“Morrison is out,” Patrick said. “As is Cardingcom, who returned to London once he dropped from the bidding, according to the runner assigned to him.” He watched Rhys pace circles in the morning room, hands clasped behind him.
Though scotch appealed, Patrick took another sip of tea. His brother looked awful, complexion pasty, fresh lines scoring his brow, hair mussed. Patrick suspected he appeared the same, for the loss of Charlotte and their subsequent hunt had taken much out of them.
“Archway, too,” Rhys said. “For he did the same as Cardingcom.”
Rose trundled in, though it was but eight in the morning, looking daisy-fresh, hand resting on her pregnant belly.
“I wondered where you had gone, my lord.” She walked to her husband and bussed his cheek.
He wrapped his arms around her and tugged her onto his lap. “The painting is gone, the guards knocked out, though thankfully none dead.”
“No!”
“Shall we focus on St. Michaels?” Patrick said.
Rhys sighed. “We cannot discount Lady Harley.”
“I agree.” Patrick’s back had begun a small tattoo of pain. Familiar and unwelcome.
“I cannot see it,” Rose said. “We chatted before the auction and Lady Harley babbled on about ‘the cursed married colonel,’ her words, and his inappropriate attentions to her daughter. Her ladyship returned from the continent particularly for the auction and planned to hasten back to Italy once it concluded. With so much on her mind, I fail to see her perpetrating such a theft.”
“A cogent point, Rosie,” Rhys said.
“That could all be a smokescreen, sister,” Patrick said. “I like St. Michaels for it. Either way, the thief had help, help within Woodbine.”
Rose’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “We have a spy.”
“Or two!” Rhys said. “Though I am loathe to admit such, I see no other possibility. Given the guards, the thievery could not have been committed by a single person. Yet St. Michaels and Lady Harley remained in their rooms through the night. Who at Woodbine would betray us so? It is hard to imagine. Most of our retainers have been with us for a decade or more, many brought over from Ravenscroft by our father.”
“I hate imagining our loyal staff was involved.” Rose slipped from Rhys’ lap, made herself a cup of tea, and eased into the burgundy leather chair. “Perhaps another bidder assisted?”
“None of the overnight guests left their rooms.”
“A recent hire, then,” Rose said.
“We cannot be sure of that,” Patrick said, as a maid entered with a fresh tray of tea and coffee, that bitter brew Rhys so enjoyed. He recalled the maid’s name as Elodie? No. “Thank you, Elowen.”
They remained silent until her departure, Rose serving them tea and taking a slice of honey cake for herself.
“Much as I loathe saying this,” Rose said, “our staff are the most likely prospects for the theft. Let us make note of the newest members.”
Rhys barked a laugh. “That will be a short list, Rosie.”
“Which makes it all the easier, do you not think?” She winked.
“Shall we gather the others?” Patrick said.
“Let them sleep,” Rhys said. “Plenty of time to bring them into the discussion.” He retrieved a pen, ink, sand, and paper and handed them to Rose. “You have the most experience with the household staff, Rosie.”
“The conspirators may not be of the household,” Patrick said. “But rather the stables, the coachmen, our woodworkers, any of them.”
Patrick and Rhys gathered more writing materials and began their lists.
“Not the handymen nor the woodworkers,” Rhys said. “All have been with us ten years or more.”
“What of Jonesy?” Pain speared up Patrick’s back, and he forced himself not to grimace. His discomfort had increased each day of Charlotte’s absence, a fitting reward for losing his wife. “I should have gone with Lottie to deliver that cursed painting.”
“Should you?” Rose said. “As I recall, you were unwell.”
“If I had been there—”
“What fustian,” she said. “Instead of Banby, you would have been rendered unconscious or worse.”
He scraped his hands across his face. “Charlotte’s absence is driving me to madness.”
Rose approached and kneeled, cupping his cheek with a hand. “Remember that Lottie is resilient and strong, not one to give up. We will find her, Patrick.”
He was mortified to have Rose kneeling before him. “Get up, Rose, do.”
She stood, graceful as a swan even carrying a babe.
“You are a good woman, Rosie.” He chuckled. “Though at times a pain in my arse!”
“As you are in mine, my lord!” She laughed as well, which eased the tension between the three of them. “Shall we get to work?”
