The Bluestocking and the Rake (Hearts in Hiding 2)

“Appropriate force were my orders, not murder.” Lord Griffith sighed heavily. “I deeply regret your father’s murder, Miss Percy, for it places us both in a very difficult position. Such violence was entirely unnecessary; unfortunately however, it gives me no alternative but to take on the role of guardian to my poor colleague’s bereaved daughter.” He appeared to flick a piece of dust from his coat sleeve before saying over his shoulder, “You will be adequately compensated for your losses. Think hard about my offer, Miss Percy, and consider the benefits. As a single young woman, you can’t travel across oceans, alone, to claim the treasure. No, I shall make that dangerous journey, and in return for the risks I’ll have undertaken, you will receive half of a king’s ransom. Half of the many chests of gold hidden in the location written into the tablet.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“You will remain my prisoner.”

Lord Griffith turned and took several steps back toward her. “By the time next year’s wassailers bring in Christmas Day, our circumstances will be very different. I know you’ve suffered a great tragedy, and believe me when I say I’m deeply sorry for your loss. But your father could never have made such a difficult, dangerous journey on his own. He’d have turned to me for help. Soon we shall welcome the new year. It’s up to you as to whether it is a year of hope,” he paused, “or a year of suffering. Not just for you, Miss Percy, but for your aunt, your cousin, and her lovely family.”

Jemima lay rigid beneath the bedcovers as the door clicked shut behind Lord Griffith. She was defeated. She should simply surrender the tablet. Of course, she should. It would ensure her safety and the safety of all those whom she held dear. Her father had been murdered for it. She could not afford for anyone else to suffer. And she certainly couldn’t travel alone to distant lands to reclaim the bounty.

But all her senses revolted. Surrender it to a tyrant? It would mean her father had died in vain. This was the culmination of his life’s work. He ought to be lauded fo

r the great scholar, adventurer, and discoverer he truly was. His entire life had been devoted to researching the artifacts of ancient lands, and history should record him as a hero. She couldn’t allow Lord Griffith to take the glory. She couldn’t let him cow and bully her into simply handing over the culmination of her father’s greatest work.

“Miss.” Jemima started, though the voice was timid. “Miss, I knows I shouldn’ be talkin’ to ya. ‘Tis risky, ’tis, but I couldn’ ‘elp overhearin’ and gettin’ a sense ya’d rather not be stuck in this bedchamber if ya could help it.”

Out of the gloom, emerged the tweeny who’d stoked the fire, a lass of little more than thirteen perhaps. She twisted her hessian apron between her fingers as she shifted awkwardly by the bed, her dirty hair appearing untidily from beneath her mob cap.

“No…I would not.” Jemima stared. The girl’s tiny, bony frame reminded her of a fragile bird. She looked as if a puff of air would knock her down.

“What are you saying…?” she asked as she remembered the girl’s name.

“I’m saying as there’s a secret passageway, if ya did want ta leave, ya know. Used when this ‘ouse were a Catholic one back in them dark days when Catholics were in danger o’ burnin’ or losin’ their ’eads. I can show it ta ya if ya want.”

“Yes, please!” Jemima flung her legs over the side of the bed, and hurried over to where Daisy was now kneeling by a bookshelf beneath a large oil painting of a girl on a horse on the far side of the room.

“There’s the catch, ’ere, at the top o’ this book. See.”

Daisy gave a little tug, and with a slow creak, the bookshelf slowly swung open, revealing a gaping cavern. Raising her candle, she stepped over the threshold, pointing to a narrow staircase, which disappeared into the gloom. A cold blanket of air wafted out of the depths, and Jemima could see that where there was no rail to the left of the staircase, a drop into an unknown abyss indicated almost certain death.

Daisy, however, seemed unafraid. “’ Ere, miss, it’s o’right. I bin takin’ these stairs from time ta time when I needs to get out o’ sight in a ’urry.” She took Jemima’s hand and led her through the opening and onto the top step.

Immediately, Jemima began to tremble before turning back toward the light. “I can’t see anything down there.”

“Don’t be afraid; I’ll lead ya.”

“First, I have to fetch something.” Jemima swallowed and glanced over her shoulder into the inky blackness. She didn’t think she could have trusted her instincts or her courage to venture willingly, alone, into such a place.

“O’right, Miss, but—”

“What’s happened!” Jemima shrieked as a whoosh of wind raced up her legs, causing the secret bookcase to close with a click; immediately plunging them into darkness.

“No need ta worry,” Daisy reassured her. “The wind allus does that, and blows me candle out, but I’ve done this wiv me eyes shut dozens o’ times. Come wiv me. I’ll just get inta the ‘ouse by the back door and fetch what ya need. Come, follow me.”

“But I…I’ve left something valuable in that room.” Jemima stood her ground, resisting when Daisy gave her hand a tug.

There was a pause. “Ya can’t go back, miss.” Her words were heavy with emphasis, as if she were explaining something for the umpteenth time to a child. “It ain’t possible to get back inta that room wivout gettin’ in through the ’ouse. Openin’s closed now. But neva ya mind. Jest be quick, follow me afore ’is lordship comes back and finds ya gone. Didn’t seem ya wanted that. ‘E can be mighty nasty when ‘e’s displeased.”

Jemima said nothing as she convulsively gripped Daisy’s hand; terrified of the dark and what might happen if she missed her footing. Besides, what was there to say, she asked herself forlornly, as she was dragged after the girl, much too quickly for her liking. Daisy was like a rabbit navigating the winding tunnels of a familiar burrow. Occasionally, Jemima’s cheek brushed against the damp musty wall, increasing her horror.

Finally, after a steep descent and rapid rise, they stopped, and Jemima looked up at weak shafts of light that penetrated the gaps between the wood of what Jemima made out to be a small trapdoor embedded in moss and dirt above their heads. Daisy turned and made a sound indicating pleasure.

“Reckon no one knows ‘bout this tunnel ‘cept me, and the one wot told me who don’t work here no more.”

The trapdoor emerged beneath the floor of a small woodshed in the grounds of the great house, just bordering the beech forest. A series of footholds cut into the side of the tunnel enabled first Daisy, then Jemima, to navigate the distance between the ground and eventual freedom a few feet above them.

Breathing heavily with exertion and fear, Jemima at last stood trembling beneath a clouded sky, in the dark, as Daisy asked brightly, “So, where are ya off ta now, miss?” She shifted from foot to foot; the soft crunch of snow punctuating her words as she rubbed her hands together for warmth.

“Where am I off to?” Jemima could only repeat the words. She felt stunned. Everything had happened so quickly. And now her greatest treasure was, for the moment, lost to her in the bottom of an urn in the Blue Room in the home of her father’s murderer. She felt utterly helpless, friendless, and close to tears. “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I honestly don’t know.”