Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,38
if you come down with the ague, don’t complain to me.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Shall we?’
He escorted her back up the steps into the kitchen.
‘The servants’ stairs to the attic is this way,’ she said.
‘After you,’ he said.
The sound of squelching followed her up the stairs.
‘Perhaps if you took off your boots,’ she suggested, imagining how uncomfortable he must feel.
‘I’ll keep them on,’ he said.
Stubborn idiot.
‘Did you say something?’ he asked.
Oh, Lord, had she spoken aloud? ‘No. Not a word.’ She continued the climb, past the first, second and third floors. The stairs came to an end on the fourth floor. She opened the small door at the top. ‘These are the servants’ quarters,’ she said. ‘At least, those of the lower servants—the housekeeper and butler have rooms on the ground floor since there is no room for them in the cellar.’
‘You think this picture is in the servants’ rooms?’
‘No. There is storage at the end.’ She walked quickly past the cramped chambers where the female servants would have slept in twos and threes. ‘Through here.’ Another small door barred their way.
She tried the handle. ‘It’s locked.’
‘Because the owner doesn’t want anyone going in there,’ he said drily.
‘Or because he doesn’t want the female servants sneaking through here to visit the men,’ she said equally drily.
‘Good Lord, is that how to keep them apart?’
He was laughing at her. This really wasn’t an appropriate topic of conversation, was it? ‘I need to get in here.’
‘Do you want me to break down the door?’
‘Do you think you could?’
‘No. It is solid oak.’
She gazed at the heavy wooden door. ‘Then why offer? Perhaps we should try from the other side.’
‘There might be a key in the kitchen.’
So there might. They trailed back down the stairs. A quick search through the drawers in the dresser beside the hearth revealed a bunch of keys.
‘The housekeeper must have left them here.’
‘How very obliging,’ Stanford drawled.
‘Are you insinuating I knew of their existence?’
‘You do have a key to the back door.’
‘Yes, I do. The groundskeeper gave it to me. He said nothing about this set of keys.’
‘Oh, yes, your accomplice.’
‘Accomplice? Oh, that is really too much. You still think I am here to steal.’
‘My dear Mrs Travenor. I don’t think, I know. You already told me you are.’
‘I only want what belongs to me. Nothing else.’ She glared at him and saw that he still didn’t believe her. ‘Oh, never mind. Come on, let us see if one of these keys work, but quite honestly you would be better off making a fire and getting yourself dry.’
She stomped out of the kitchen and back upstairs. He followed in silence.
Blast him, she hoped he froze to death. It would serve him right.
After a few tries, she found the key that fitted the lock and the door swung back. The room was stuffed full of tables and chairs and carpets.
Over against the wall where the roof came down almost to the floor, almost buried by a huge rug and behind an assortment of pictures, she spotted her father’s desk. The one that had once been in the study. ‘There,’ she said. ‘The desk.’
‘Wouldn’t the miniature more likely be with the pictures?’ he asked.
‘It’s small. He would have put it somewhere safe.’
‘And I suppose you want me to move everything so you can rifle through the drawers.’
‘It would give you a purpose for being here.’
He laughed and set his lantern down. The first thing he grabbed was the rug. A cloud of dust rose. They both started coughing.
Stanford flung it to one side. More dust flew. He picked up a portrait, the frame gilded and heavily carved. ‘It weighs as much as a pony,’ he grunted, setting it up against the rug.
Rosa moved some of the smaller pictures and set them on one side and moved a lamp out of the way.
The desk was clear, but the drawers were obstructed.
‘We’ll have to pull it out.’
Stanford heaved the heavy oak piece as if it weighed nothing, though he did make a grunt in his throat.
‘That’s far enough,’ she said. Quickly, she opened the lid. It had assorted drawers and little pigeon-holes, but as she felt around with her fingers she discovered nothing like the catch in the escritoire. No secret compartments.
She pulled out the drawers each side of the knee hole. The desk was completely empty.
She felt around again, hoping against hope she had missed something. Not a knot or indentation did she feel.