To Walk in the Sun (Wiggons' School for Elegant Young Ladies - Book 1) (17 page)

She could hear the girls approach and saw
them a moment later.

“Miss Crawford, is something wrong?” Sophia
asked.

Tess straightened. It would do no good to
have them wondering. Who knew what kind of scenario the girls would
invent, though it would never be close to the horrible truth.
“Nothing. Did you need me?”

Thankfully they didn’t question her further.
“Do you know anything about the Druids?” Eliza asked.

Laughter bubbled up at the absurdity of the
question. It reminded her how simple these girls’ lives were when
hers was held in the balance over a simple slip of paper.

* * *

Eliza locked the door and the three of them
sat in a circle in the middle of the bed. “Who do you think he
was?” She asked.

“A lover,” Rosemary giggled.

“No,” Sophia answered. “He wanted to hurt
her.”

“And Miss Crawford was afraid,” Eliza added.
“Could either of you hear what he wanted?”

“Only that she was to return it to him
tonight, at midnight,” Rosemary offered.

“When Atwood is gone,” Eliza ended in an
ominous tone.

The girls looked at each other, suspicion
formed in their minds.

“We will be there when they meet,” Eliza
finally said.

“We can’t do that. Miss Crawford would be
very angry,” Sophia insisted.

Rosemary rolled her eyes. “We will hide and
she will never know we are there.”

“And if he tries to hurt her,” Eliza
continued, “we will protect her.”

The color drained from Sophia’s face, but she
said nothing more.

* * *

Vincent stared in the fire and sipped his
brandy. What was he to do with Miss Crawford? Though seduction was
an intriguing idea for the plan, it was not a level to which he
wished to sink. That was Percer’s expertise and he did not want any
part of his own personality to reflect that of Percer’s.

However, chances were, Percer had already
seduced Miss Crawford, with the promise of marriage as soon as the
map piece was found. So, it wasn’t as if he would be bedding an
innocent. Yet, the thought of bedding Miss Crawford for revenge
left a sour taste in his mouth. It was the revenge that soured him,
the bedding however offered intrigue.

Why, of all men, did she have to be involved
with Percer? She deserved so much better.

Perhaps he should help her. Miss Crawford had
no family that he knew of, and taught. No doubt Percer determined
her susceptibility and her location to him, and set out to make her
fall in love with him, all so she could gain access to this house
for a piece of paper. There was a very good chance Miss Crawford
was innocent, or had been, and would soon be dropped the moment her
mission was completed.

Vincent liked to think that was the way
things were, but his gut told him differently. Too often she
changed the subject when a question became too personal. Besides,
she had never told him of a betrothal. That in itself was a lie by
way of omission.

Yet, the betrothal did not sit well either.
If she were in love with Percer, why had she reacted to him in the
manner she did. He could have sworn that she was about to kiss him
last night. If he had not pulled back, would she have placed her
lips on his? If so, where would it have led?

Perhaps Percer instructed her to seduce the
paper out of him if necessary. He certainly hoped that was not the
case because he would give in. Not that he would give her the
paper, but he would allow her to seduce him.

The thought of Miss Crawford giving him
pleasure brought a smile to his lips. Oh, it had been too long
since he had made love to a woman. Perhaps the answer to his
current need was sleeping right next door.

Regardless, he would determine her motive and
plan. If seduction were involved, on her part, he would gladly
follow. And, with any luck, he may just be able to turn Miss
Crawford against her fiancé.

A quiet knock sounded at the door. Vincent
glanced at the clock and smiled. He downed the last of this brandy
and called for her to enter.

He smiled. “Ah, Miss Crawford. I am so glad
you are punctual.”

“I expect it of my students so must expect it
of myself.”

“An admirable trait. Can I get you anything
before we get started?”

“No,” she answered and took a seat in front
of his desk.

