Chapter Ten

I t was noon the following day, and Philippa was risking scandal yet again. More so, she was risking angering Devon by defying his edicts regarding any investigation of the possible priest holes and passages. She'd left Elizabeth playing in the nursery, and the servants were all occupied with noonday chores and preparing for the dinner hour. Devon had gone into Whitby to obtain a marriage license.

It still struck her as unbelievable that a man such as he fully intended to marry her. She had no dowry. No connections or land. She had nothing to recommend her but her wit and her determination. Nonetheless, it spoke volumes about his character that he could view a penniless governess as worthy. And that was why she was determined to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding Miss Hawley.

Moving carefully along the corridor, Philippa held the lit candle close to the wall. It wasn't for light, but it was certainly for illumination. She watched the flame carefully, watching for the slightest irregularity. It was subtle when it occurred. A slight flicker. But as she moved it up and down and side to side, the flame only flickered when moved vertically in one spot. It was nearly invisible to the naked eye. Had she not had some other evidence pointing her to it, she'd never have seen the small seam in the striped wallpaper. There was an opening there. She only had to determine how to access it.

"What are you doing here? Miss Thomas, this behavior is shameless!"

Philippa could have groaned in frustration. But she didn't. Instead, she turned to face Mrs. Baynard, wearing the haughtiest expression she could muster. She was no longer merely the governess, after all. She was his betrothed, and he'd made that announcement to the entire staff last evening. "I will remind you, Mrs. Baynard, that I am betrothed to Mr. Falconer. You no longer have the authority to question my behavior."

The housekeeper's thin face went taut with fury. "You are nothing but a social climbing upstart! You'll never be mistress here. Never! If she couldn't—" The woman stopped abruptly, realizing that in her vitriol she was revealing far too much.

"She? Do you mean Miss Hawley? What, Mrs. Baynard, was your relationship to the former governess? And please do not insult my intelligence by denying that you have one... have. Not had. Because she isn't dead, is she?"

"Of course she's dead! They found her things floating in the river," the housekeeper insisted.

"Oh, I saw them. There was one thing about her veiled hat that I found most unusual. Other than a few carefully placed streaks of dirt, there was no sign of that hat having been battered in a flooded river. Can you explain that, Mrs. Baynard?"

Mrs. Baynard's expression went curiously flat. Her gaze shifted, no longer looking at Philippa but focusing on something just beyond her. That was when Philippa felt the cool air stirring the hair at the nape of her neck. She whirled, but it was too late. A heavy brass foot warmer crashed against the side of her head, and she sank to the floor.

*

It was nearly the dinner hour when Devon returned. He'd gotten the common license. It had not been easy and had required a significant donation to the church, since he was seeking it outside of regular hours. He also had an appointed time for them to be at the church two days hence to be married.

As he walked in, he noted that the house was in an uproar. Servants rushed to and fro. Elizabeth was seated on the bottom stair weeping, and Mrs. Baynard looked on, stone-faced and silent. And knowing. He could see it in the slight smugness that simmered just below the surface.

"What is happening here?"

"Miss Thomas is missing," Elizabeth wailed. "She's missing, and Mrs. Baynard has forbade the other servants from searching for her!"

"If there were some indication that she required assistance, Miss Elizabeth, I would do so. But who is to say what a girl of such low birth might do?" Mrs. Baynard mused. "After all, it's well established that she has no qualms about being scandalous—betrothed to her employer."

"She would not have left," he stated firmly. Then, recalling the promise she'd made to Elizabeth that morning, the sense of urgency he felt intensified. "Even if she had no wish to go through with the wedding, she would not have walked away from Elizabeth after vowing to stay with her forever. Mrs. Baynard, where is she?"

"I could not say, sir."

"You will not say," he snapped. "Tell me, Mrs. Baynard, what exactly was your relationship to Miss Hawley?"

"I had no relationship with her," the housekeeper denied.

"She were her niece, sir," one of the footmen butted in. "I heard them talking about it one day and how they had to keep it secret-like!"

Cold fury washed through him. Not trusting himself to question her further, he simply said, "I'll search every inch of this house if need be. Elizabeth, you told Philippa there was a ghost in your room. Did you hear this ghost or see her?"

"She's in my room... atop the wardrobe!" the little girl cried.

Their two footmen, the gardener, and the butler all gathered about, as well as the maids. To the butler and one footman, he said, "Take Mrs. Baynard to my study and do not let her leave." Addressing the remaining footman and the gardener, "The pair of you will come with me."

Climbing the stairs, the servants following closely behind, Devon made his way directly to Elizabeth's room. The wardrobe in the corner was large and very old. It was also remarkably heavy. No one was moving it to come and go from behind it. But then he remembered what Philippa had told him. Elizabeth had said the ghost was atop the wardrobe.

"Give me a leg up," he instructed the footman.

The young man did so, and Devon hoisted himself up. Instantly, he noticed swirls atop the piece of furniture—the kind that developed when wind blew over dust. Examining every inch of the wood-paneled wall, he finally found the one part of it that sounded hollow. Prying carefully, he pulled loose the piece of molding and found himself staring into a void. It wasn't an entrance to the space, but merely a window.

"What is it, sir?" the footman asked.

"It's a priest hole, I think," Devon answered. There was nothing there, just darkness but it felt like a fairly large space. Certainly too large a space to simply be an accident of construction. "Of greater concern, how do you get into it?"

While he was considering that, a mere whisper of sound came to him. A feminine voice muffled and distorted by layers of stone and wood. Miss Hawley. Jumping down, Devon ran from the room. He'd tear down the bloody walls if need be.