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"No movement."
"Not a wrinkle. You're certain."
"Nothing."
With a curse, Piers turned aside, whiffing the air with a strike of an imaginary cricket bat. This couldn't be happening to him. He'd perfected the art of deceit in his childhood. How the devil was it possible that Charlotte Highwood could read him, when the rest of the world could not?
After a pause, Ridley asked, "What's wrong with the waistcoat?"
"Nothing. But there's nothing especially right with it, either."
"The tailors told me it's all the rage this season, that color. Called it curry."
Piers shrugged.
The younger man gave a sigh of lament. "Were you ever going to tell me? Here I'm meant to be a marquess's valet, and you've been letting me dress you in an unflattering waistcoat."
"Enough about the waistcoat."
Somehow he had to regain control of this situation. Put his head back on straight. Rein his eyebrow into submission. Do his bloody duty.
He couldn't risk losing his career. He wouldn't know who he was anymore.
The very next day, whatever sport Sir Vernon proposed, Piers would find an excuse to leave their outing early. He would return to the manor alone, head to the library, open that locked drawer, and retrieve the information he'd been sent to gather.
From there, everything would fall into place.
He would announce his engagement to Charlotte before departing Nottinghamshire. His solicitors and Mrs. Highwood would no doubt require a few months to settle the marriage contracts and make wedding arrangements. They would have a Christmas wedding. Then winter at Oakhaven to work on starting an heir. By the time he was due back in London for the new session of Parliament, he would leave Charlotte pregnant and preoccupied at his estate--where she would be well out of sight of his left eyebrow and unable to disrupt his concentration.
There. He had a plan.
Now to execute it.
"Has there been any mention of the sport for tomorrow?" he asked Ridley. "Angling? Coursing? Shooting?"
"I heard something from the gamekeeper about plans for a proper foxhunt. But I doubt there'll be any sport for two or three days. Maybe four."
"Damn." He could not spend two to four days, confined to this house with the entire party underfoot, and Charlotte provoking him to all manner of disastrous mistakes. "Why?"
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Ridley raised a brow. "That's why."
Piers was a bit peeved. "Where did you acquire that irritating talent for perfectly timed foreshadowing?"
"Perhaps you missed that day of training, my lord."
"Yes, well. At least I'm not rubbish with waistcoats."
Piers sent Ridley to the servants' quarters and waited an hour or so before gathering a candle and quietly leaving his room. If it was going to rain, he wouldn't be able to do any searching during the day. That left him the nights--less than ideal. If he was caught poking around private rooms in the dark, explanations became much more difficult. But his stay was almost halfway over, and the damn British weather wasn't leaving him much choice.
Moving in smooth, silent steps, Piers entered the corridor and turned toward the main stairs.
He hadn't made but a few feet of progress before he froze and tightened his grip on the candle.
A still, shadowy figure hunched in the middle of the carpet, some ten paces ahead.
Piers took a few steps forward and lifted the candle to illuminate the space. He squinted and peered into the gloom. It took a few moments, but eventually he was able to make out . . .
Edmund.
The boy sat cross-legged at the head of the staircase, a quilt wrapped around his shoulders. He held a wooden sword gripped in one hand. Gesturing with the other, he laid a finger to the side of his eye, then pointed it at Piers.
"I have my eye on you," he whispered in an unnerving high-pitched rasp. "I know what you did."
Right. Piers passed a hand over his face. So much for searching the house tonight.
He reached for a book on a nearby side table, lifting it and waving it for Edmund's view, as though it were his entire reason for emerging from his bedchamber. Then he turned on his heel and went back the way he came.
After closing the door, he angled his taper to read the spine of the book he'd picked up.
The Collected Sermons of Rev. Calvin Marsters.
Well. That should put him to sleep.
He flung the book aside, irritated at having been thwarted by a child standing sentry, and sat on the bench to remove his boots. He might as well go to bed.
