Chapter 22

The picnic scheduled for the day was rained out and postponed for better weather. Guests wandered to various parts of the house with excuses to nap, write letters, or read while they waited for the storm to let up. Besides the thunder outside the walls of Ashbury Court, the world was quiet. Too quiet.

Rolland found himself staring through a lone window at the end of a main floor corridor. Instead of seeing the rain, his mind conjured a different image, one he knew was in the not-far-away drawing room. He hadn't meant to think on Theresia again, but how could he not? He wanted to be near her. To see her smile. Which was precisely why he kept his distance. Her presence distracted him.

Had it been this way with any woman he'd known before the war? Theresia had not been part of any plan or dream of his. Even then his dream of being a soldier had driven his thoughts and actions. Watching his uncle serve as an admiral in the navy had inspired him from a young age. Uncle had been devoted. Courageous. A hero. Rolland had wanted to dedicate himself similarly. What cause was greater than protecting one's home and country? He and his unlikely friends at school had risked their lives a few times acting as spies for the government, and when Rolland's uncle died, there had been no stopping him from taking up the torch in the navy, the sea and the war claiming his loyalty.

But how could he avoid Theresia? Her presence breathed an energy into him that sent his head spinning. She was kind, tenacious, and determined. One minute she was climbing trellises and the next she was worrying about his injury.

He growled and rotated his tight shoulder, forcing his thoughts to run through the list of guest names in his head instead of thinking about how witty and vexing Theresia was. Unfortunately, the change in subject didn't settle him either. He and his friends had not had any communication from outside sources revealing other criminal acts toward the delegates. While an utter relief, it was also frustrating not to have any more clues to go off of.

Marcus came out of his actual study, and Rolland dipped his head in a voiceless greeting.

"Were you waiting for me?" Marcus asked.

Rolland swept his gaze back to the window and the streaming rain marring his view. "I didn't know you were in there. I'm here because it's the only quiet corner on the first floor. What about you? Did your guests commandeer the library and force you to this end of the house?"

"I was taking care of some papers I dare not leave out for just anyone to find." Marcus glanced out the window beside him. "It's really coming down."

"It's strange to be perfectly dry in a storm. There's no deck for me to walk."

Marcus eyed him, likely sensing his nervous tension. "You need a distraction."

He shrugged. "Probably."

"But every time you let your guard down, you worry you'll regret it?"

Rolland met Marcus's gaze. "Precisely."

Marcus shuddered. "I have the same eerie feeling, just waiting for something terrible to happen."

"Especially with a criminal among us."

Marcus sighed. "Does it make me a poor host if I secretly hope someone will voluntarily leave early? I would love to cross a name off our suspect list."

"We're close on a few, I think. Miss Yearsley is hiding something, but I'm not certain it's related to us. Lewis is convinced she is without any guile at all. I know he's smitten, but I also trust his opinion. Mr. Hawke and Mr. Haversham are clearly motivated by money, but who would instruct them to kill someone? And I cannot discover a motive for Mr. Stewart."

"What of Lord Vernon?" Marcus asked. "Will Cadogen find anything? Besides how vocal he is, I'd wager a great deal that he is still loyal to his country."

Marcus's uncanny ability to read people had Rolland questioning his own suspicions concerning Lord Vernon. He ruffled his hair in frustration. "Then, who is it? Mrs. Haversham? Or there's always my own mother."

"We've missed something." Marcus studied the rivulets racing down the glass, as if one of them would lead to answers.

"Agreed. I'm afraid to think what it could cost us."

"There you are, dearest."

Rolland and Marcus both turned to see Her Grace striding toward them. She tucked herself next to Marcus's side, reaching for his arm. "Our Lady Glass has not had a sufficient tour. Some of the others requested to accompany her, even though they've made the rounds already. What do you say? Do you want to lead it? No one knows the historical details and the stories behind the rooms like you do."

Marcus glanced at Rolland. "It looks like we have your distraction. As Lewis would say, let's mix a little business with pleasure, shall we?"

"Pleasure?" Rolland couldn't see how viewing dozens of bedchambers would please anyone.

"You can escort Lady Glass." Marcus and his wife gave each other a conspiratorial look.

Theresia was too much of a distraction. "She might prefer Mr. Stewart's arm." He hadn't meant to say the words out loud. Perhaps his subconscious still questioned whether that were true.

