He caught her looking at him and smiled. She turned hastily back to her shelves of books, resenting another perceptive observer.
More than perceptive.
Knowing.
What had Con told him?
Nicholas Delaney worked quickly through the rest of the ingredients, then came over to study the books Susan had already opened and checked. “Did you see anything by the Count de Saint Germain here?”
“I haven’t been looking at titles,” she said. “But Mr. Rufflestowe has catalogued all these, I believe.”
“He being interested in titles, but not in clever hiding places. I’ll check his lists. Con has offered me first pick.”
“You are a student of alchemy, sir?” She couldn’t help but show her disapproval.
“I’m a student of everything,” he replied with a smile, taking out a book, opening it, then returning it to the shelf. “You have lived in this area all your life, Miss Kerslake?”
“Yes.”
“Probably you knew Con when he visited here years ago, then.”
She grew belatedly wary, but wouldn’t lie. “Yes. We are of an age.”
“He clearly had interesting memories of his time here. Ah, excuse me.” He reached in front of her to take a tall, leather-bound book off the shelf. “A Physica et Mystica. Con,” he called across the room. “Your fortune is made. The last copy I heard about went for three hundred.”
“The Earl of Wyvern’s fortune is made,” Con corrected. He looked at the desk and table. “I think I’m finished here. I suppose it was unlikely that the marriage certificate would be in such an open spot, and I can’t see any secret compartments.”
“No offense, Con,” Hawkinville said, “but I’d like to check that.” He pulled out all the drawers, checking for hidden compartments. Then he slid under the furniture on his back and they heard tapping and rattling, but when he worked his way out, he said, “You’re right. Nothing.”
He dusted himself off. “Nothing in the floor or ceiling. The shelves here are fixed very solidly to the walls, and there are no spaces between them. Windows, curtains, doors. All clear. The proportions of the room seem right.”
So that was what he’d meant by the spaces in between. Susan thought of her haphazard search for the gold and knew they were in the hands of a professional.
She honestly wished she could leave it entirely in his hands.
“I think we should have a luncheon,” she said, then realized that it was no longer her place to even think of such things. Even as housekeeper it had not been her place.
But Con said, “An excellent idea. We might as well invite Rufflestowe.” He opened the door to the bedroom and Susan saw the curate bent over something on the cleared top of a bookcase.
“Found something?” Con asked.
The curate straightened, looking a little pink. “No, not really, my lord. I suppose this is not part of my ascribed duties, but the poor lady looked so . . .”
Con went in, and Susan followed. Rufflestowe had been bent over the slashed picture that had hung on the wall.
“I begged some egg white from the cook, my lord,” the poor man said, looking as if he expected to be rebuked, “and used a sheet of thick paper on the back. It is not sticking down very well as yet.”
All the same, the slashed scraps had been pulled together enough that a face existed.
Delaney demanded the story of the picture, and Con told it.
Amelia leaned closer. “She looks familiar....”
“We think it’s Lady Belle,” Susan told her gently. “When she was younger than you.”
“Oh, yes, there’s a family portrait of her and Aunt Sarah hanging at the manor. This is probably a drawing for it. How horrid of him to cut it up like that and then keep it. If he disliked her so much, why not throw the picture away?”
“The ways of hatred,” Con said thoughtfully. “I wonder if this can be picked up....”
He did so, carefully, and it more or less stayed together. “Follow me.”
He went out into the corridor and along to the Saint George rooms. Susan, realizing what he was thinking, hurried ahead to open the doors. They all ended up around the Roman bath with Amelia commenting wide-eyed on the pictures.
“It’s the same,” Susan said, whispering for some illogical reason, as if the woman on the ceiling, and on the floor of the bath, and in the portrait, might hear.
They were all the same person. All Lady Belle.
Her mother.
“And the fountain figure,” Hawkinville said.
“By heaven, you’re right.” Con looked again at the slashed picture. “He had them all done in the image of Isabelle Kerslake, and doubtless saw himself as the dragon. God damn his black soul.”
“Already done, I have no doubt, my lord,” said Mr. Rufflestowe.
Con gave him the picture. “Take this back to the Wyvern rooms, Rufflestowe, then join us for luncheon.”
