Last Night's Scandal (The Dressmakers 5)

“Begging your lordship’s pardon,” said a big, burly man. “I’m John Larmour, the blacksmith, sir. You don’t need to wait for me to open the shop tomorrow. I’ll do it now, if you like. The fire’s low, but we can blow it up quick enough if we need to. Looking at that chest, though, I don’t think we need the fire.”

A chorus of cheers greeted this offer.

You people, Lisle thought. You remarkable people.

He said, his voice a little choked. “Thank you, Larmour. That is most gracious.” He cleared his throat. “MacEvoy, get the chest loaded onto the cart and take it to Larmour’s shop. Herrick, send someone to the castle to invite Ladies Cooper and Withcote to join us.”

“And the ladies’ maids,” Olivia said.

He looked down at her. “And the ladies’ maids—and everybody. Bring our prisoners, too. I wouldn’t have them miss this for the world.”

They came out of their cottages as well, men, women, and children. A great crowd formed in front of the blacksmith’s shop. As many as could squeezed inside. Others clustered at the great open doorway. Fathers hoisted their children onto their shoulders.

The flickering candlelight threw dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling and over the faces of the eager audience.

Ladies Cooper and Withcote sat at the front of the audience, on a pair of cushioned stools the footmen had brought for their comfort. The upper servants stood nearby.

Jock and Roy stood within the shop door, legs and hands securely chained, and guards on either side.

John Larmour studied the chest for a time, then he said something.

Herrick had to translate, because Larmour’s burr was thick. Lisle had barely understood his speech at the church, and that was slow and simple. But Larmour was excited, and as he spoke more quickly, he became harder to understand.

“It’s a fine piece of workmanship, he says,” Herrick said. “He regrets having to do it a violence, but he will have to take a hacksaw to the outer locks.”

Lisle nodded, and the blacksmith went to work.

It didn’t take long. With the padlocks off, Olivia could once more tackle the locking mechanisms with her picks. It took her some time to work out the sequence, but she finally got one keyhole cover released. She moved that aside and after experimenting with some of the blacksmith’s keys, and having him file one to her specifications, she unlocked that part. Then came the business of rotating some metal buttons, and simultaneously withdrawing hooks. Lisle had to help her. There was yet another mechanism, but by now she’d worked out the system, and that didn’t take as long.

She was careful, Lisle noticed, to position herself to block the onlookers’ view.

When she was done, she moved aside.

The audience cheered and applauded. There was a chorus of congratulations for Olivia, which seemed to be along the lines of “Well done, lass.”

“You do the honors,” she told Lisle.

He lifted the heavy lid.

Under it, an ornate metal screen concealed the intricate locking mechanisms. Atop the open chest lay a metal tray, elaborately decorated.

People promptly started wagering about what was under the tray. Coins, some said. Jewels, said others. Books. Plate. Dirty laundry, said a few jokesters.

“Dirty pictures,” said Lady Cooper. “I’ll wager you five pounds, Millicent.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Lady Withcote. “Papers aren’t that heavy. What they’ve got in there is sculptures. Some of those brass satyrs, most likely. Very popular in olden times.”

“I always liked a satyr,” said Lady Cooper.

“You mean Lord Squeevers, I suppose.”

“Squinty Squeevers? Certainly not. He was Cyclops.”

“But he had those hairy legs—”

“You should have seen his nether parts.”

“Oh, I did.”

“Do you remember the time—”

“Speaking of time,” Olivia said. “All bets in? Good. Lord Lisle, please end the suspense.”

He took out the metal tray.

No jewels or coins glittered up at them from inside the chest—not that Lisle had expected to find any.

Within lay a thick brocaded cloth.

“Oh, dear,” Olivia said. “An old dressing gown, I fear.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Lisle said, reaching down. “Who’d go to so much bother to hide old clothes? This thing hasn’t been opened in centuries. Those locks hadn’t been oiled in—” His hand struck something solid. “Wait.”

He removed the cloth carefully. More cloth lay beneath, but that seemed to be wrapped about the solid object.