Then something in the darkness outside caught his eye. He moved closer to the window, extinguishing his own candle to better make it out.
A tiny, warm light flickered in the walled garden below. Darting this way and that. If he were a fanciful man, he would have thought it a fairy. But Piers had no such illusions.
Someone was moving about the garden in a strange, directionless fashion, bearing a small lamp or a single candle in hand.
The sight was odd. Suspicious. He needed to investigate.
But with Edmund standing--sitting, rather--sentry in the corridor, he couldn't go that way. It would have to be out the window. What was it Charlotte had said? Down the ledge to the northwest corner, and from there a short leap to the plane tree.
He threw on a black coat, then opened the window as far as he could. His shoulders made for a much tighter squeeze than Charlotte had likely encountered. After a few twists and contortions, he managed to pull himself out and attain solid footing on the ledge.
What with the approaching rain, the night was windy. He had to take care. Facing outward and stretching his arms to either side, he edged his way along the lip of stone. When he felt a window with his leading hand, he first twisted his neck to check for any signs of someone stirring within. After he made sure no one was watching, he slunk across.
Before long, he had a rhythm established and was making swift progress. He reached the northwest corner with little difficulty and located the plane tree. As Charlotte had mentioned, a thick, leafy branch stretched most of the way toward the ledge, like a beckoning arm.
He sized up the distance and made a mental calculation. But just as he prepared to make the jump, a gust of wind kicked up and pushed him off-balance.
Too late to the abort the leap. He had to lean into it and pray for the best. The jump was ungainly and too short by half. He only just barely managed to grab the limb with one hand. He dangled there a moment, heart pounding, then reached up to grab the knotty surface with the other.
By using his body weight as a pendulum, he managed to sway back and forth until he could hook one boot over the branch. From there, he swung himself upright and straddled the limb.
And found himself looking straight into the housekeeper's window. He knew it was the housekeeper's window, because the housekeeper was staring right back at him.
Brilliant.
Just bloody brilliant.
Allowing Sir Vernon to believe he defiled virgins on desktops was bad enough. Now he'd be caught peeping in at gray-haired housekeepers in their nightgowns? He was going to leave Parkhurst Manor with a reputation for sheer depravity.
Piers froze every muscle in his body and held his breath. The squinting housekeeper slowly raised a pair of spectacles to her face.
Before those spectacles could reach the bridge of her hooked nose, Piers dropped. His fall was broken by one branch; then another, until he collided with the ground with a muffled groan. He flattened himself at the base of the tree--hoping the housekeeper would blame it all on a trick of her eyes and the wind.
Also because he was hurting everywhere.
After a few minutes had passed and no alarm had gone up, Piers decided he was in the clear. He rose to his feet, brushed the dirt from his coat and trousers, and tried not to think about the magnificent bruises he'd be sporting the next day.
Instead, he rounded the corner of the hous
e and headed for the enclosed garden.
Because of the high walls, he couldn't even see the flickering light from this vantage. In fact, it was probably only visible from a few rooms of the manor other than his own.
Was the light bearer waiting on a midnight assignation? Hiding or burying something in the garden?
Piers found the iron gate slightly ajar, and as he pushed it inward, the hinges creaked.
The small, yellow light bobbing in the darkened garden stilled.
And then, a female whisper: "Who's there?"
Piers exhaled in a rush. "Charlotte?"
"Piers."
They walked toward one another, until they stood on opposite sides of the lamp she held. She wore her night rail and a dark cape, hastily tied. One look at her face told him something was gravely wrong.
"What are you doing down here at this hour?"
She sniffed, and her voice caught. "I . . ."
"You've been weeping." He put his hand on her shoulder. She trembled under his touch. "Charlotte, what is it? What's wrong?"
"I've lost it. It's gone. I've searched everywhere in the house I could think of, and then I remembered I'd been here earlier. But I've been looking for an hour now, under every bench and bush. It's not here, either. It's gone."
