1 October, 1458. C. H. seemed more distraught than usual. Fifteen years since E. H.’s disappearance. Darlyrede was visited by a man claiming to be a legitimate heir to T. A. He is almost certainly Scottish. Quite destitute. Bold. L. M. arrived nearly atop him and appears to be staying, in anticipation of the king. What time is left for the investigation is unknown. C. H. is to meet with V. H. alone this evening. I fear for her health.
Beryl set the page aside to dry while riffling through the stack until she located the drawing she sought. She dipped her quill and dabbed it well on the neck of the pot before turning the tip to its finest edge and leaning her face close to the page. She drew a short line emanating from within a thin rectangle, indicating the doorway between Lady Hargrave’s chamber and the one previously belonging to Euphemia Hargrave.
Bolted, C. H. side.
Beryl raised up and looked at the overall sketch, her eyes going at once to a similar rectangle that marked the exit of the chamber into the corridor, and the note she’d made weeks ago.
Bolted, inside. Keyed at corridor.
Her lips pressed together. Euphemia Hargrave’s chamber was capable of being secured from the inside against anyone attempting to enter it from the corridor, but it was also outfitted with an intricate mechanism requiring a metal key from the outside, which, to Beryl’s mind, would only be required if one wished to keep whoever was in the chamber from leaving. The inner door between the chambers was only able to be secured from Lady Caris’s chamber. There was no nurse’s quarters attached to the chamber, and as far as Beryl knew, there had never been a nurse assigned to sleep in the chamber with the girl—Lady Caris had been the sole carer. Perhaps the locks were measures that remained from when Euphemia was a young child, and no one had ever seen reason to change it.
Or perhaps the lady had been trying to protect her niece from someone.
The small addition to the map took only a moment to dry, and then Beryl shuffled all the pages together again and secured them within the leather portfolio. Satin chose that moment to leap onto the cot, picking his way daintily around the obstacles until he reached her lap. He circled and then laid himself in the valley of her thighs, his eyes squinting drowsily as he began to purr.
Now Beryl’s mind was free to dwell on Padraig Boyd.
He didn’t appear to be a man descended from nobility and entitled to a grand manor such as Darlyrede House. As much as she hated to agree with the detestable Lord Hargrave—save for the Scotsman’s proud face and his well-muscled frame—Padraig Boyd would be nearly indiscernible from any beggar on a city street. Beryl had certainly seen her share of the destitute masses in Chartres. Rough men and women with no home, no money, no family, begging for the church’s charity. But if Padraig Boyd’s claims were true, he did have family—Thomas Annesley.
Which turned her reluctant thoughts at last to Lucan. It was all his doing, Beryl was certain. She dreaded the moment when she would have to face him again—now that he had seen her, she knew there was little hope of avoiding him.
There came a light rapping on her door, and Beryl froze, daring not even to breathe. No one came to her chamber in the night—not since she’d first arrived at Darlyrede and a handful of the men employed at the hold had thought to woo her in their rough, clumsy manner. Her wide eyes fixed on the wooden barrier, the candlelight rippling gently over it.
Had her thoughts of Lucan summoned him? Perchance it was the stranger, Padraig Boyd, who pursued her. He had been kind to her in the entry, yes, and there had been something else in his eyes when he’d looked at her—almost as if he was truly speaking to her as a person and not a servant. But despite his handsome looks, his situation was desperate, and Beryl knew from experience that one could never predict the actions of a desperate person.
The door latch rattled insistently once, twice.
Perhaps it was Vaughn Hargrave who sought her at last, ready to bring to life all the dreadful imaginings of her nightmares. Beryl covered her mouth with her hands to stifle any anxious cry, and her gaze flicked nervously to the thick, leather portfolio. In her mind’s eye, she saw the wood splintering as the bolt gave way, the dark, hulking figure striding into her chamber, discovering her and her secrets. It seemed that the very roots of her hair ached with the strain.
But the bolt held firm, and no further attempt was made.
Beryl let out her breath slowly through her nose. Her hands drifted down as if sinking through deep water to hover over the mound of warm, white fur. Satin slept on, still curled in her lap, oblivious to the potential danger that lurked in the black corridor beyond the chamber door. He gave a pitiful mew of objection when she gently scooped him up and set him on the rough woven coverlet.
Moving gingerly lest her cot make the faintest betraying creak, Beryl gained her feet and took up the portfolio. She rolled her steps, heel to toe, soundlessly to the black hole in the wall where she deposited the packet without so much as a whisper of leather against stone. She replaced the panel with painstaking slowness, not bothering to go back for the linen sack containing her writing utensils; pen and ink could be replaced.
The pages were exceptional, and a potential death sentence if discovered.
She rose and turned noiselessly, facing the door. With the same careful gait, she crossed the floor and stood nearly touching the wood. Beryl turned her face aside and