An hour later, they reconvened, the others still abed. Rose took her same seat as Patrick entered with Rhys. Patrick had spoken to Grimes, Arjuna, and Spider, all three intensely loyal. Grimes had raised Thomasina after Patrick’s father had removed her from Ravenscroft due to her “differences.” Arjuna was engaged to the devoted Lucy and Spider best friends with Henry.
Woodbine’s steward, housekeeper, cook, and butler had served the Lansdowne family for more than a decade, the same as the head gardener.
Rhys blew out a breath, then presented a paper. “I have but two names—Jonesy, a coachman, and Cadan, an assistant gamekeeper. Both hired within that past year.”
“I came up with none,” Patrick said. “Both Arjuna and Grimes vetted the stable hires and none have been brought on this past year.”
They looked to Rosamund.
“We hired housemaids Elowen and Hermione within the year, Elowen from Cornwall and Hermione from East Riding.”
“I believe St. Michaels has an estate in Yorkshire,” Rhys said. “Does he own others?”
Neither Patrick nor Rose knew.
“We will bring in all four,” Patrick said. “And bludgeon them until they speak.”
Rhys raised a brow. “Brother?”
Patrick uttered a soft laugh. “If only…We should question them individually, with Rhys and I speaking to Jonesy and Cadan, while Rose talks to the maids.”
“Do we know their origins?” Patrick said.
“Elowen is Cornish,” Rose said.
“Jonesy served with me on the Peninsula,” Rhys said. “I doubt he is our man.”
“We shall see what we shall see and pray for a positive outcome.” Patrick again wished for a drink. A stiff one.
Rose bathed and changed, then joined Patrick and Rhys in the morning room, her eyes feeling like papered sand, her mouth a desert. She poured another cup of tea, then buttered a slice of toast as the rest of their family and friends trickled in. Claire and Lady Bea, Susannah and Thomasina, Devonshire, Banby, and Ashworth took seats at the table until the room was fit to bursting. A subdued Henry finally appeared, though he said not a word. The poor boy missed Charlotte terribly.
Once all were settled and eating, Rhys detailed their thoughts on who had orchestrated the theft and rendered the three guards unconscious. They bandied about additional names but ended with those chosen earlier.
Rose would interview Hermione, and after her, Elowen in the morning room, while Thomasina and Devonshire moved to the library, researching the various estates owned by the St. Michaels and the Countess of Oxford. Rhys and Patrick peeled off for Rhys’ study to question Jonesy and then Cadan, while Susannah and Ashworth would search the rooms of the potential accomplices whilst they were being interviewed.
Rose waited in the family salon for her interviews. She’d swear the sprog, sensing her high emotions, was dancing the gavotte in her belly.
A soft tap at the door.
“Come in,” Rose said.
Hermione entered, a pretty girl with a tip-tilted nose and canny brown eyes. Rose recalled hiring her, for she’d replaced another maid who’d left precipitously. Earlier, Rose suggested Lucy query the staff on why the original maid had quit her post.
“Hello, Hermione.” Rose gestured to a chair opposite hers.
The girl, who couldn’t be more than eighteen, sat at the very edge of her seat, though she appeared composed for a servant talking with Woodbine’s mistress.
“You have been with us for six months,” Rose said. “Which is when I always like to have a chat.” A Canterbury tale.
“I see, m’lady.”
“Do you like it here at Woodbine?” Rose asked, knowing her response would be positive.
Hermione smiled, transforming her face from pretty to beautiful. “I do.”
That smile…Perhaps the girl was older than eighteen. Twenty? “I am aware you and Elowen entered Lady Hawthorne’s studio, did you not?”
The girl lowered her eyes, but not before Rose caught a flash of anger. “I wanted to see the paintin’. Elowen did, too. I am sorry.”
“You shall not enter a room that is forbidden again.”
Hermione nodded.
“You hail from East Riding, do you not?” Rose said.
“I do.”
The girl sat perfectly still and composed, which tweaked Rose’s gut. Where were the nerves? “How did you end up here, such a distance from your home?”
“Not so far, as I were serving in Cornwall before here.”
“No, that is not terribly far. Where did you previously serve again?” She should have noted that when she had hired the girl. Yet she had not.
“Baron Arundell of Trerice.”
“Ah. I see.” Again, that twinge, though the why proved elusive. “Do you wish to ask me anything about Woodbine or your employment?”
“No, m’lady. I likes it here. I truly does.”
