The Rebellious Twin (17 page)

Of course! She had sat bolt upright in her bed, her mind racing. The secret room was in the gatehouse tower. The more she thought, the more excited she became. Not only was the tower the obvious hiding place for the fortune, but the best part of all, it was not part of the house and could be accessed from the outside. She would not even have to invent some ruse for getting herself inside the old mansion! All she had to do was go to Hollyridge, circle around until she found the deserted gatehouse, open the oak door with the key, and … Ah! Her heart skipped a beat, just thinking of the fortune that could be awaiting her inside.

The only problem was, how to get there. She could walk, she supposed. It was only a mile to Hollyridge, but after she got there, she would be compelled to creep about that huge estate, through brambles and thickets and thick forest, and heaven-knew-what. Much easier by horseback. Besides, if she were caught walking, she would have no excuse, whereas someone on horseback could ride where they pleased with impunity, simply claiming they had lost the path.

Only she hated horses. For a time, she had debated whether she could bring herself to ride Dublin, but curiosity won, plus the compelling appeal of Lord Westerlynn’s final words on this earth: A fortune awaits Sara Sophia.

Not Sara Sophia, me, Rissa thought as she turned Dublin from the river path to cut directly to the estate. For a while she carefully guided Dublin through the thick forest that backed the estate, the horses’s hooves muted on the forest floor, over dips and hollows, hillocks and mounds, all upholstered in spongy moss. At last she came to the area she hoped would be closest to the gatehouse. She was right. As she rode Dublin out of the woods, she was pleased with herself for having guessed so closely. Directly ahead, she spied the top of the old gatehouse tower that stood not far from the rambling estate, the bottom of its ancient gray stone walls only slightly visible beneath the overgrowth of shrubs and thickets. Ivy vines grew up the tower’s surface, clear to the leering gargoyles beneath the parapet three stories above.

Rissa slid off Dublin to the ground. Heaven only knew how she would get back on the wretched animal, but she would worry about that later. She tied the reins to a tree branch, then reached down the bodice of her riding gown. She shoved aside her gold necklace and pulled out the two ancient keys, warm from their resting place between her breasts. Clutching the keys tightly, she looked carefully around. It wouldn’t do at all if someone saw her. Not much chance of that, though. This part of the estate appeared deserted.

When Rissa was positive there was no one else about, she made her way to the gatehouse where a large, sturdy oak door was built into an arched recess. It was so old and weathered it looked as if centuries had elapsed since last it was opened. Rissa looked up. From the parapet on the tower above, one of those horrid medieval gargoyles snarled directly down at her, its stony eyes clearly signaling, If you trespass you die! She fought the urge to flee, telling herself she could not possibly leave now, not when she was so close to finding the fortune. “You had better open,” Rissa muttered as she slid the key into the lock. She turned the key. Nothing. It wouldn’t budge. She turned it again. Nothing. She pulled the key back, just a trifle, tried again, and — oh yes! — with a screeching creak the ancient bolt released.

She had unlocked the door! In triumph, Rissa caught her breath. But suddenly she wondered, what if she found something dreadful inside? What if there were hideous skeletons lying about, or some evil force waiting to harm her, or bats flying out at her — only didn’t they do that just at sunset?

She felt a shiver of panic. How could she cope with acting on her own like this when all her life she’d been surrounded every waking moment by nannies, governesses, lady’s maids and tutors? She was more frightened now than she had ever been in her life, yet a driving force compelled her to continue. There could very well be a fortune inside. My fortune. With bated breath, her heart pounding in her chest, Rissa pressed down on the latch and pushed. Nothing happened, it was stuck. She had to use her shoulder, backed by all her strength, to shove open the ancient, squeaking door.

*

“Why, Lord Stormont, what a surprise.”

Clarinda drew Donegal to a halt. She was heading home after her ride and had slowed her mount to a sedate gait when she heard clopping hooves along the path behind her and instantly knew who it was. “Fancy finding you here,” she said, tongue in cheek, as Stormont rode up beside her. Pointedly she added, “Especially after we agreed to take separate paths.”

The corner of Stormont’s lips pulled into a slight grin. “You knew I would find you.”

“I did no such thing.”

He swung off his horse and reached for her reins. “Get down. I want to talk to you.”

“I see no need,” she said, flinging her hair back.