The curate took the picture, but said, “I thank you most kindly, my lord, but I must return home. I am to preach tomorrow and must work on my sermon.”
Con smiled wryly. “I think we must have provided much material for it.”
The curate headed back to the old earl’s rooms. The rest of them made their way thoughtfully down to the lower floor, coming to rest in the garden. Susan had no doubt they were all feeling in need of the relief provided by green and growing things.
They chatted about the strange items they’d encountered, and Susan wondered aloud where David was.
Then she noticed Major Hawkinville still and silent. She glanced at Con, who was by her side as if it were the only place to be.
He said, “Thinking. He can become an island of calm in the middle of riotous disorder.”
As if he’d heard, Hawkinville looked over at them. “Can I see those fountain figures again, Con?”
“Of course. You think there’s a clue there?”
“Perhaps.” There was something in the major’s eyes that could almost be unease. When they paused outside the curtained alcove he said, “I’m not sure if decency requires that the ladies be excluded, or that only the ladies be permitted to search.”
“Ladies should never be excluded,” Delaney said. “Rogues’ law.”
“Really?” It was clear to Susan, at least, that Hawk Hawkinville thought this peculiar, but he said, “Come along then. Con, can we have a light?”
It was de Vere who went off to the kitchen to get a lighted candle. They all waited. Susan wanted to ask why Hawkinville thought they’d find the marriage certificate here.
“Because the fountain is labeled ‘The Dragon and His Bride’?” she asked.
“It does seem somewhat pointed.”
“And those figures are hollow,” Con said. “But there are no openings to the inside. The pipe that fed water out of the dragon’s er ... shaft? Is that it?”
“It would be nice,” Hawkinville said, but Susan didn’t think he was optimistic.
De Vere returned with a candle guarded by a glass funnel, borne very obviously like an angel bearing a fiery torch. Con pulled back the curtain, de Vere marched in, and they all squeezed in after.
In the flickering candlelight, the dragon did not look so funny, and its mouth did seem to snarl. It was an opening of sorts, however, where not filled with the long forked tongue. There was also the water pipe.
Major Hawkinville said, “Con?” offering him the job.
“Please,” Con said, gesturing for his friend to have the honor.
Hawkinville poked a finger into the mouth, but shook his head. He rolled the beast to peer down the pipe. “Anything hidden in here would have to be waterproof, securely attached, and quite flat. And fairly close to the opening.” He produced a long, thin knife from somewhere and probed, then straightened. “I don’t think so.”
“You never did think so,” Con said. “Where?”
Hawkinville turned to the figure of the woman. The raped or rapturous Lady Belle.
“Where,” he asked, “do you think the demented earl would have hidden it?”
The bride’s mouth was open, but it was obviously a shallow space.
Then Susan realized and looked down between the spread legs. It hadn’t been obvious in the fountain with the dragon pressed against her, but the figure was anatomically correct. There still didn’t seem to be a hiding place, but she went forward. “I’ll do it.”
Her tentative fingers found something that wasn’t metal. Wax. “A knife, or something,” she said, hearing her voice waver slightly in the silent room.
Con knelt beside her, offering his penknife. “Do you want me to do it?”
“No, it should be me.”
Wincing slightly, she dug the knife into the wax and carved it away. It became easier. It became only wax. And when the final bit came free, she saw a slender roll. She pulled it out and gave it to Con, then picked up some wax and pushed it back into the space as best she could.
Nonsensical, but she had to do it.
She stood. “I want this statue melted down and made into something else. Something good.”
“Saint George?” Con said. He took off his jacket and spread it over the statue, then led the way out of the alcove.
“No. Something free. A bird, perhaps. Perhaps it has never been easy being Isabelle Kerslake, fighting to be free.”
Con gave her a smile that said he understood, then unwrapped the package and unrolled the document. “
The record of the marriage of James Burleigh Somerford of Devon, and Isabelle Anne Kerslake of the same county, on July 24th, 1789. Nearly a year before you were born, Susan.”
He’d understood the depth of her fear that she might be the daughter of the mad earl.
“He probably never could father a child,” he added. “Now, however, it’s all up to your brother. You can take these to him.”
