A Lady of His Own

you’d already stumbled on something illicit, I was half-inclined to think the affair might prove to be all smoke and no fire.”

He caught her gaze. “However, even if we prove that what you suspect is true, and Nicholas is apprehended, the details will not be made public. Nicholas won’t stand trial, nor, indeed, will most of England even know of his apprehension or his crime, and even less of any others he might name as coconspirators.”

She frowned. “You mean it’s simply buried? Not”-she gestured-“paid for?”

“Oh, no-if he’s been involved in treason, he’ll pay.” He smiled one of his coldly dangerous smiles. “It’s just that no one will hear of it.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

While she digested that, he rapidly reviewed all she’d told him, all he now accepted, all he now suspected. “The first thing to do”-he looked up as her eyes snapped up to meet his-“is to take a look at this pillbox collection.”

CHAPTER 4

“MY APOLOGIES. I’D THOUGHT YOU WERE EXAGGERATING.”

The look Penny threw him wasn’t difficult to interpret. She turned back to her self-appointed task of counting the dozens of pillboxes ranged on shelves in the ancient priest hole concealed behind a wall panel in the master bedchamber of Wallingham Hall.

She’d been right; this wasn’t a collection it was easy to explain away. Row after row of superb examples of the jeweler’s art glowed and winked and tempted. Charles wondered if she’d realized there were too many boxes to have been amassed over only a decade of spying. Too many boxes for the collection to have been Granville’s work alone.

He glanced around, mentally orienting the six-foot-by-twelve-foot chamber within the walls of the old manor. They’d ridden over, arriving midmorning, prepared to engage Nicholas in a discussion of the estate if he was there and they couldn’t avoid him. He was there, but in the library. As the house was Penny’s home, there was no reason to announce her arrival, or, therefore, his; regardless of his years away, the staff knew him as well as the Abbey staff knew Penny. She and he had walked upstairs, straight to the master bedchamber, to this hidden room.

One tiny window high on one wall let in a shaft of light. The walls themselves were solid stone. As in many priest holes, there was a second door, a narrow wooden one set low in the wall opposite the main entrance, by the corner with the outer wall. An old key sat in the lock. The escape route of last resort for any priest trapped there.

They’d closed the door to the master bedchamber, but left the hinged panel wide open. Charles caught the sound of footsteps plodding up the stairs. Penny continued counting, unaware. More out of instinct than real concern he moved to the priest hole’s threshold; Nicholas was not yet master there-he wasn’t using the master bedchamber.

He was, however, heading for it.

Charles cursed beneath his breath, caught the edge of the panel, and hauled it shut. Penny looked around, straightened, but blessedly made no sound as the panel dully clicked into place.

He looked at her; she stared at him. Beyond the panel they heard the sound of a boot step on the floorboards.

If Nicholas wasn’t using the room, then why had he come there?

Charles grabbed Penny’s arm and drew her to the small door. Grasping the key, he turned it, trying to be careful, but eventually had to force it; the lock hadn’t been used in years. It grated, then the bolt clunked over.

Just as the faint whirring of the panel’s mechanism reached them.

The panel popped open. The catch to release it was concealed in the ornate mantelpiece surrounding the fireplace farther down the bedchamber.

Charles wrenched the narrow door open, unceremoniously thrust Penny through, and followed on her heels. He pulled the door shut, fast and silent, rammed the key into the keyhole, turned, and heard the lock fall home.

Just as the panel hinges squeaked.

They held their breaths. Nicholas took a few steps into the priest hole, then stopped.

Penny closed her eyes, then opened them. There was no real difference in what she could see. Blackness.

The…corridor?-wherever they were was narrow, musty, and dusty; the wall against which Charles had crammed her was cold, hard stone. The space hadn’t been designed for two people; they were jammed together, his shoulder wedged against hers, her back to the wall opposite the wooden door.

She could hear her own breathing, shallow and rapid. Her senses were in knots, reacting to the black prison on the one hand, Charles’s nearness on the other. Her skin started to chill, then flushed, prickled.

Through the darkness, Charles found her hand and gripped reassuringly. She gulped and fought down a mortifying urge to grab him, to cling and burrow against his solid warmth.

He shifted; releasing her hand with a gentle pat, he slowly crouched, his shoulder and back sliding down her.

Her legs weakened; mentally cursing, she stiffened them.

A pinprick of light glowed faintly. She blinked, blinked again, realized Charles had extracted the key from the keyhole.

He moved. The light vanished; absolute darkness once again reigned. He was peeking through the keyhole.

She bit her lip, trying not to form any mental image of their surroundings. Cobwebs, bits of stone, lots of dust, insects, and small creatures…not helpful.

Charles moved, then smoothly, carefully rose. His hand found hers, squeezed, then followed her arm up to grip her shoulder. He leaned nearer. She felt his breath brush her ear, felt the reactive shiver to her marrow.

“He didn’t see us. He’s studying the boxes. Doesn’t look like he’ll leave soon.”

He paused, then added, his voice the faintest thread of sound, “Let’s see where this goes.” He stepped away.

She clutched at him, caught the back of his hacking jacket.

Halting, he reached around and caught her hand. He pried it free, but didn’t release it; he drew her arm around him, then flattened her hand on his chest, over his ribs. He reached back and caught her other hand, and did the same, bringing her close-very close-behind him.

Leaning his head back and to the side, he breathed, “We’re going to move very slowly. Hold on to me-I think there are stairs a little farther along.”

How could he tell? Could he actually see anything? To her it was as dark as a sepulchre.

Regardless of the abrading of her senses, she wasn’t about to let him go.

He was right about the stairs. They’d only shuffled a few feet when she felt him step down. He stepped down again, then waited. Feeling with her toes, she found the edge and stepped down behind him.

In tandem, one step from him, one from her, they slowly descended. With every step, the hard strength of his back shifting before her, the steely muscles of his chest flexing beneath her palms, blatantly impinged on her senses. Although the air was growing cooler, she felt increasingly warm.

It was a long, steep, straight but narrow stairway; rough stone walls caught at her arms, her skirts. Charles reached up, moved his arms. An instant later, ghostly fingers trailed caressingly over her cheeks.

She jumped, valiantly swallowed a shriek.

“Just cobwebs,” he whispered.

Just cobwebs? “If there are cobwebs, there must be spiders.”

“They’ll leave you alone if you leave them alone.”

“But…” They were destroying the spiders’ webs. By the feel of it, dozens of them.

She shivered, then heard a faint sound. A scratching…her fingers spasmed on his chest. “Rats! I can hear them.”

“Nonsense.” He descended another step, drawing her on. “There’s no food here.”

She stared at where she knew his head must be. Were rats that logical?

“We’re nearly there,” he murmured.