His eyes raked her boldly. “Well, I do. Come, get down.”

The man was much too forceful. She should nudge Donegal and ride away. That would show him. But somehow she didn’t want to do that. On the other hand, she hated to be told what to do. She’d had enough of that at home. “I do not like being ordered about.”

“Do tell.” With an exaggerated bow, Stormont declared, “My deepest apologies, madam, for not having the sensitivity to perceive that you are an independent young woman who thinks for herself.” With an irresistibly devastating grin he regarded her. “Now, get off your horse, or shall I lift you down?”

“My, my, so masterful!” With a laugh she slid from Donegal, not minding in the least she had capitulated. A thickness of tall oak and hornbeam trees, Hawthorne bushes, green grass and buttercups edged the trail where they had stopped. A fallen log lay in thick grass mixed with periwinkles and forget-me-nots. Laughing, they made their way to the log and sat down.

Arranging her riding skirt about her, Clarinda asked, “Now tell me what you wanted to talk to me about. I cannot imagine what it could be, especially since you know I’m supposed to stay away from you.” Apprehensively, she looked around. “I could be in a great deal of trouble if we’re seen together.”

He looked puzzled. “I know they took your horse away, but there’s more?”

With reluctance, she related all the ways she was being punished for her supposed shocking transgression with Lord Cranmer. When she finished, she was tempted to tell Stormont about her sister’s plans to capture him, but decided she could not because that would be disloyal. He most certainly deserved to know, though. Rissa didn’t know how lucky she was not to have her predatory plans revealed.

She was startled when Stormont asked suspiciously, “Does Rissa have anything to do with this?”

She gave Stormont an impish smile, determined to dodge the issue. “What does it matter? Rissa and I are so alike you would be as happy with one of us as the other.”

“You’re being absurd again,” Stormont answered with a frown, not in the least sharing her humor.

Clarinda said bluntly, “Don’t forget, Rissa has liked you from the beginning, whereas I started out not liking you very well.”

“Because I was making off with Hollyridge’s horses, as I recall.”

“Yes, and because you bought Donegal, only now…” She could not help a slight grin. “Now that I’ve thought about it, I’m grateful to you for letting me ride him.”

“Does this mean I’m totally forgiven?” he said with a gleam of devilment in his eye.

She looked down her nose at him. “Not entirely.”

“Crushed again!” he said lightly, then turned serious. He took her hand in his and looked her square in the eye. “I liked kissing you yesterday at the stables. Take warning, I have plans to do it again.”

“That’s honest enough,” she answered, “but if you’re so inclined, why don’t you go kiss Rissa? I said we were exactly the same, didn’t I? Well, I was wrong.” From under her long lashes she glanced at him mischievously. “We’re not entirely the same. She likes you more than I do.”

“Stop throwing Rissa at me,” Robert said, bridled anger in his voice.

“Sorry.” She knew she’d gone too far.

Appeased, Robert continued, “Yesterday you said you were in mourning for another. I want to know what in blazes you meant by that.”

“I don’t have to tell you every little thing,” she protested, then, chagrined, caught herself. That sounded sickeningly coquettish, just like Rissa. He was looking at her, patiently waiting, as if he knew she would soon come to her senses and act like a reasoning adult. “All right, but what I shall tell you is in the strictest confidence.”

“Of course.”

With a little sigh, Clarinda told Robert of her deep, abiding love for Jeffrey.

When she finished, Robert was stony-faced and silent. Finally, “You two were not betrothed?”

She hesitated, reluctant to admit the truth. “Actually he was betrothed to Rissa.”

“Indeed? I should like to know how that came about, but I shan’t pry.” Something lively sparked in Stormont’s eyes. “So did your handsome poet ever kiss you?”

“Once,” she grudgingly admitted.

“Then tell me, was it a brotherly kind of kiss, or was it … shall we say, similar to the one you received yesterday morning?”

Clarinda tried to keep her composure, but she could feel herself blushing. Ignoring it, she fluttered her eyelids in a Rissa-like manner and asked, “Was I kissed yesterday? If so, I have completely forgotten.”

He gripped her shoulders in a movement so swift she gasped. “You haven’t forgotten,” he told her, purpose gleaming in his eyes. “You’ve been thinking a good deal about it, as have I.”

“I have not!”

“Then it appears I must refresh your memory.”

