Last Night's Scandal (The Dressmakers 5)

He and Jock had done well with the ones they’d found. A few in the basement. Some in the courtyard. But it was the old earring they found in the courtyard, near the watch house, that convinced Roy that old Dalmay wasn’t babbling nonsense, like everyone said. That earring told him the treasure was real, and it was there.

Below the wall, old Dalmay had said.

People said, if them Dalmays couldn’t find their own treasure back when it was all fresh in their minds, then it was gone. Cromwell and his like had got to it, same way they got to everything else, they said. But if people’d seen them coins and that old earring and knew what they’d fetched in Edinburgh, they’d sing a different tune. They’d all be up at the castle with their spades and pickaxes—and not to help put it back together.

“Laird’s son’s got them all digging, too,” Roy said. “If it’s in the courtyard or in the basement, they’re going to find it. We’ve got to make them stop.”

Lisle was trying not to fall asleep into his plate. It had been a long day, though a satisfying one, and his brain was even more tired than his body. He still didn’t understand what his family had ever wanted with this ugly pile of stones. They had alternately abandoned it and wasted fortunes maintaining it. No matter what one did, it would always be cold, damp, and gloomy.

All the same, when he’d watched the men marching up the road from the village, he’d felt a surge of pride as well as relief. In spite of the damage the laird, his father, had done, they were prepared to trust the son. Now he’d be able to get the job done properly. Since it was an immense job, it would keep him well occupied.

He glanced across the table at the problem on whose account he needed to stay otherwise occupied. Olivia wore a gown of some heavy blue silken material, with the usual miles of material in the strangest places, while her shoulders and most of her satanic bosom lay naked—except for the sapphire pendant necklace winking up at him from the center of the devil’s land.

She was rising from the table, preparing to lead the company to the fireplace for tea—or, in the ladies’ cases, another vat of whiskey—and conversation or reading, when the wail of bagpipes welled up from the bowels of the earth.

Lisle leapt from his chair. “Herrick, Nichols, with me. You—” He signaled to the footmen propping up the wall. “Down the south stairs.”

They all grabbed candlesticks and hurried down to the basement.

They stumbled over the debris, searching the big, vaulted rooms. Then one of the footmen gave a shout. “Your lordship, here!”

Lisle hurried toward the sound of the man’s voice. He found him pointing to the wall of one of the rooms.

In large charcoal letters, someone had scrawled, BE WERE.

That was all they found.

The devils had got away. Lisle sent the servants back upstairs to assure the ladies that no one would be murdered at present. Then he walked back to glare at the scrawled message. When he got his hands on them. . .

A familiar rustling came from nearby. He looked away from the misspelled taunt. Olivia approached, candle in hand. She paused at his elbow and studied the wall.

“I must say, it does disturb me, their creeping in while the entire household is awake,” she said. “They’re strangely bold.”

“Or strangely stupid,” he said.

“Step-Papa always says that criminals tend to be men of low intelligence and high cunning,” she said.

“I know. I’d far rather deal with clever ones. At least one can understand their thinking.”

“Bagpipes are harmless enough in themselves,” she said.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” he said.

“It’s the harassment that worries me,” she said. “It upsets the servants.”

It bothered him, too. They needed servants to function, and servants didn’t stay in bad situations unless they were desperate.

“Unfortunately, one can’t keep a garrison here to protect us from invaders, as they did in the old days,” he said.

“I doubt they’ll actually try to harm us,” she said. “That would bring the authorities into it—and what they clearly want is for everybody to go away so they can continue their treasure hunt.”

“I’m not going away,” he said. “I’ve started, and I’m not giving up. I’ll restore this useless damned antique, and then I’m going back to Egypt if I have to row myself in a dinghy. Meanwhile, I’m going to booby-trap the basement. Those morons will have to find another way in.”

“If we found the treasure first, they’d have to stop looking,” she said.

He was tired and it was hard to look at her and be sensible when he was being stabbed to death inside. He was furious with himself for not being able to master feelings that could only lead to unhappiness. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “There is no treasure,” and to tell her to stop being a romantic idiot—and to put on more clothes, and not stand so close, where he could smell her.

The warning voice spoke in time.

Think.

Treasure. There wasn’t any but she’d never believe that. She wants to look. Why not let her? It would keep her busy, and if he presented it carefully, it would keep her out of trouble.