“I am glad. Thank you for your time, Hermione.”
After the girl left, Rose scribbled notes while awaiting Elowen.
Elowen’s copper skin alluded to Moorish or Romany heritage, and she recalled the girl saying she had been denied many positions due to her lineage.
The girl arrived and, unlike Hermione, she was jittery as a mouse before a cat.
“You have been with us for more than seven months,” Rose said. “I always try to have a chat with new staff at six, but we have been behind, what with all the goings on, you see?”
Which Elowen clearly did not. “Oh.”
“How has your time been here at Woodbine?” Rose asked.
The redhead screwed up her face.
“Elowen?”
“Well, the way I sees it, all these goings on, as you called ‘em, upset the household. Me, too. And…”
Rose leaned back in her chair. “And…?”
“Ya see, I prize my position here. I does. But, well…” Her busy hands worked the skirts of her dress.
Pulling teeth was easier. “Do relax, Elowen.”
“Relax, m’lady? How can I relax when such doings threaten me livelihood?” Elowen pressed her lips tight.
“If you have seen something or know something untoward, please tell me.”
“It ain’t nothin’, m’lady. Nothin’ a’tall.”
The remainder of Elowen’s answers were one-syllable mumbles, the girl was so overset.
Admitting defeat, Rose dismissed Elowen and awaited Rhys’ and Patrick’s results at questioning Jonesy and Cadan.
Later that day, Patrick rolled alongside Banby, who would help him in and out of the bath. He could do it himself, but he’d made a hideous mess, water splashing everywhere. Liking it or not, he now accepted Banby’s assistance. Once settled in the soothing water, he contemplated that morning’s interviews, including Rose’s.
Both or either maid was suspect. He and Rhys had spoken to Jonesy, a woodworker with a solid alibi—he and two others had gone to Torquay to purchase oak and pine and had only just returned to Woodbine. The coachman, Cadan, proved to be more elusive, as he was alleged to have gone to the pub the previous evening. He had not returned. A solid suspect.
Cadan hailed from Cornwall, as did Elowen, though that fact might be but circumstantial. Yet coincidences disturbed Patrick, always had, and the connection buzzed his brain like a hungry bee, for at least two perpetrators from Woodbine were involved in disabling the guards.
The bath water had chilled during his ruminations. Rather than call Banby, Patrick heaved himself to the edge of the tub, scrubbed his hair with a towel, hair that had grown considerably longer in Charlotte’s absence. He wondered what she would say, or if she would comment at all.
His mind turned to Lottie at the oddest of moments, as if she were his magnetic north. He supposed she was.
Balancing on the edge of the tub with one hand, he lifted his legs with the other, swinging them out of the bath. The useless things dangled and he dried them as best he could. The way of the world now, he supposed. He slid into his chair positioned just so by Banby and wheeled to the bed where the lieutenant had laid out his clothes.
He sighed—exhausted by his infirmity, their search for Charlotte—he barely had the vigor to don his smalls.
The crystal decanter of scotch in Rhys’ study glittered in his mind. A drink would be fine. Very fine.
But he had promised Thomasina, a good vow for the surcease drink offered no true relief.
“Bloody hell!” Patrick reached for his smalls.
The door flew open. “What the devil, Patrick!”
Who else but his caring brother? The man had an excessive resolve to fix everyone’s ills.
“All is well!” he hollered back.
“I think not.” Rhys stormed to where he sat naked in his chair. “I shall help you dress.”
“No.”
“Must you be so stubborn?”
He peered at Rhys’ face, tight with fury. He wore that same look as a boy, and Patrick chuckled, then burst into a laugh.
“What?” Rhys said.
“Ah, you are just what I needed this morning to lighten my heart.”
A brow raised. Now Rhys wore his imperious marquess expression, which only made Patrick laugh harder, clearing the cobwebs from his tangled brain to set him on his determined path once again.
They would unearth the miscreants and then they would find his Lottie.
Atop Diablo the following day, Patrick mentally reviewed Rose’s notes regarding interviews with the maids. Cadan remained missing, which left him as a prime suspect, yet a house servant must have been complicit, as well. Rose wished to wait to re-interview Elowen and Hermione until that afternoon. The waiting chafed, but they had set two men, trusted former soldiers of Rhys’, to keep an eye on each woman.
His thoughts went round and round, circling that which failed to fit.