A devilish smile played on Stormont’s face as he drew her closer. She knew she should push him away, and she most definitely would, in just a minute, but for now his masculine nearness was overwhelming. A delightful shiver of wanting ran through her. She must push him away, and soon, but right now she wanted very much for him to kiss her again. Then she thought, Jeffrey. I can’t do this. Shaking her head, she placed her palm on Stormont’s chest and pushed hard. “No, please don’t,” she said.

*

Her heart thumping madly, Rissa stepped into the musty-smelling bottom floor room of the gatehouse and looked about. Empty. What a relief! No bats, no skeletons. There was just a big, empty room, dimly lit by thin shafts of light from small slits in the wall far above. Nothing stood on the rotting wooden floor or hung from the gray stone walls.

A rough, uneven, narrow stone stairway was built against the wall, leading to the second story high above. Fearful again, Rissa climbed the stairs and found another locked door, smaller this time, at the top. She chose the smaller key, inserted it, and heard the bolt snap back. She pushed the door and nothing happened. Again, she had to shove her shoulder against it. The harsh sound of creaking hinges grated against her eardrums as, finally, it opened. When it was wide, a whiff of feted air greeted her as she stepped inside, to a room in which the only light came from the high, slitted windows.

In the dimness she could see the room was not empty. Her pulse quickened at the sight of crates stacked around the wall. Surely the fortune was inside. She hastened to the nearest crate, pulled the top off easily, and peered in. There was something … what was it? Why had she not thought to bring a lamp or candle? Finally in the faint light she could make out rolled canvases. Paintings? She picked one up, laid it on the floor and partially unrolled it, to where a nude woman lying in a prone position came into view. Well, really. How could anyone possibly be interested in a big-bellied woman with no clothes on, all stretched out with her hand behind her head? The woman was sort of smiling, looking as if she thought she had something to show off, which she most certainly did not. Rissa checked the corner that had some kind of signature. Reuben, it looked like, whoever he was. Oh, well. Was this all there was? She unrolled a few more canvases, plucking them from the various crates. There was a dreary painting by someone named Van Eyck; a dark portrait of a sour-faced old lord signed by someone called Reynolds; some engravings by another name she’d never heard of, William Hogarth. Aside from more nude women — all of them fat and displaying themselves in a disgusting manner, there were paintings of pretty flowers, landscapes and the like, all signed with artists’ names she did not recognize, and no wonder. She had paid little attention when she and Clarinda took lessons in art. Clarinda had been interested, but she, Rissa, had drifted unhearing through the lessons, daydreaming about more important things like gowns and coiffeurs, and beaux. How disappointing! All this effort for nothing except some stupid old paintings. Even if they were worth something, which she highly doubted, there would be no way in the world she could dispose of them in secret, all by herself.

Was there nothing more? She looked around. In the middle of the room stood an extraordinary stone table, supported by stone fauns carrying buckets of fruit. On the table sat what looked like a gilded jewelry casket. It wasn’t large, but it was her last hope. As she walked toward it, she fancied a cache of gold, silver, diamonds, pearls, rubies.

The casket had a rounded top hinged at the back. It was not locked. Rissa pushed the top back and eagerly peered inside. How disappointing. There was nothing inside except several pages of aged-looking parchment covered with a fine handwriting in — she peered closer — of all things, French. “This isn’t fair,” she cried aloud. Her words echoed back to her from the cold stone walls, ringing tauntingly in her ears.

She grabbed the papers and came close to throwing them across the room. Nothing to be gained from that, though. Her next impulse was to simply leave them behind, but she was curious. She couldn’t read them here, there was not enough light. Even if there were, she would have to take them home to translate. Like every refined young lady of the Polite World, she was supposed to know French, but unfortunately, her grasp of the language was abysmal. She wished now she hadn’t daydreamed her way through all those boring French lessons.

The papers tucked in the bosom of her dress, Rissa left the tower, after straining to close and lock the heavy oak doors behind her so that no one would ever know she’d been there. All that effort for nothing! There was a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach as she led Dublin to the handy stump of a beech tree. Not without a struggle, she hoisted herself back atop the horse, grateful no one was around to witness such an awkward spectacle. This was all Lord Westerlynn’s fault, she thought resentfully as she started toward home. What had the old fool been thinking of when he called a bunch of musty old paintings a fortune?