The door to the hall had been left open.
Vincent wondered it if had been intentional on her part. It didn’t
matter. He walked over and closed it before he took a seat behind
the desk, he picked up the first sheet of correspondence and looked
at her. Tonight she wore a raspberry dress, with ecru lace around
her neck. The color was very becoming. Again, he knew he had Wesley
to thank. Prior to Wesley, Vincent would have considered the dress
a dark pink with lace. Words like raspberry, with regard to a
fabric, nor ecru ever entered his vocabulary.

The dress, however, is not what caught his
attention. It was the paleness of her skin. Even her lips were
without color. Her eyes, a dull grey. There was no life. “Are you
feeling well, Miss Crawford?”

She looked up at him, as if startled. “Yes,
thank you.”

He did not question her response, but could
not help wonder what was wrong. Not that it was any of his concern,
but it did give one pause.

Did she fear him? No, that couldn’t be the
answer. Then why was she disturbed? He would ask, but did not
believe she would give a truthful answer. Instead, he held out the
correspondence to her. “Would you read this for me please?” He
stood and poured himself a brandy.

She read the latest news from his London
solicitor and when finished, placed it on the desk.

“Perhaps it would be better if you sat here.”
He instructed her to take a seat behind his desk. She raised
questioning eyes to him.

“It would be easier to write the reply on a
stable surface, do you not think?”

She visibly swallowed. “Yes, it would.” She
sat, retrieved a piece of clean parchment, readied the quill and
waited for his dictation.

Vincent rattled off a reply without thought.
This was remarkable. One piece of correspondence read and another
dictated without even the slightest hint of a headache. Yes, he
should have employed a secretary long ago.

While she read, or wrote, he strolled his
library and thought through the requests and responses. He almost
felt giddy with the freedom. For the first time since the war, he
was without pain and had completed more letters than he could
finish in a month.

The clock struck twelve and Miss Crawford
jumped in her seat.

“Is something wrong, Miss Crawford?”

She glanced at the clock. “Shouldn’t you be
going?”

“I have decided I will no longer visit the
cemetery.”

Her face blanched. “Oh, I had just
assumed.”

“No,” he dismissed her. “We have accomplished
much tonight. I thought we could continue for a bit more, unless
there is somewhere you need to be.” He meant it as a joke,
considering it was midnight, but she blanched further.

After a moment she cleared her throat. “No, I
am fine.” She picked up a piece of parchment. “Shall I read the
next one?”

Vincent tried to get through two more letters
but it was near impossible. Miss Crawford became more jittery as
each second passed. She glanced out the window more times than he
could count and she broke three quill tips. At one in the morning
he called an end to the evening. “I think we have accomplished
enough. Shall we continue tomorrow?”

She stood and nodded. “Of course.”

Vincent watched her go. Something had upset
her but for the life of him he did not know what. She was fine
until he decided not to leave. Why did she want him out of the
house?

He walked to the window to stare out at the
clear night and took a sip of his brandy. It was the same one he
had poured over an hour ago. He could not remember the last time he
had drank so little in an evening. He had no pain and for that he
could thank Miss Crawford. Well, perhaps not her directly, since he
had been the one to ask her to act as his secretary, but she had
fulfilled a need that he truly didn’t know he had.

A flash of dark pink caught his eyes and he
watched it move through the yard.
What is Miss Crawford doing
out at this time of night
?

He didn’t think further, but opened the doors
leading to the terrace and followed her. The moon was high and full
tonight so he had no difficulty following her path as she turned
into the woods.

Where is she going and what is her
purpose
? The thoughts plagued him as he stepped into the woods.
He did not have far to go before he heard her voice. Vincent
stepped off the trail and behind a tree.

“I am sorry I am late. Lord Atwood didn’t
leave tonight, as he has in the past.”

“I know. I saw you through the window.”

Percer! What was the bloody bastard doing
on his land?
The answer was obvious. He was meeting his fiancé.
If this turned out to be a lovers tryst, he would be sure to
interrupt and make sure Percer didn’t miss his next appointment at
dawn.

