Last Night's Scandal (The Dressmakers 5)

“Are you sure?” she said.

He gave it back to her. “It isn’t a treasure map,” he said.

“Perhaps it’s a coded message.”

“There is no code,” he said.

“Those little symbols,” she said. “In the little boxes.”

He looked from the paper to her.

She’d collected cobwebs on her dress and in her hair on her way into the well room. She’d apparently dragged her hands through her hair while trying to decipher the Secret Message, because a number of pins dangled drunkenly from the thick curls. Her blue eyes shimmered with excitement, and the sunrise color had washed into her cheeks.

He was so tired of this hideous castle and the hideous weather and so tired of digging holes to bury feelings only to have them slither out, like snakes, and sink their fangs into him.

Why had he come back to England?

He knew it wasn’t good for him to be near her.

But he’d returned because of the Carsingtons—and it wasn’t fair. Why should he keep away from the one family that meant anything to him, because one member of that family turned him inside out and upside down?

“It’s rubbish,” he said. “The sort of scraps elderly people keep about for no earthly reason.”

The flush in her cheeks deepened and crept down her neck. A warning sign.

“He wasn’t like that,” she said. “If you’d look at his journals, you’d see. He’s meticulous. If he kept this, he had a reason.”

“It could be any reason,” he said. “Senility comes to mind.”

Her blue gaze narrowed as it lifted to meet his. “You told me to look for clues,” she said. “You told me to get to the bottom of it. I haven’t bothered you for days. Now I ask for your help, and you dismiss me out of hand. You know perfectly well that this paper means something.”

“I doesn’t mean anything!” he snapped. “There’s no treasure. There might have been once, but any rational person would know it’s long gone. Even the ghosts have lost interest. Haven’t you noticed? No wailing bagpipes in the middle of the night? No sign of them, since they scrawled on the basement wall.”

“It’s been raining,” she said. “They don’t want to trudge through a downpour carrying their bagpipes and the rest of their collection of ghost tricks.”

“The basement is booby trapped,” he said. “I made no secret of it, and they’ve heard, the way everybody hears everything.”

“And you think they’ve given up, just like that? You think your traps scared them away?”

“Well, no one’s set any before, have they?”

Her flush darkened. “Lisle, you are not—”

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I’m not going to argue with you about ghosts.”

She waved the paper at him. “You could at least—”

“No,” he said. “I’m not going to waste time on worthless scribbles.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d look at the journals.”

“I’m not looking at the journals,” he said. Not with her peering over his shoulder. Her scent. The curst rustling. It wasn’t fair. She knew they needed to keep apart.

“You told me to look!” she cried. “I’ve spent hour after hour, searching through mountains of papers and books and journals and letters. Hour after hour, trying to read his tiny handwriting. You were the one—”

“To keep you busy!” he burst out. “To keep you out of my hair. I have this idiotic, pointless task—a great waste of time and money—in this miserable place, where I never wanted to be—and I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

“I was helping you!”

“Oh, yes, a great help you’ve been. If not for you I should have told my parents to go to blazes. I’d be happier starving in Egypt than living here. What do I care about their damned money? Let them spend it on my brothers. I can make my own way. But no, here I am, trying at least to do the accursed job, and do it properly, and you must nag and harass me to run off on another wild goose chase.”

“Nag and harass? You were the one—”

“It was a diversionary tactic! You of all people ought to know what that is. You do it all the time. Well, I’ve used it on you. How do you like it? How do you like dancing to someone else’s tune?”

“You—you—” She grabbed his hat, pulled it off, and hit him in the chest with it. She flung it down and stomped on it.

“Well done,” he said. “So mature.”

“If you were a man, I’d challenge you to a duel,” she said.

“If you were a man I’d shoot you happily.”

“I hate you!” she cried. “You are despicable!” She kicked him in the shins.

It was a hard kick, but he was too angry to feel it. “Splendid,” he said. “So ladylike.”

She made an obscene gesture and stormed out.

One o’clock in the morning

Tuesday 25 October

Tonight was clear, and the moon, though past its full, offered sufficient illumination for mischief makers, ruffians, and anyone who wanted to spy on them.

The only “anyone” at present was Olivia, creeping out of the castle after everyone else had gone to bed. She wore men’s pantaloons, with flannel drawers underneath. A waistcoat, coat, and a hooded, thick wool cloak offered the next layer of protection against a Scottish autumn night. She’d brought with her as well a wool blanket to protect her from the night damps.

Not that she needed it. She had her boiling blood to keep her warm.

The ghosts had gone, had they?

“We’ll see about that,” she said under her breath.

She should have bet him, that’s what she should have done, after their icily polite dinner.

They’re not gone, and I can prove it. That’s what she should have said.

And he’d say, You can’t prove anything.

Can’t I? What will you wager?

How about Castle Horrid? You can have that.

It isn’t yours to give. I’ll tell you what: If I prove the ghosts haven’t gone, you’ll stop acting like a thickheaded—oh, sorry, I forgot. You can’t help that.

“And he’d say . . .” She looked up at the north tower. Its darkened windows told her he was asleep—and she hoped he was having hellish nightmares. “And he’d say . . . What would he say?”

Never mind. She’d prove the ghosts hadn’t given up. They were merely revising their tactics. That’s what she would do.

In any case, a wager would only put him on the alert. Better to let him think she was sulking. If he’d guessed she was planning anything, he’d make a nuisance of himself.

The last thing she needed was a surly, uncooperative male getting in her way.

She hadn’t even told Bailey about her plan for tonight because Bailey would wait up for her, and Olivia didn’t know how long she’d be out. If she had to, she’d stay until first light. She had a cozy enough hiding place.

The choice of position was obvious. The broken-down watchtower in the southwest corner of the courtyard had been built precisely for observation purposes. Though it wasn’t useful at present for surveying the surrounding countryside, its doorway offered a good view of most of the courtyard while concealing her.

The only trying part was the waiting. Sitting in one place, without a pack of cards or a book, wasn’t entertaining. And sitting on a stone, even if it was a great, flat one, was comfortable only for a short time. She felt the cold through the layers of thick woolen cloak and pantaloons and flannel drawers. The wind whistled through the chinks. As time passed, the moon and stars seemed to dim. She peeped out from her hiding place.

Clouds were racing overhead on the quickening wind, filling the sky and blotting out the moon and stars. She tucked into her shelter, pulling t

he blanket more tightly about her. Time passed, the air growing colder and colder. Her limbs were stiff. She changed position.

Was that damp air she felt on her cheeks? Or was it only the chill wind? Her fingers were growing numb. The night continued to darken. She could barely make out the outlines of the courtyard.

The wind shrieked through the chinks in the stones and she could hear it sweep up piles of dead leaves and whirl them through the courtyard. She moved again, but she hadn’t enough room. She didn’t dare stamp her feet to warm them, and her toes ached with cold. Her bottom was going numb.

She thought about Lisle, and the abominable things he’d said, and what she could have said back, but that didn’t work anymore to warm her. She’d have to get up and walk about, or all her limbs would go to sleep. She started to rise.

A light flashed at the periphery of her vision. Or did it? So brief. A dark lantern? Then everything was darker than ever and the air was heavy, a cold, damp blanket.

Then she heard the footsteps.

“Mind the lantern,” said a low voice.

Clank. Thump. Thud.

“I can’t see a bloody thing. It’s raining again. I told you—”

“It’s only mist.”

“Rain. I told you— Bloody hell!”

The light flashed in Olivia’s face, blinding her.

The deeply creased and partly burnt piece of paper crept into Lisle’s mind for the hundredth time as he was on the point of dropping off to sleep.