Lady Rosabella's Ruse

‘There are no family jewels here.’ They had all gone to her stepmama. Even those her father bought for her mother. Blast Lord Stanford—why couldn’t he just stick to playing cards instead of chasing after her?

It was that business with Hapton in the linen closet, no doubt. A blush crept up her face. He thought she was no better than she should be. Apparently in more ways than one. ‘This really is none of your business.’

‘It is every man’s business to protect his fellow from thieves and burglars.’ He gave a rather nasty laugh. ‘Indeed, I’ll have you know I am sworn to uphold the law in my role as a member of the House of Lords.’

She gave him a sour look. ‘God help England.’

He cracked a laugh. ‘Indeed.’

Dare she trust him? She heaved a sigh. ‘Perhaps if I explain …’

He nodded, his eyes wary. ‘I’ll listen. But stick to the truth. I will know if you are lying.’

Not telling everything was not lying. All she had to do was convince him she wasn’t a thief. ‘As I said, I lived here once.’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Mrs Travenor, you are the most outrageous female I have ever met.’

‘It’s true. There is a servant here who can vouch for me.’

‘Where is this servant?’

She winced. ‘He had to go to Rye, but he will be back and he will confirm that my father was a tenant here before he died. We had to leave in a hurry.’

The laughter left his face, replaced by a swift frown. ‘Debts?’

Well, there were debts. Just not her father’s. ‘Yes.’

His mouth twisted in that cynical smile. ‘And what do you expect to find behind the pictures?’

He didn’t believe her. She swallowed. She couldn’t tell him about the will because then he would want to know the names of her relatives. If any word got back to her grandfather about her search, he would no doubt ban her from the house and Inchbold would be in terrible trouble.

She clasped her hands together, a prayer for his trust. ‘A miniature of my mother. It was only after he died that I realised it was missing from his effects.’ It wasn’t completely a lie. Change the word miniature for will and it was as close to the truth as she dared get.

He looked unconvinced.

‘In two days the house will be rented again. This is my last chance to search.’ She couldn’t stop the pleading note in her voice. Not that she thought pleading would do any good, judging by his forbidding expression.

‘Are you sure it is here?’

‘It cannot be anywhere else.’

‘Why sneak about in the night? Why not just ask the owner for permission to look?’

Did he have to be so logical? ‘The owner is unlikely to grant me permission, given the cloud we left under. Surely you won’t stop me from looking for what is mine? It has no value to anyone except me and my sisters.’

His expression remained doubtful.

She swallowed the dryness in her throat. ‘You can stay and watch if you wish.’

‘Good God, woman, it is long past midnight. A time when honest people are heading for their beds.’

‘I have other duties to perform during the day, as you know.’

He muttered something under his breath. ‘All right. Search. But you will not remove anything from the property without the owner’s express permission.’ He folded his arms across his chest and leant against the wall.

It was the best she could hope for. Besides, if she did find the will, she would be able to put paid to his suspicions in an instant.

She stared at the picture on the other side of the fireplace, another hunting scene. She dragged her chair around the hearth and stepped up. Taking care not to put any pressure on the cord, she pushed the picture aside. Nothing here either. Skirts in hand in preparation of jumping down, she glanced over at Stanford. He was staring at her ankles. When she didn’t move, he raised his gaze to her face. She glared. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

Heat flooded her body at his lazy mocking smile. They locked gazes for a moment and then finally he shrugged and looked away. She leapt from the chair.

There was another picture, this time a Scottish scene, complete with a gillie and his dogs out amid the heather. A console table stood beneath it. It looked sturdy enough to hold her weight, but she needed the chair to climb up. She turned to pick it up.

‘Allow me.’

The velvety voice in her ear caused her heart to leap into her throat. She drew back. ‘Certainly. Over there by the window, if you please.’

‘That is not the kind of wall where one would locate a safe.’

‘I want to look.’

‘Well, we don’t need the chair.’ He strode to the picture, reached up, grasped the frame and shifted the picture at an angle. Nothing. His expression was long suffering. ‘As I said. Can we now put an end to this nonsense?’

Damnation. He was going to try to rush her out of here. ‘If you don’t want to help, sit down and leave me to it.’ She walked over to the bookshelves and tried twisting and turning any ornate projection she could see.

He let go a heavy sigh and did the same for the ones above her head. Lord, but the man was tall. When they were finished there, she peeled back the large rug covering the middle of the floor and started on the floorboards.

‘What is so important about this picture anyway?’ he grumbled while he tested the boards at the other end of the room.

‘It is the only picture we had of my mother.’

‘Why would someone hide it away?’

The man just couldn’t leave well alone. ‘My father couldn’t bear to look at it after she died. He put it away in a safe place for us. When we left, it was forgotten.’

‘It sounds like a very bad play,’ he said. ‘Who can’t bear to look at a picture?’

‘My father loved my mother very much.’

‘As I said, a very bad play,’ he scoffed.

She frowned at him. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but the smile on his lips was not merely mocking, it was bitterly cynical.

‘I suppose you are one of those men who does not believe in love,’ she said, flipping down one corner of the rug and moving to another carpet corner on her side of the room.

‘Love is a fairy tale created by females with nothing better to do than create fantastical events in their heads.’