“Very well,” he said. “Let’s look at this logically. Even deeply stupid men wouldn’t work so hard without very good reason.”

“That’s it, exactly,” she said. “They’ve been at it for years, if we measure from when the haunting started. There must be something behind it.”

“If we knew what that was, then we’d know what to do,” he said. “Maybe there’s something in Cousin Frederick’s papers. Or something he said. The trouble started after he left the castle and moved to Edinburgh.”

His mind was already gnawing on the puzzle. It was easy enough to set the lures for her without telling an actual lie.

“It’s intriguing, I admit,” he said. “But I haven’t time to think about it. I haven’t time to study his papers and books and talk to the people who were close to him. I’ve got this heap of stones to ‘restore to its former glory’ to appease my deranged parents.”

He saw her face fall, and he felt ashamed. Worse, the mad part of him—the part she could summon so easily—wanted to drop everything and pursue the mystery. That part of him wanted to hunt with her for treasure, the way they’d done before. Oh, it was tempting. He recalled the excitement of breaking rules and surviving by one’s wits.

He could feel himself being drawn in, and he knew he ought to fight, but the mad part of him didn’t want to.

Then, “You’re right,” she said, her expression brightening. “Treasure or no treasure, the castle must be restored. I did promise you’d return to Egypt by spring. Which means we’ve not a minute to waste. I’ll tackle the mystery. Now that Herrick’s taking charge, I’ll have plenty of time on my hands—and I daresay the ladies would adore collecting gossip from your cousin’s friends.”

She stepped closer and patted his chest. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” she said. “Your loyal knight Sir Olivia will do what’s needed.”

When I grow up, I’m going to be a knight, she’d told him the day he met her. The gallant Sir Olivia, that’s who I’ll be, setting out on perilous quests, performing noble deeds, righting wrongs.

She hurried away then, and he stood watching, until she was out of sight and the rustling faded.

He turned to stare at the wall.

BE WERE.

But of course he didn’t believe in presentiments or omens. Or warnings from imbeciles who couldn’t spell.

He turned away and went back upstairs.

As he’d said he would, Herrick had ridden to Edinburgh on Wednesday. By Thursday, they had a housekeeper, Mrs. Gow. By Friday, Herrick and Mrs. Gow had hired a full Scottish staff. That day, Olivia gave all of her London staff except the personal servants permission to return to London.

Only Aillier insisted on remaining. The others couldn’t pack fast enough. They were gone by mid-afternoon.

Meanwhile, she spent hours poring over Cousin Frederick Dalmay’s books, pamphlets, and periodicals. Wherever Gorewood Castle was mentioned—in an article, say, by S

ir Walter Scott for an antiquarian publication—Frederick had placed a paper marker and written notes in pencil in the margin. The notes were illegible for the most part, but no matter.

The printed material told her about all the ghost legends: Different ghosts, she found, were popular in different eras. She learned, too, about curious doings at banquets and bewildering legal matters. Frederick had kept records of all the property disputes. He’d kept a set of journals as well. As far as she could make out, these dealt mainly with Gorewood Castle and its history. They seemed to refer occasionally to annoyances pertaining to the castle. But she couldn’t be sure, because the small, spidery handwriting was nearly impossible to read.

She thought Lisle would have no trouble making sense of it, being more accustomed to deciphering strange scripts, some of them partly defaced by time or vandals. She would have to ask him if he could spare a little time for that.

Then, on Monday, she was turning a page, debating whether to beg Lisle to explain it to her, when the piece of yellowed, partly burnt paper fell out.

“But it’s a clue,” Olivia said. She waved the creased, brown-edged paper in Lisle’s face.

Reluctantly, he took it from her.

His plan had been working so well. He did his job and she did hers. Their paths crossed at mealtimes, when the ladies were there as well, and they couldn’t help but be a distraction.

But today Olivia had cornered him in the basement well room while the workers were outside, eating their midday meal. She was practically dancing with excitement because she’d found a CLUE.

She wasn’t supposed to find any clues. She was supposed to keep searching and searching until he got the work done and came to his senses about her or, if that was impossible, until he solved the problem of what to do about her.

“What does it say?” she said.

He looked down at the uneven grid with its random marks. “It doesn’t say anything,” he said. “It looks like a child’s scribbling and drawing. One of Cousin Frederick’s early efforts, perhaps. My mother kept all my drawings. Keeping this sort of thing isn’t an act of judgment but one of sentiment, apparently.”