and concern up the path to the front door.

Derwent looked sick, his wide eyes going from his father to Mrs. Croft. His red hair was damp and drooping. Rogan looked calm and grave. He released Derwent, who wobbled toward Mrs. Croft.

“My, word! Why—he
has
seen himself a ghost.”

“Nonsense!” Mr. Brown's tone was as stiff as his back. “I shall speak with you later, Derwent. Go to your room at once.”

“Yes, Father.” He looked anxious to get away. Mrs. Croft went with
him, and Evy was willing to bet the woman could hardly wait to hear what the boy would tell her. She could imagine the wild tale that would grow in Grimston Way through the years. In another generation the old ghost story of Master Henry Chantry would increase by leaps and bounds.

Rogan removed his hat and bowed to acknowledge Evy, but not before she saw the slight smile he wore. “Miss Evy.”

“Master Rogan, how can I thank you for helping my son?” At the vicar's expression of warm gratitude, Rogan inclined his head. “It was all my pleasure, Vicar.” He glanced toward Evy. “Fortunately, Derwent was not caught inside very long.” Rogan stepped over the threshold into the hall—clearly he was not anxious to leave. Left with little choice, Mr. Whipple came inside and removed his hat.

“Please, come in.” The vicar gestured toward the drawing room. “Would you care for cider or tea, gentlemen?”

“Thank you, Vicar.”

Evy stared hard at Rogan.
He can be as fancy in his manners as one would like, but it is a sham.
And yet for all her irritation, she could not deny the spark of excitement at Rogan's presence there.

When the vicar led the way, and Tutor Whipple followed, Rogan held back and turned to Evy. He started to speak but saw that the door was open and that the two serving men were standing with Mr. Bixby, the footman, by the coach. Rogan reached up and closed the door. He leaned against it and grinned, arms folded.

“I think you are horrid!” Evy stamped a foot.

“Can I help it if your beau is a bit of a coward, besides a bore?”

“Derwent is
not
my beau.”

“He was only in there ten minutes, and he nearly spooked himself into a tizzy”

It was true that Derwent could work himself up into an excited state, but—ten minutes? She eyed Rogan. “Have you no heart?”

“Depends.” He smiled.

“You know very well how superstitious the villagers are.”

“He should know better. Is he not the vicar's son?”

“He is gullible.”

“Granted.” He looked to the ceiling, as though it were infinitely more interesting than their current topic of conversation. “I should think you would have more sense than to fall for a youngster like him.”

“I have not fallen for him. He is a friend. A very dear one. As for being but a youngster—as you put it—he is a year older than you.”

“One would hardly realize that.” He studied her for a moment. “So you ran away from me.”

A strange spark of excitement danced across her arms at the warm challenge in his tone. She tried to sound as bored as he did when discussing Derwent.

“I have no interest in being locked inside your family mausoleum.”

The corners of his mouth turned upward. “I was not going to lock
you
inside. I was angry when you ran away, so I locked Derwent in to show you what a clod he is.”

“So you
did
lock him in.”

He placed hand on heart and bowed. “I confess to my warped sense of humor, Miss Varley.”

“I shall tell the vicar—and your tutor.”

His gaze narrowed. “I would not do that if I were you. They will never believe you.”

“They will.”

“My word against yours? Never. In their eyes I can do no wrong.” He smiled. “So you'd best be wary.”

Evy wanted to throw something at him. “So you admit you can get by with anything just because you are Sir Lyle's son.”

He leaned there, watching her, but she thought his amusement grew somewhat subdued. “I would be lying if I said no.”

“You are forgetting”—she glanced again toward the drawing room—“that it is my word
and
Derwent's.”

That smile again. “No. I have convinced Derwent that the wind blew the door shut and jammed it. It took me ten agonizing minutes to get it open.”

Evy felt her mouth drop open. What a fib! “He believes that?”

“I told him so.” He smiled.

“You are worse than I thought. He believes you only because he is overawed by you. He thinks that giving him a few minutes of your time is a courtesy.”

“There. You see? He does not think I am so beastly as you say.”

“Because he trusted you.”

“And you do not.”

“I would never trust you now.”

“Never is a long time.”

“Not long enough.”

“Oh very Well, so I admit I took advantage of him a bit.” He shoved away from the door, brushing the lapel of his coat as though to erase the incident. “He is rather dumb, you know.”

“And to think he
likes
you.”

For the first time her words appeared to have stung his conscience, if only briefly. “Very well. I shall be a good boy just for you and apologize.”

Her brows lifted. “To me?”

“You are offended, are you not?”

“Yes, for Derwent's sake.”

“What a waste!”

Evy stiffened. “You need not apologize to me, but to Derwent. And then confess the truth to the vicar and those at Rookswood you got all riled up over this, including your tutor.”

Rogan touched hand to his forehead and groaned. “Heaven forbid. Anything but confession to the vicar.”

“He is a nice man. He will likely accept your conduct as a mistaken jest and let it all pass with a subdued smile. That is the only thing we poor villagers can do to the Chantrys.”

He tipped his head to one side, and his smile turned wry. “I cannot oblige you. You demand too much. I will not don sackcloth and ashes for anyone.” With that, he straightened. “And if I were you, miss, I'd not be foolish enough to accuse me. As I said, I will deny it with great vigor. My word will always prevail over yours or Derwent's.”

She felt even more frustration with herself than she did with Rogan. How could she have allowed herself to think for even a moment that he would comply with her wishes? “So you expect this to remain a little secret between us, is that it?”

“Yes, if you wish to put it that way.”

For a moment he looked very young as he stood there, a flicker of uncertainty in those hooded eyes, his arms folded, a dark curl falling to his forehead.

“I make no promise to keep your secret.” At her stiff words, he eyed her, saying nothing.

She knew she ought to turn and walk away, but she did not. They stood there, looking at each other.

Rogan broke the silence at last. “I think you will, actually. You could have told the vicar everything before now. Why didn't you?”

She had no answer. Footsteps sounded, rescuing her. Immediately Rogan became the perfectly mannered young gentleman. He pushed the lock of hair from his forehead and, hat in hand, put on a smooth expression. By the time his tutor appeared to see what was keeping him in the hall, he was definitely the future Sir Rogan.

He was deceptive and polished, and Derwent, in comparison, was an innocent child. Evy shuddered to think what this scoundrel was going to be like as an adult!

“Coming, Master Rogan?” Tutor Whipple asked.

“I have changed my mind about the cider. I think I shall go back to the coach. I sense that Derwent's ordeal has affected me more than I first realized.”

Rogan opened the heavy door. He wore a slight smile as he looked at Evy, and then with a final bow of his head, he went out onto the porch.

“Good night.” She forced the words through stiff lips.

“
Au revoir
,” came his low murmur.

Somehow Evy thought he had actually enjoyed the standoff between them. He found it entertaining that she refused to crumple at his feet.

And yet he had warned her too. It was her word against his. When it came to public opinion, she would never win against him. And when he decided he wanted something, he would persist until he got it.

Though she could not explain why, that thought sent a shiver down her spine.