But in only five minutes Deveril would appear in her bedchamber. He was as punctual as sunrise. And then what would she do? He’d never allow her to leave to find what she’d spent a year plotting to retrieve.
No, she had to rush back, take her chances and hope for the best. If necessary, she’d talk Miles into what she had to. She could do it.
She turned on her heel and headed back the way she’d come; down the passage toward the Blue Room. She could salvage the situation—she could. She was nearly at Miles’s door. Her heart was pounding with anticipation. With excitement that she’d see him again? That’s what it felt like when her reasons for returning were so much more important than that.
“Back again, my mysterious creature of the night.”
She clapped a hand to her mouth to stop herself screaming. She couldn’t believe it. There was Griffith stalking the corridors. Had he been waiting for her all this time? Were his suspicions not allayed when she’d thrown herself on Miles?
Picking up her skirts she bolted toward the Blue Room, thrust open the door and confronted Miles in all his naked splendor as he fumbled to find his banyan at the intrusion.
“Help me! He’s coming!”
Of course, Miles thought she meant Deveril, she only realized afterward, but it was enough time to slip past him, reach into the urn that was still upon the low table, seize the missing piece and then…
She couldn’t pass him in the doorway. Miles was blocking the entrance as he engaged in some rather heated words with Lord Griffith. For a moment, Jemima was tempted to throw herself into Miles’s arms and trust him to save her.
Then reason kicked in. Lord Griffith was too powerful. He’d murdered her father. He’d find a way to hurt her family if not herself. He’d certainly hurt Miles. She couldn’t risk it.
But what choice did she have save hiding in the wardrobe, or crouching in the shadows by the bookshelf?
The bookshelf. Of course! She remembered the little Abigail who’d led her out of this room the year before. The bookshelf was a façade to a secret tunnel. It would provide her with the way out if she was prepared to venture into the freezing night air wearing nothing but a ball gown. But it was the only way.
Hastily she undid the catch on the top right-hand book and pushed the shelf which spun around, leaving a gaping hole leading into the darkness. Terror needled her as she stepped into the void, closing the bookshelf behind her so it slid back, leaving no hint of her means of disappearance unless Lord Griffith thought to check the catch, which he certainly would. But hopefully, not before she’d made good her escape.
Jemima’s candle had blown out with the gust of wind, but she was fueled by desperation, and her survival instincts were strong. She tossed the bronze candlestick into the darkness and heard its disappearing echo as it bounced against something like stone midway before landing with a ringing tone far into the unknown depths. Horrified, she pressed herself against the wall and carefully inched her way along the long, dark descending corridor. It was damp and cold, and her gasping, terrified breaths were all she could hear . If she missed her footing, she might well find herself plunged into the void. She had no idea of its depth nor any desire to find out. But if she concentrated on making her way, inch by inch, toward where the tunnel finally opened beneath the woodcutter’s shed in the forest, she could reassess her next movements.
It was slow progress, and all the while she expected to feel the
rush of air and her world cast into shadows shortly after Lord Griffith learned, as he must, how she had escaped.
But for every moment she remained undiscovered, she must rejoice. That must provide the impetus she needed to keep going.
At last the corridor ended in a wall. If she did not know better, she’d think the tunnel was a dead end but thanks to the servant girl, Jemima knew the longed-for trapdoor was just above her head. If she could negotiate the footholds dug into the side of the wall, she could climb to the top. Provided the trapdoor had not been covered with something heavy, she could push her way out into the darkness on her first step towards safety.
With immense difficulty, given that she was wearing stays and petticoats beneath her fine net gown, Jemima began the arduous task of climbing.
First she sank her hands into the dirt and gripped the tenuous holds that had saved the lives of monks from centuries past. Then she dragged her body up until she found purchase for her flailing feet before raising her hands above her head until she finally found the roof.
With all her might she pushed.
And the trapdoor gave way, protesting on rusty hinges before yielding a space wide enough for her to drag herself through.
Almost in tears through relief and exertion, she emerged into the dark hut. She was disoriented a moment as she stared about her, trying to think of her next move. If she’d only had the opportunity to hide her bag in the hut, she would be feeling a great deal more confident of achieving her goals. Now she must satisfy herself with forging ahead in a ball gown that would make her a beacon of curiosity and easy prey, and without the benefit of either the broken corner of the tablet or the brass rubbing in her carry-all that was so necessary to help her decode the message.
She leant against the wall and closed her eyes.
Home seemed closer than it ever had, despite her set-backs. For the moment, she was free. She thought with longing of her aunt and her cousin. Perhaps she could visit them secretly and then leave again. At least she could reassure them she was alive. But no, she couldn’t stay. Not now that Lord Griffith knew how close she’d been to discovering the tablet that she’d hidden in his home.
Pushing herself back into movement, Jemima stared about her, at the empty, rough-hewn walls of the hut, which were revealed in the light of the faint moon through the cracks and uncurtained window.
Then gathering up her skirts, she pushed open the door, and stepped into the forest.
Chapter 16
Miles thought his lordship must be losing his marbles, but he wasn’t going to step aside and allow Lord Griffith into his bedchamber where Jemima was cowering, looking to him to save her from Deveril.
Lord, it was all too complicated, and he was still in that state of bliss at knowing the most beautiful woman in the world, and the only one he’d ever loved, had chosen to come back to him and damn the consequences. She’d thrown in her lot with Miles and was risking—if Miles wasn’t being overly dramatic in his assessment—her life in leaving Deveril. No doubt Lord Griffith had been sent ahead by Deveril to do his dirty work.