He lifted out the parcel and set it down on the workbench. “Whatever it is, it isn’t lightweight,” he said.

Murmuring came from the crowd, people in the back asking what it was and those in front saying they didn’t know.

He drew away the wrapping to reveal a rectangular lead casket. This one, thankfully, had only a simple lock.

It took Olivia mere minutes to open it. After a bit of experimenting, she unlocked it with one of the curious keys in her collection.

A hush fell over the blacksmith’s shop as she raised the lid.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said. “Oh, my goodness.”

Even Lisle caught his breath. “Is that what I think it is?”

“What is it, damn ’em?” Jock growled “How long before we find out what they’ve got?”

“They’re doing it a-purpose to vex us,” said Roy.

It was a thick vellum document, the ink faded to brown but the neat Chancery script perfectly legible. The paper was wider than it was long. From it an immense seal dangled.

“It’s old papers,” someone near Lisle said.

Jock groaned loudly. “Rubbish! All that work! Years! For rubbish!”

“It’s no rubbish,” said Roy. “There’s fools like old Dalmay who pay a pretty penny for old papers.”

“He’s dead! Who’d buy them now? Jewels, you said. Gold and silver. All those years, digging.”

“You did well enough by that.”

“A few trumpery coins! An old tankard. A spoon. The one earring. What did they fetch?”

“These are letters patent,” Lisle said.

The brothers demanded to know what those were. A few voices promised trouble if Roy and Jock didn’t hold their tongues. The Rankins subsided, muttering.

Lisle took out the documents and perused the Latin. He was aware of Olivia at his elbow, reading, too, though with more difficulty, undoubtedly. She hadn’t had Daphne Carsington drill Latin, Greek, and six other languages into her as Lisle had. Still, she must have got the gist of it, because she wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

He oughtn’t to feel moved; he’d held objects far older than this. But none of them had been personal. His throat tightened.

“What is it, your lordship?” someone called.

Lisle quickly composed himself. “It isn’t what most people mean by treasure, but it is a family treasure,” he said. “This document, dated the twenty-first of June, fourteen hundred thirty-one, bears the signature of King James I of Scotland.”

A chorus of aahs told him that his audience understood this was an important relic.

Amidst the murmurs Lisle heard the Rankin brothers arguing about whether it was or wasn’t rubbish before someone stifled them.

He went on, “In this the king grants my ancestor, Sir William Dalmay, the right to build Gorewood Castle. ‘A castle or fortalice,’ it says, ‘to surround the same with walls and ditches, and to defend it with gates of brass or iron; and also to place on the summit defensive ornaments.’ ”

“May we hear it all, your lordship?” said Tam MacEvoy.

Lisle

read it through first in the Latin, because it sounded mightily stirring that way. Then he translated it. The English of four hundred years ago sounded quite as impressive.

When Lisle was done, MacEvoy said, “I reckon this means Gorewood Castle is well and truly yours, your lordship.”

“Like it or not,” someone called.

The crowd burst into laughter.

“And us, too, your lordship,” Tam said. “We come with the place, and all our troubles as well.”

The crowd agreed with a chorus of ayes, and more laughter.

Lisle looked about him. They were laughing, but they meant it. He remembered what he’d heard last night.

He felt Olivia’s hand on his arm. He looked down.

“You’re wearing that look,” she said in an undertone.

“What look?”

“Your conscience-stricken look.”

“These people,” he said. “My father. What he’s done.”

“Yes, I know.” She squeezed his arm. “We need to talk about that. But later.”

She carefully replaced the document in its casket. She started to close the lid, then paused and put it up again.

“What?” he said.

“There’s something in the corner,” she said. “A coin, I think. Or . . .” She smiled. Her slim fingers closed over the object and she lifted it out.

It was a ring, a lady’s ring by the looks of it: a gold band set with red cabochon stones, rubies or garnets. Stones like the color of her hair.

She held it up so that the people in front could see it. They passed the word to those in back.