uncurtained, but they would be servants’ quarters, nurseries and the like; aside from all else, he didn’t like his chances of finding his way through the maze that was certain to exist up there.
Going in through the open front door, he climbed the main staircase to the second floor and, taking due note of landmarks so he wouldn’t get lost, started to work his way through the rooms.
It didn’t take long to realize the staff were keeping a eye on him. A procession of maids with empty chamber pots, footmen with extra tapers, and in one case an empty coal shuttle, all passing him on the way to nowhere in particular, was a fairly clear sign. At first he considered it encouraging, but as the minutes passed, he realized that they were more curious than concerned.
The conclusion was obvious: Justin wasn’t inside the house, or at least not on the second floor.
Quitting that field, he started down a secondary stair. Glancing out of the landing window, he saw a conglomeration of buildings tucked away behind a stand of mature trees. The buildings-barns and similar structures, most likely the home farm-weren’t visible from the house except from certain vantage points.
Continuing down the stairs, he strode outside. As a landowner himself, he could always ask intelligent questions about crops and yields.
But it soon became apparent from the amused gleam in the farmer’s eyes that Justin wasn’t cowering in any barn, or anywhere else amid the farm buildings. As for the farmhouse itself, Christian couldn’t stand upright inside without constantly dodging beams, and if anything, Justin was a touch taller.
Accepting defeat for the moment, Christian headed back to the main house. Despite his lack of success, he remained convinced-increasingly so-that Justin was somewhere on the priory lands.
Twilight was spreading its subtle fingers across the landscape when he reached the house and entered through the garden hall. The instant he turned into the corridor that joined the front hall, he heard Letitia’s voice.
“How long has he been here?”
Out of habit, he’d been walking silently. He halted and listened.
“He arrived this afternoon, my lady,” Hightsbury replied.
“Not last night?”
Christian raised his brows and started walking once more. She was asking after him, not her missing brother.
He turned a corner; the front hall lay directly ahead.
He was still cloaked in shadows, some twenty feet from her, when, as if alerted by some sixth sense, Letitia turned and looked at him.
“There you are.”
“As you see.”
As he emerged from the shadows, she searched his face.
He raised his brows faintly, resigned.
Correctly divining that he’d yet to find Justin, she grimaced, and turned back to Hightsbury. “I assume Mrs. Caldwell has my room ready.”
“Of course, my lady. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
“Please do. And tell her I’d like a bath. Esme is with me-no need for a maid. But please send up the water as soon as you can.”
Hightsbury bowed. “Indeed, my lady.”
Letitia turned and took Christian’s arm. “Come walk me to my room.”
He settled her hand on his sleeve and, without argument, fell in with her wishes.
As they climbed the stairs, he murmured, voice low, “What took you so long? I thought you’d be here before me.”
“I assume you stopped at the abbey, so I would have been, except that I couldn’t leave yesterday-I’d promised to attend Martha Caldecott’s dinner, and if I’d cried off at that late stage, she would have been left with thirteen, and in this season finding another to fill the gap would have been difficult, and-” She paused to draw breath. “-when we find Justin and prove he’s innocent, Martha’s one of the ladies I’ll need on my side to spread the word.”
“Ah. I see. In that case, might I suggest we join forces and devote ourselves to the task?”
They’d reached the long gallery, well out of Hightsbury’s hearing. She halted; drawing her hand from his sleeve, she faced him. “Hightsbury said you’d gone wandering about the house. Where have you searched?”
“Inside and out, but only as far up as the second floor.”
“No sign?”
“None. In fact, I’m fairly certain from the way the staff have been behaving that I haven’t even got close.”
She frowned.
He studied her face, then asked, “Could you ask them, appeal to them? Would they tell you?”
Grimacing, she shook her head. “Their loyalty, first and last, is to my father, and after that to Justin. If he’s told them not to tell me, they won’t. Nothing I can say or do will sway them-they’ll adhere to Justin’s orders come what may.”
“But you know this house well, all the nooks and crannies, all the hidden and half-hidden rooms. You probably know this place better than Justin-you’ve spent more of your life here than he.”
She tilted her head. “That’s true. So what do you suggest?”
He looked up. “The attics. I haven’t even seen the attic stairs yet.”
“You won’t. They’re hidden.” She thought, then said, “It’s too late to go up there now-it’s almost time to dress for dinner.”
Christian studied her face, her focused expression. “And your bath will grow cold.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Indeed. Regardless, our best time to search the attics is after dinner, while the servants are gathered in the hall belowstairs, having theirs. Papa is all but guaranteed to retreat to the library the instant the covers are drawn. We can pretend to have tea in the drawing room, pretend to be fatigued after our journeys, and retire as soon as we can.”
He saw nothing in her plan with which to quibble. “Very well.” He met her eyes. “I’ll see you in the drawing room.”
Letitia nodded and left. Christian stood in the gallery and watched her walk away down a corridor; absently he noted which door she chose. Without real thought, he stored the information in his memory, then turned and headed for his room.
The one part of the evening Letitia hadn’t foreseen was her father’s contribution. She wasn’t the least surprised that her eccentric sire evinced not the smallest degree of grief over Randall’s demise. What stunned her was that instead he appeared to have stepped back twelve or so years-or rather, seemed intent on behaving as if those intervening twelve years hadn’t existed.
Not for any of them.
Especially not for her and Christian.
The instant her father stumped into the drawing room and set eyes on the pair of them standing before the empty hearth, his eyes lit. He chuckled as he came to her and offered his cheek. And proceeded to comment on what a handsome couple they made.
By the time she’d shaken off her shock-he was usually guaranteed to grumble and grouse and grump through any meal-he and Christian were engaged in a discussion of her finer points.
As if she’d been a horse.
She immediately took charge of the conversation.
And her father immediately tried to wrest the reins back.
Christian, of course, understood perfectly. Amused, he walked between them, her hand on his sleeve, to the dining room.
There was no telling what, if given free rein, her outrageous sire might say. The only way Letitia could think of to distract him was to focus the conversation firmly on his bete noir, namely Justin.
“I tell you it’s simply unbelievable what the ton are saying. I even heard someone remark…” She prattled on, deliberately choosing comments that would most effectively ignite her sire’s ire.
Christian, of course, did nothing to help; he sat back as course followed course, his eyes on her, occasionally switching to her father when he grew colorfully irate, but his gaze always returned to her, with a glint of amusement lighting the slaty gray, a subtle smile curving his lips, and his ears flapping.
He’d expected her to follow him, had expected to sit at a table with her and her unpredictable father; it seemed