She met his eyes, but he had himself under control as well. “Keep them, please. If he declines the honor, they are for you to deal with.”
“As you will.”
It was farewell, and they both knew it. They were under the eyes of others, but it was, in its way, a blessing.
“Come along, Amelia.”
Susan did not look back as they headed for the exit to Crag Wyvern, but they were stopped by a young lad hurtling breathlessly in.
“Miss Kerslake!” But then he broke off, looking wild-eyed at the people nearby.
Sudden fear gripping her, she took Kit Beetham’s arm and pulled him aside. “What?”
“It’s Captain Drake, ma’am! He’s holed up in old Saint Patrick’s Chapel with the Preventives around him. Maybe wounded, too!”
“Wounded? How badly?”
“Don’t know, ma’am. They flashed a signal down and my dad saw it. Trouble. Three of them there, and one or more wounded. Dad reckons Gifford will have sent for reinforcements and is pinning them there until they come.”
Susan’s heart was thundering, making it hard to think. Stupid, stupid! was running through her head.
How had David been so stupid as to try smuggling in broad daylight?
“What is it?” Con appeared beside her. “What’s happened?”
She shared the boy’s message. “I’ll have to try to organize a rescue. There’s probably no one else....”
“Of course there is. There’s me for a start, and Hawk Hawkinville, and King Rogue.”
She looked up at him. “You don’t want to be involved in this.”
His gray eyes were rock steady. “If you’re involved, I am. And where I’m involved, so are my friends.”
To the boy he said, “Wait here for instructions.”
“Yes, sir!” the lad declared. Susan could see an instinctive response to command, and the comfort of it.
Someone was in charge and all would be right with the world.
She felt it too, but beneath it lay terror. David was in dire danger, and Con could be too, earl or not.
He led her back into the great hall and said to the men, “Council of war. The office, I think.” To Susan, he said quietly, “What of your cousin?”
But Amelia said, “It’s David, isn’t it? I knew he’d do something stupid!”
“It appears she’s part of our merry band,” Susan said, startled that Amelia clearly knew more than she’d thought.
In the office Con related the basic situation. He included Gifford’s threat to Susan without giving the history behind it. “He’ll lose leverage by this. A strange maneuver.”
“Perhaps not,” Susan said. “Catching David red-handed would put even more pressure on me.”
“But then why send for more troops? He’ll want a quiet settlement with you.”
“That’s speculation. He might not have sent for anyone. He’ll have the local boatmen....” Then Susan sucked in a breath. “Con, Saint Patrick’s Chapel is that ruin near Irish Cove.”
Their eyes met. If Gifford had seen them embrace, he might be acting out of rage and envy.
Unpredictably.
And David might be wounded.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
Con took her hand. “It will be all right. How many men could Gifford have with him?”
“There are six boatmen here, but they usually go in pairs on land.”
“We’ll assume just Gifford and two for now, then.” Con described the chapel to the others. “Easy to hold out in there against a couple of local men who don’t want to get killed, and probably don’t much want to kill, either.
The ground around is mostly open. I don’t want this to be a pitched battle, but I want Kerslake and his men safely away. Suggestions?“
Delaney said, “Hawkinville and I are strangers here. That’s a good card to play. If we happen upon the scene, we can’t be blamed for getting in the way.”
“Of a musket ball?”
“We take our chances. Meanwhile, you and de Vere can attempt your rescue.”
“And me,” Susan said. “I’ll not be left behind.”
“I want to help, too,” Amelia said.
Before Susan could protest, Delaney said, “Of course. But like any inexperienced trooper, you’ll follow orders. Yes?”
Amelia frowned, but then said, “Yes, sir!”
“I’m not military. I’m just a Rogue. Con, is there a map of the place here?”
De Vere produced one from a drawer, spreading it on the desk. He traced the coastline, then said, “I thought so. Here it is. Irish Cove, and the cross must mean the chapel. It seems to be not far from the road to Lewiscomb, but there’s a break.”
“There was a landslip there fifty years or so ago,” Susan said, “cutting the road off. No one uses it anymore.”
“Except smugglers,” Con added.