Her Grace shook her head. "Mr. Stewart is taking his correspondence in the library. It's just Miss Haversham, Mr. Hawke, Mr. Lewis, Miss Yearsley, and Lady Glass. Everyone else is occupied."

This was hardly business, then. What clues would they find on a house tour? But neither was he helping anyone by staring out the window and wandering aimlessly about. He gave a curt nod. "Some exercise might do me good." If climbing stairs and strolling leisurely through corridors counted as a form of exertion.

He followed behind the duke and duchess, who wound their way to the drawing room to collect the others. He avoided Theresia's gaze and pretended interest in plucking a piece of lint from his sleeve, half hoping Mr. Hawke would ask to escort her. No more singling her out and giving everyone—especially himself—the wrong idea. Last night he'd been impulsive and risked both of their reputations. He'd had the night and the morning away from her to steel his resolve once more.

He was marrying Miss Shields, and entertaining any other thoughts was foolish. Besides, at some point, Society would realize Lady Glass was a fake title, and her true identity as a Roma would be revealed. He'd dug a deep hole for them, and there would be no easy way out of it.

To his dismay, the couples formed naturally, with Mr. Hawke taking Miss Haversham's arm since they were already midconversation. Lewis and Miss Yearsley, of course, were a pair, which left Theresia quite alone.

That pleasure Marcus had promised hit Rolland in the chest the moment he met Theresia's gaze. The blue of her dress complemented her coloring, and her gaze warmed him. She reminded him of the sea on a calm, summer afternoon. The radiance of her coy smile seemed to brighten at least his mood, if not the entire drawing room.

Miss Shields. Miss Shields. He repeated the name in his head as Theresia came to stand beside him. They waited until the others filed from the room before taking their place at the end of the line.

He wanted to be standoffish but not rude. He forced himself to greet her. "Are you well today?"

"I am." She pushed a perfect brown curl away from her eyes. "And you? You seem distracted."

He was. Very.

Wasn't that what Marcus had intended? That sly man. But Rolland would stay on his guard, even if Theresia looked rather fetching with the gold ribbon she'd tied around her head. "Not at all distracted," he lied. Marcus was not around to catch him, thank the stars. "It is you who's missing the duke's stories." He pointed to Marcus, who had stopped to explain the origin of a sizable marble bust of the Greek goddess Athena.

Marcus was a proficient tour guide and lived up to Her Grace's estimation of his ability to entertain them. Always the researcher, Marcus knew historical bits about the house that probably the last five dukes preceding him had been oblivious to.

They made their way through the gallery room and moved to the ballroom. Marcus pointed out a comical error in a painting in which a cherub looked like it had two heads.

"In case you were wondering," Theresia whispered to Rolland, "Mr. Stewart failed to murder me in my bed last night."

"What a shame." Rolland kept his attention on the painting when it was their turn to pass. He waited a beat before clarifying. "A shame we did not discover the perpetrator, of course. Not a shame that your death was avoided."

Theresia glared at him. His teasing words were intended to rile her, lest she catch on to what he was feeling, and it seemed to work.

"I thoroughly enjoyed Mr. Stewart's book recommendation, if you're at all curious to know. I am very glad I chose him to select something for me. I fear you would've produced only depressing literature or, worse, made me study maps and wind courses."

"I do know a good resource for each, so you're probably right."

A brow rose, as if acknowledging that she hadn't provoked him enough. "With you, I usually am."

He almost smiled at that. Almost.

They moved to the conservatory, where Her Grace had several easels set up and more than one painting started. Compliments poured from everyone's lips. The duchess had exceptional talent. When the others filed out of the room, Rolland pointed to the first painting. "It's the perfect likeness of Ashbury Court. What do you think, Lady Glass?" It was then that he noticed Theresia was no longer beside him. He turned to see her looking behind a flowering bush. "You're not being obvious at all."

She straightened suddenly, brushing the folds of her gown. "I don't know what you mean."

"Your vase isn't going to be in here."

"Shh! Someone will hear you."

"Or see you. It is plain you're searching for something."

"How can I not?" she hissed. "I must take every opportunity gifted me. You cannot know"—she lowered her voice—"you cannot know what it means to me, or you would not stop me."

"I'm not stopping you," he said with a shrug. "I'm trying to tell you to be a bit more subtle."

