For the man borne into the lobby on the stretcher had been Sir Richard, the top half of his coat torn away revealing a gaping, bloodied chest wound; his eyes blank and staring.
She awoke in what must have been the Blue Room in a fever. All was dim and quiet. And blue. A guttering candle on a low chest near the door illuminated her rich surroundings. Upon a plinth was a large, distinctive urn. As her entire life had been directed to the study and dating of such items, she found herself groggily identifying its date and origin. Ninth century Mesopotamia. How excited her father would have been.
She put her hand to her chest, the discomfort of the tablet digging into her ribs reminding her of her perilous situation and sending her to her feet. Perhaps Lady Griffith had sent for her physician to examine her. If so, Jemima needed to find a hiding place for the tablet until she could take it with her when she left the house.
Swallowing down the terrible lump in her throat, frantic for inspiration, she dragged the stool from the dressing table so she could stand upon it. Then, removing the tablet from its hiding place on her person, she plunged her hand into the urn dropping the tablet so that it fell with a loud, echoing noise, to the bottom. It would be safe, for the moment, for she must not bring harm to this family who were housing her. If word got out that Lord Griffith was protecting the professor’s daughter, he, his wife and his children might meet the same fate as her beloved Sir Richard.
Grief clutched her at her like a spectral hand as she stepped back onto the floor. What would happen to her? John would surely come looking for her, even though his master was dead. He’d want to ensure her safety. Wouldn’t he? An investigation would be carried out to find the culprit who had had killed her father. And villain had killed Sir Richard. They would be apprehended, and then she could finally be reunited with her aunt in their shared grief.
Wearily, Jemima returned to the bed and lay down, relieved that her head was clearing from whatever concoction she’d been given to presumably help her recover from her ordeal. Less than three days ago her father had been murdered. Now Sir Richard was dead.
Clasping the sides of her head as if she could squeeze out the horror, she lay face-down. All she could do now was wait. Wait for John to find her while she tried to go about her daily life as if her heart wasn’t breaking. Never again would she see her beloved father, the center of her world. And in the two short days since his murder, she’d invested so much hope and trust in the man who had made her the center of his focus.
Sir Richard had suspended his important work for the government to protect her. She’d quickly come to depend upon him. In all her twenty years of life, she’d never had a yearning for romance. She’d never envisaged leaving her father. Now, she realized, Sir Richard had been responsible for showing her that she did have a heart capable of romantic love.
But because of her, that man was dead.
Restlessly, she rolled onto her back again and stared at the ceiling, feeling broken and hollow inside. She must have fallen asleep again for she was disturbed by the entrance of Lady Griffith, who kindly inquired after her and offered her sympathies for her father. Then a servant brought food, and shortly afterward, when she was blessedly alone again, she was shocked by the arrival of Lord Griffith.
She rose into a sitting position, pulling the covers up to her neck. But then, Lord Griffith was gentry. She’d heard they didn’t observe the same standards of propriety as people like herself, though surely it was highly inappropriate for any gentleman to visit a lady alone in her bedchamber Sir Richard had always met with her in the private parlor, even when her life was in danger.
It wasn’t long, however, before Jemima realized that propriety was the least of his concerns.
Without being invited, his lordship took a seat by her bed, fingering his short beard as he sent her a long, considering look. He was a gaunt, craggy-faced gentleman with small dark eyes and a particularly penetrating gaze, which Jemima found uncomfortable.
“You have been through a great deal, young lady. Your family is distraught, fearing you have been borne away by whoever murdered your father. Can you tell me why you are here and not with your aunt, or your cousin and her children?”
Jemima struggled to answer. So much had happened to her over the past twenty-four hours.
Sir Richard had told her to trust no one, but this noble family had the means to protect her. She would have to appeal to their charity until she could decide her next step.
“I would like to do whatever I can to help you, Miss Percy.” His lordship spoke kindly when she was unable to string together a coherent sentence. “Please, tell me everything you know so that I can pass on your information to the local magistrate who will see that a proper investigation is carried out.”
With difficulty, Jemima began to recount her story. Even to her own ears, it sounded beyond the realms of belief. “Two days ago,” she said softly, “after returning from gathering mistletoe, I found my father lying on the floor of the library, from terrible injuries he didn’t survive. The man who killed him was hiding in the shadows. He then tried to kill me. I ran away, but he caught up with me and tried to throw me over the cliff,” she mumbled.
“Tried to throw you over a cliff!”
Jemima nodded, conscious of the intimacy of their surroundings and relieved she was still wearing her afternoon dress, even though the covers were pulled up to her chin.
Lord Griffith shook his head. She was glad he looked so concerned rather than sceptical. “What did this man look like? Did he speak to you?”
Jemima put her hand to her mouth, and the bile rushed up her throat to accompany the memories that flooded back. She squeezed shut her eyes. “I’d never seen him before. He was rough. He had a beard and his clothes were patched. He barely spoke.”
“Why would this man wish to harm your father?” Lord Griffith moved forward, clearly agitated. “Did your father possess something he wanted? Why not simply wrest it from a feeble old man? And why try to kill you, my dear? Did you perhaps run away with whatever it was this man was after? As for your father, perhaps it was the shock that killed him. Perhaps he struggled and hit his head. An accident. Maybe this man was only intending to frighten you into giving him what he’d been ordered to locate.”
Jemima put her head on one side. Lord Griffith’s words seemed strangely perspicacious for one who supposedly knew nothing of her ordeal.
He leaned even closer, and now the look in his eye sent alarm bells ringing in her head.
He knows something, she thought frantically. I must get away from here.
She glanced at the door. It was closed. The windows were covered by thick curtains. No light penetrated. The only light came from the candle he’d set down by her bed. She had no idea whether it was day or night.
“So, my dear Miss Percy, you are indeed fleet of foot and cunning, too, that you escaped the villain who was pursuing you? Did you drop the tablet along the way? I know that’s what it was for your father spoke of it to me. He asked me to safeguard if, should something happen to him, in fact.” He nodded. “I thought that would not surprise you, as we both know its value.”
Jemima’s response froze on her tongue. She sent him a narrow look. It was true that her father had spoken of Lord Griffith but not as a friend.
But as an adversary.