“That is it!” His shout was loud enough to spark two ravens into flight. “We have got you.”
Banby and Henry assisted him in dismounting and settling into his chair. He would have done it himself, but the speed of their aid allowed him to fly down the ramp, the pair running to keep up. “Gather everyone to the salon.”
They appeared one by one and a more tired and sorry group he’d seldom seen. Once seated, he began to speak, only to have Devonshire and Ashworth fly into the room. He waited until they were seated.
“Hermione, Rose.”
“Yes?” She leaned forward, hands clasped.
“Did she not say that while in Cornwall, she worked for Baron Arundell of Trerice?”
“That is correct,” Rose said.
“There is no Baron Arundell of Trerice. The barony died out in the last century.”
Everyone seemed to move at once, with Rhys in pursuit of Billy Broad, the one-armed former soldier who had been shadowing Hermione.
Patrick sat beside Rhys, whose imposing desk separated them from the maidservant, Hermione. They said nothing, allowing the tension to build until…
“Why have you brought me here, your lordship?” Hermione said, hands clasped tight.
“Do you not know?” Rhys said, brow raised.
The girl shook her head.
“We have a few questions about your previous employment, Hermione.”
The girl shrugged, though she was no longer a girl, but a woman grown.
“You told Lady Ravenscroft,” Rhys said, “that your previous employment in Cornwall was at Baron Arundell’s estate of Trerice.”
“What of it?” she said.
“Who told you to say that?” Patrick asked.
She shrugged. “Nobody. It’s where I worked.”
“Interesting,” Rhys said. “As the barony is extinct and has been for decades. So do tell us how you worked at an extinct barony.”
Hermione’s face blanched.
“We believe,” Patrick said, “that you aided our coachman, Cadan, to steal the painting, Halafair.”
“I did not!” she said.
“No?” Rhys said.
The girl’s belligerent eyes stared back at them.
Too much shilly-shallying. Gods, they were close to finding Lottie. “Tell us now.”
Hermione jumped, then began to cry.
“Enough!” Patrick bellowed.
Notching her chin, eyes watery, she clamped her mouth tight.
“Where is Lady Hawthorne?” Rhys said, his voice soft, yet filled with menace.
She shrugged.
“I shall repeat myself, where is—”
The door flew open, banging against the wall, and Theseus Ashworth hauled Cadan inside, a bruise resting beneath his cheek, his lip bloodied.
“Bring that blackguard here!” Patrick barked.
“Cadan!” Hermione screeched as she leapt from the chair toward the man.
“Sit down, Hermione,” Rhys said.
His brother’s commanding tone planted her back in her seat.
Ashworth waited until the hubbub quieted. “Cadan here was making for Cornwall on a broken-down nag. I found him near the Cornish border.” He shook his head.
No painting, Patrick surmised. The man must have handed it off to someone.
The air thickened with antipathy. Patrick wanted to pummel the man, while Rhys appeared to wish the same, rising from his seat to stalk to Cadan. The man paled.
“We gave you a home.” Rhys clasped his hands behind his back. “Gave you a safe place to recover after the chaos of war.”
Cadan sneered. “So what, I say.”
Rhys returned to his seat. “Ashworth, take the man to the dungeons.”
They had no dungeons.
“I ain’t done nothin’!”
“We shall place Hermione in the next cell,” Rhys said. “Then we shall throw away the keys.”
Hermione’s face turned mulish, though her hands shook. “You ain’t got no dungeons.”
“No?” Rhys smiled, but his eyes remained cold as ice. “Shall we go see? Lead the way, Lord Ashworth!” He notched his chin at the earl who dragged their former coachman out of the room.
Hermione had gone quiet, her face stolid.
Rhys resumed his seat. “Now, shall it be the dungeons or—”
“I’ll tell. Yes, I will, but I don’t know nothin’.”
Patrick thought of a different tack. “Where is the painting now?”
Silence.
“Where is Halafair, Hermione?” Patrick said.
She shrugged.
“And who employed you to steal the painting?”
“A man.”
Bollocks! He could strangle the girl with his bare hands. “What man?”
“If I tell, what’ll ya do to me?”
Rhys smiled. Patrick was sure he’d use that same chilling smile on the French.
“We will refrain from killing you,” Rhys said, tone frigid, eyes unrelenting.
His words must have struck a chord.
“Baron St. Michaels.”