A sheepish gaze stole over her features, but it passed quickly. She folded her arms across her chest and stared him down. "Very well, then. Help me."

Rolland shook his head but did as she asked. Despite all his reservations about his feelings, he did want her to find her vase. He was still certain it was tied to the same man they were searching for. It took only an extra minute or so to look behind the potted plants.

Theresia sighed when they finished. "I feel better for having tried, albeit a mite disappointed. It could be anywhere, and the new rooms to explore made me too hopeful." She leaned against the doorframe, effectively blocking their exit.

When her eyes rested on him, her expression was unguarded. In a breath's time her discouragement faded. A flash of gratitude, appreciation, and something more—something akin to interest, sparked in her gaze. Or was he only projecting his own confusing feelings onto her? No... he didn't think so.

"But never mind our search," she said. "This tour has my complete attention now, I assure you."

"Really? Your complete attention?" Did she realize that everyone else had left the room? He wanted to step closer to her to give her a better view of whatever she found so interesting in his face.

"Really."

He lowered his voice. "Then, why are you staring at me instead of following the others?"

She flushed, her cheeks taking on a most becoming pink, and her eyes startling. "Because... because I was giving you an opportunity to act as a gentleman and offer me... your... arm."

"My arm?" He chuckled and held it out for her. "Will this suffice?"

She took it with some reluctance, clearly embarrassed. He, on the other hand, enjoyed knowing something about him affected her. The feel of her hand on his arm brought with it a sense of rightness, even if she kept her body as far away from him as possible without breaking the connection. She was making a point, but he saw right through it and silently chuckled. Even touring familiar rooms was an adventure with this one.

He took sympathy on her and brought the subject to safer ground. "Now that you trust me, you can tell me why the vase means so much to you?"

She hesitated, making him question his assumption. But her silence lasted only a few seconds before she answered. "The master craftsman who made it... he was my father. The vase is my dowry."

"Theresia... I had no idea." If she was living a Roma life, then the vase was everything to her future, but Rolland had not guessed the personal connection. He now understood why she would not want anyone to know her real name. A good thief would know the name of the craftsman and the estimated worth of his art. Once the thief learned Theresia was the craftsman's daughter, the vase would certainly disappear, if it hadn't already. Not to mention it could endanger her if they thought she was aware of the thief's crimes. Rolland's resolve solidified. "I'm going to help you find it."

She lowered her head. "I know."

He wouldn't pry for more, knowing her sharing this much must have cost her. Instead he guided her out into the corridor. A very vacant corridor. "Which way did our tour guide go?"

"Drat! Her Grace organized this tour for me, and I felt compelled to take advantage of the opportunity." Theresia must've forgotten to keep her distance because she slumped against his arm. "You win."

"What did I win?" Surely not the kind of prize he wished for.

She sighed. "The satisfaction of being right. Again. I shouldn't have stalled like I did. And I was actually looking forward to seeing more of the house."

"For searching it or out of genuine curiosity?"

She glared at him. "Both." She slid her smile back into place—a practiced smile from one used to life foiling her plans. "It's of no matter. It's my own fault I can't simply let myself enjoy the moment. I'll see if I cannot seek out Mr. Stewart, whom I am sorry to say has not a trace of any French in his accent. However, he's beginning to trust me, and I might be able to at least eke out more clues for us."

Mr. Stewart again. Well, that man could wait. This tour wasn't over yet. "My guess is that they backtracked to the entrance hall toward the stairs. Shall we take a shortcut to catch up with them?"

"The servants' stairs?"

"It's a secret." The strategy forming in Rolland's mind was out of character, but one look at her determination to put her disappointment behind her, and he knew he had to intervene. Her burdens were heavy and not as easily dismissed as she pretended them to be. He was responsible for her, and despite all his self-imposed lectures, he had to do something. She ought to have some joy, and why couldn't he be the one to bring it to her while he could? She'd painted a bleak picture of her life thus far, and if she wanted to see the house, he was going to show it to her.

"Secret? Wait. No! You don't mean a secret passage, do you? Do those truly exist? And there is one here ?" Theresia's eyes grew as round as saucers, much like those of a child on Twelfth Night. "Oh, can we?"

He made a show of impatience, tipping his head back and groaning at the ceiling. "The things I do to cheer you up."