The men standing guard over Armstrong had all been at Hawkridge for years, and Rand had already seen proof of their loyalty to Margery. He doubted it ran deep enough to allow an escape—a betrayal of that magnitude would likely mean execution—but he suspected they’d turn a blind eye to an overnight visit.
By all appearances blissfully unaware, his father stroked the dog’s head. “Now be about your business. The sooner you give up on finding this journal, the better. You need to prepare for your wedding. To Margery,” he added with a glare.
Refusing to rise to that bait, Rand turned and walked away. There was no point in arguing now.
When he’d found what he was looking for, it would be a different story.
SIXTY-THREE
THE MOST logical place to start, of course, was Alban’s suite.
Unlike the single small chamber that had been Rand’s refuge during his childhood, the marquess’s heir had had three rooms to call his own. They began in his bedchamber proper, a darkly paneled room that sat between the other two and provided entrance to them all.
“Cluttered as ever,” Kit remarked when they walked in.
“Nothing’s been touched.” Rand paused on the threshold. “It’s as though he still lives here.”
“He hasn’t been gone that long,” Lily said gently. She skimmed a hand thoughtfully over the unmade bed. “Perhaps his death is still too fresh for the housekeeper to deal with.”
“I doubt that.” Rand crossed to his brother’s dressing table and opened a drawer. “I cannot believe Alban changed enough to curry favor with the staff, even in ten years. He was ruthless in both his expectations and treatment of them. I reckon they’re as relieved to be rid of him as anyone.” Finding nothing but a neatly folded stack of cravats in the drawer, he slid it closed and opened another. “If this room is undisturbed, it’s my father’s doing.”
Ignoring a frisson of unease, Lily inspected a pile of books on Alban’s night table. “What did his journals look like?”
“Nothing in particular, at least back in the day. Whatever blank books he could find.”
All the books on the table had titles on their spines, so Lily assumed they weren’t journals. Just to make sure, she began opening them.
“I remember this,” Rand breathed, pulling something sparkly from a drawer full of stockings. “My mother wore it all the time.”
Lily moved closer to see. It was a beautiful oval pendant made of white gold, with many small diamonds set into a delicate filigree design accented with black enamel. “Goodness, it’s really quite lovely. Do you think your father gave it to her?”
“Maybe,” Rand said as he slipped it into a pocket. “I wonder if he knows Alban had it.”
Rather than checking the obvious places, Kit lay down on the floor and stuck his head beneath the red brocade bed skirt. “There’s a box under here,” he said, pulling it out.
It was long, large, and shallow, made of wood with a heavy, locked hasp. “The journal must be in there,” Lily said, amazed that they’d found it so easily. “Where do you suppose we can find the key?”
“Where would you keep a key?” Rand asked no one in particular. Or perhaps he was addressing his brother’s ghost.
“Behind the headboard?” Lily suggested.
Rising to his feet, Kit rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe under the mattress.”
“No,” Rand said. “Alban was more clever than that. It will be in this room, but not anywhere that typical.”
He began methodically lifting objects while Lily checked the headboard and Kit looked for a key tucked into the ropes that supported the mattress. Both of those places revealed nothing.
“Aha!” Rand set down a Blue Willow jar that he’d found on the mantel. He held a wad of cotton that had concealed the key inside.
His fingers shook as he worked the lock.
Please, Lily prayed silently, let this be it.
But when Rand raised the lid, the box wasn’t filled with books. Instead it held an astonishing array of knives.
Lily stared in horror. “Is that dried blood?”
“Alban never was very tidy.” Rand’s gesture encompassed the general condition of the room. “Chilling, isn’t it?”
Lily nodded and swallowed hard, her gaze still fixed on the jumble of sharpened steel. Curved blades and straight, serrated and smooth, double-edged and honed to a deadly point. “Perhaps we have no need to find the journal now. This should convince your father that his eldest son had no good in mind.”
A short, harsh laugh rent the air. Kit’s. “I expect not. Alban’s love of hunting was well known.”
Rand nodded. “He rarely carried a firearm, either. Alban liked to kill with his hands. I’m surprised he even tried to shoot Armstrong, although I suppose that goes to show his desperation to see the fellow dead.” He released a pent-up breath. “No, I’m afraid this proves nothing except that my brother was fascinated with knives. I doubt the marquess will find that news startling.”
“It seems he was fascinated with killing, too.” Lily shivered, imagining all the creatures that had died at his hands. While she had no qualms about hunting for food, somehow she knew he’d had other reasons. She looked up and met Rand’s eyes. “I believe Lord Armstrong. The man who owned this collection wouldn’t hesitate to murder.”
“We still must find his journal to prove it.”
But a careful, exhaustive search of the bedchamber revealed nothing. They spent an hour combing Alban’s dressing room—reaching into his pockets made Lily’s skin crawl—and another turning his sitting room upside down.
Nothing.
Kit plopped onto a red-and-gold-striped chair. “We’re missing something.”
“There’s no desk in here,” Lily said. “Where did he write?”
Rand began pacing. “In his bedchamber. At his dressing table. Didn’t you see the quill and ink?”
“But the drawers there were filled with accessories, not paper.”
“Alban didn’t write letters,” Rand said peevishly. “He wrote only in his journals.”
“No,” Kit disagreed.