She pressed her lips together and turned her head, as though to keep herself from crying. Her chin quivered.
"Come here." He took the lamp from her hand and hung it from a nearby trellis. Then he guided her to sit on a bench. "Let me help you. Tell me what it is you're searching for."
"It will sound so silly. You'll laugh at me."
"Never."
Over the past week, the girl had been accused of loose virtue, accosted by a cutpurse, and held briefly at gunpoint--and she'd taken it all in relative good humor.
He'd never seen her like this.
Whatever she'd misplaced, it must mean the world to her.
"It's small." She formed a rectangular shape with her fingers. "Just a scrap of flannel with ribbon edging and a bit of stitching on it. I use it to mark the place in my books. I know how inconsequential it must sound, but it's important to me."
Piers knew better than most that even small, humble-looking items could be of great importance. "You're certain it isn't in your bedchamber?"
He hated to sound like a scold, but considering the state of her other possessions . . .
She shook her head. "This isn't like stockings or shawls. I'm untidy, but I'm never careless about this. It's either in my book or under my pillow at all times. But this evening, when I settled down with my novel it wasn't there. I searched everywhere. My chamber, the drawing room. Then I'd recalled I'd been out here reading this afternoon."
"Where did you sit?"
"Over there." She indicated a stump tucked under a bit of ivy.
"Then it's likely still in the garden. Or perhaps you lost it somewhere along your path back into the house."
"Oh, Lord." Her hand fluttered in her lap. "If the wind took it . . ."
"Charlotte. Don't fret so." He put an arm around her and drew her to his chest, holding her close. Both to soothe her and to calm himself. His heart ached to see her so distraught. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "We'll find it."
"But I've searched everywhere."
"We'll find it."
"You can't promise that."
He tilted her chin so that she faced him. "I can, and I will. It's probably still in this garden. If not, it's somewhere on this estate. But if it's that important to you, I'd search Nottinghamshire, the whole of England--even the world--if that's what it took. You'll have it returned to you. Do you believe me?"
She nodded.
"Here's what we're going to do," he said. "We'll begin at the gate and move clockwise about the garden together. One of us will search while the other holds the lamp. If we haven't found it by the time we return to the gate, then we'll widen our search. Agreed?"
He held out his hand, and she took it.
"Agreed."
They searched for hours. Piers tried to keep up a reassuring patter and maintain a steady pace, so that she didn't become upset or anxious. He'd never appreciated how many plants, shrubs, and flowering vines could be in one garden. Together they checked beneath every bush and branch in one section before moving on to the next.
They'd reached eight on their makeshift "clock" of the garden, and it was likely closing in on five o'clock in the actual morning. The sky began to turn from black to gray. The bit of light made searching easier, but the wind had picked up and the occasional sprinkle of raindrops made itself felt. Piers just hoped they could locate this thing before the rain started in earnest.
He turned to scan a wall covered in thick ivy, parting each cluster of vines and leaves to peer within. He began at the base of the wall and worked his way upward.
"I don't think it could possibly be up there," she said as he stretched his arms to push through a clump of ivy overhead. "No gust of wind would have blown it that high."
"Wind isn't the only force at play in nature."
"No, you're right. There's rain as well. We should move on to the path, perhaps. Or it will end up washed away and buried in mud."
"Give me a moment."
Piers had a hunch, and he wasn't ready to abandon it quite yet. Patience rewarded thoroughness.
At last, in the corner where wall met wall at nine o'clock, he parted a thick patch of greenery to find what he'd been searching for.
A bird's nest, hidden within the branches just at shoulder height. Some clever wren had crafted a deep, hollow bowl of branches and bits.
"Did you find something?" Charlotte approached.
"Perhaps." He reached into the nest gently, reluctant to disturb any eggs or feathery occupants therein. His fingertips skimmed over a variety of textures. Wrens would line their nests with any soft material they found. Downy feathers, moss . . .
Yes.