“I have the paper.”

Had she found his piece of the map?
No, impossible. That was kept in his room and as far as Vincent
knew, she had not been in there…yet.

“I knew I could count on you, Theresa.”
Theresa? Why was he calling Miss Crawford by that name? Was Tess
a nickname?

“May I go now? You have what you wanted.”

“Not quite yet, dear.”

Vincent’s blood boiled at the endearment. All
he needed was a few more words to prove he had been used and he
would make his presence known.

“What do you want from me?” her anguished
voice cried.

Percer chuckled.

Vincent edged forward to see them. They stood
in the middle of the path, in a break in the trees. The moonlight
shown down on Miss Crawford’s black hair.

“Why haven’t you called on Atwood?” she
asked.

“Why should I?” Percer reached forward and
snatched the document out of her hand.

“I was led to believe you and he were very
close at one time,” she countered.

Did Miss Crawford not know their history? If
the two were close she would not ask such a question.

“True, friends since we were children.”

“Yet, you would rather hide in his woods than
visit him?”

“He no longer wishes to see me. Or, have
anything to do with me for that matter?
“Why?” Miss Crawford took a step back from Percer. Vincent wondered
if she was afraid. This meeting was not going as he had anticipated
when he first saw them together.

“I was there the night his wife died.”

“Did you kill her?”

Maybe Miss Crawford knows Percer for who
he really is
. If that were the case, why was she betrothed to
him?

“Ah, Theresa, you wound me. But no, he was
heartbroken over her death and wants no reminders of that
night.”

Vincent snorted at the comment then covered
his mouth in an attempt to muffle any sound. As dearly as he would
love to call Percer out, right now, he would rather remain silent
for the moment and find out what he could learn.

“It was well over a year ago, perhaps he has
changed his mind.”

Percer offered a dry laugh. “My dear,
Theresa, I have written and contacted him in London. While we may
enjoy a friendship amongst the
ton
, I am not welcome in his
home.”

The man was a bloody liar and Miss Crawford
seemed more innocent as each moment passed. For some reason, that
gave Vincent a good deal of relief. Something he would examine
later, in the warmth of his chamber.

“If he knew you were here?” she asked.

“He would not like it and he would ask me to
leave. However, if you do not believe me, we can return to the
house and ask him.”

Oh, please do. I would gladly await your
arrival.

“His mood will be much worse for the reminder
and for being disturbed as I know this is when he works. How do you
think he will react when I tell him he is harboring a
murderess?”

Murderess? Miss Crawford had murdered
someone?

“By the way, I thank you, my dear.” He folded
the piece of paper and put it in his breast pocket.

Miss Crawford turned to go. “If that is all,
I will bid you goodnight.”

Percer reached out and grabbed her arm and
yanked her against him. His lips flattened against hers.

Vincent stiffened and watched as Percer
kissed Miss Crawford. What was their relationship?

Tess fought against him and hit Percer with
the one hand she had free. He finally lifted his head. “Did you
forget there is one more thing you need do for me.”

Vincent was about to go to her rescue when
Percer pulled away. Clearly Miss Crawford did not welcome his
attentions.

“What is it?” She bit out before she wiped
her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Atwood has another piece of the map. I want
you to get it for me.”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” She spat.
“You are friends.”

“He refuses. Atwood claims it is a myth and
insists on holding onto it as a family heirloom.”

“Heirloom?”

“It is one of the few possessions he has of
his great grandfathers and he refuses to part with it.”

Had Miss Crawford given up a piece of the
map? He never dreamed that is what the piece of paper held. So much
more was becoming clear.
Percer was obsessed with finding that
treasure and he would ruin whoever he could, without guilt, to
obtain all pieces. Had Miss Crawford simply been another
victim?

“Where does he keep it?”

Percer shrugged. “He will not tell me because
he knows I want it.”

“You truly believe this map leads to
treasure?”

It sounded as if she didn’t believe the map
held the secrets of a treasure either.