The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,2

of the panel that served as a hidden door to the servant stairs. “If you don’t keep your bloody voice down, they’ll be able to hear you in London.”

“How old is the chit, anyway?” Fenwick asked, his voice already becoming dim as their footsteps moved past.

“She’ll be seventeen in a few weeks.”

“That’s a bit young, isn’t it? Don’t you think the trustees will—”

Benna mashed her ear against the wood, but all she could hear was a distant murmur, and then the closing of a door. They must have retired to the library.

And they had been talking about her.

Benna chewed her lip and stood staring blankly at the candlestick in her hand.

Go to your room, the voice of reason ordered.

She knew she should listen.

But, instead, she opened the door a crack, made sure there was nobody loitering—like the odious Diggle—and sped down the wide corridor to the section of hallway that was three panels away from the double doors to the library.

Benna located the small catch easily and opened the door to the narrow corridor that ran alongside the library, leading to one of the bigger priest holes in a house that was littered with them.

The servants knew about this hideaway, of course, but nobody else knew the real secret of the room: that it was actually a double hole, two secret rooms, one behind the other.

The main priest hole was large enough to have a cot, chair, and table. At the back of the room was a section of paneling that swung up when shoved at the bottom. By turning sideways, she could ease her body into the second room, which was far smaller than the first, barely a cupboard with a single chair.

Benna had discovered the second room completely by accident. As a girl, she’d enjoyed spending time in the cozy room and had once accidentally dropped the book she’d been reading. When she bent down to get it, she’d leaned against the panel.

That had been years ago, and she’d never seen any sign of use in the room and hadn’t told even her brother of its existence.

Benna left her candle in the outer priest hole and felt her way by touch into the inner sanctum. On the wall was a raised piece of wood that covered a peep.

Benna slid the wood aside slowly.

“—yes, of course I know that, old man.” Fenwick’s voice was so loud it sounded like he’d stepped into the priest’s hole with her. “What I still don’t understand is how you talked poor old David into putting the girl—along with everything else—into your hands.” He gave a raucous chuckle. “Fairly reeks of the Princes in the Tower, don’t it? I daresay David’s old windsuckers would have had something to say about appointing you guardian if you hadn’t convinced David to give them the sack and hire your man. Too bad about the trust though, eh?” he taunted.

Benna frowned. What did he mean, too bad about the trust? Too bad about it, how?

Fenwick was in a chair not far from the mantelpiece, the back of his head to her. The peep was tucked within an especially elaborate piece of scrolling.

Michael sat directly across from him.

“You don’t need to know about any of that, dear Dickie,” her cousin said, his gaze fixed on something Benna could not see, his handsome face wearing a cold, pitiless expression that made her shiver. “All I want from you is to stand witness to the affair.”

“You know me, old chap, always glad to help out a friend in need.”

Michael’s full lips twisted into a mocking smile and he turned until he was staring at his friend, and therefore looking directly at the peep. “Your helpfulness is one of the characteristics I like most about you, Fenwick.”

Even though she couldn’t see the viscount’s face, she could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened that he didn’t care for the other man’s innuendo. “You needn’t come the ugly with me, Norland. I’d help whether or not you knew about the other thing.”

“To be sure, Dickie, old chap,” he soothed. “I did not mean to cast aspersions. By the by, how goes that business—the other thing, as you so quaintly call it? Is it still as lucrative as it was when your dear, departed brother was, er, extorting money for God and country?”

“It’s not me we’re here to talk about,” Fenwick snapped. “When do you want me back here?”

“Oh, I shall be ready for you before you leave, my good man.” Michael raised a

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