"Aha." He grasped the corner of flannel and pulled, turning to offer it for Charlotte's examination. "Is this it?"
She stared at the meager scrap of ribbon and fabric for a moment. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth and sobbed into it, leaning forward to bury her face in his chest.
He'd take that as a yes.
He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back and hair. The night of sleepless searching had caught up with her all at once. It wasn't surprising she'd be overwhelmed.
However, his own emotions were a puzzle to him. He'd ached for her when the thing was missing, but he could not share her relief. Quite the reverse. He felt as if her small fist had reached inside his chest, gripped his heart, and wrung it. He should have felt triumphant to have found her treasure.
Instead, he felt lost.
After a moment, she'd collected herself enough to draw away and wipe her eyes. "I don't know how to thank you."
"Perhaps you can tell me what it is we've found."
She smoothed the rectangle of ivory flannel. "I've had this all my life. It began as a blanket in my cradle. When we left our home, it came with us. From as far back as I can remember, I wouldn't be parted from it. Once I'd turned . . . oh, seven or eight? . . . Mama threatened to burn the thing, it was so dirty and threadbare. I cried, she complained. We compromised. She helped me cut it down and bind the edges with ribbon. I used it to practice my first stitching. See?"
She showed him a few misshapen figures embroidered on the flannel. A slanting house, a lopsided Tudor rose.
"Is that a dog?" he asked.
"A cow, I think?" She gave him a rueful look. "I'd like to say my needlework has improved since, but it really hasn't."
"What can I say? I look forward to tablecloths and handkerchiefs embroidered with scanty blossoms and three-legged cows."
She smiled, and the sweet curve of her lips unknotted the tightness in his chest.
"I told you I don't have any memory of my father." She ran her thumb over the flannel, stroking in an idle rhythm that must have been
ingrained habit. "But when I hold this I can recall his presence, at least. The comfort of knowing myself to be safe, and surrounded by love." She looked at him. "Does that make sense? Do you know what I mean?"
"I don't know that I do."
He couldn't even imagine it. For as long as he could recall, his home had been a place filled with tension and fear.
Charlotte carried a scrap of flannel. He carried lies, shame, and a haunting echo of despair.
I can't, she'd wept. I can't bear it.
"Then you'll have to take my word for it," she said. "I just know that feeling exists, and not only in the past. I need to believe it can be my future, too. All my life, I've been trying to get back to a home I can't even remember."
Drops of water spattered his shoulders and the slate garden path beneath their feet.
"It's raining," he said.
Her gaze didn't waver. "You could have that, Piers. With the right person. One you love. That's why I've been trying so hard to untangle this misunderstanding we've landed in. It's why I won't give up on solving it now. It's not only for me anymore. The more I come to know you, the more I believe you deserve love, too."
God. She was killing him.
"We should go inside." He rubbed his hands up and down her arms to warm her. "The house will be waking soon."
She nodded.
"Go on ahead," he told her. "I'll follow in a few minutes. I know you don't want to be seen together. Not like this."
"Yes, but I didn't think you cared."
He shrugged. "I'm too fatigued to invent excuses this morning."
She kissed his cheek before leaving. "Thank you again."
After she was gone, Piers paced the garden alone, letting the rain pelt his back as he turned three simple facts over and over in his mind.
Charlotte wanted love.
He wanted her to have it.
He couldn't offer it himself.
An honorable, decent gentleman would find another way out of this. A way to let Charlotte follow her heart.
But here was the fourth fact that made all the rest ring hollow.
Piers wasn't that kind of man.
Chapter Eleven
It rained for two days straight.
On the second night, Charlotte lay awake in bed, listening to the patter of raindrops and staring at the well-creased paper on which she'd written her list of suspects.
Cathy, the scullery maid--eliminated at once for lack of opportunity. She would have been hard at work preparing the supper, and she wasn't at all likely to be wearing expensive scent. It would have drawn notice.
