Chapter 39

Donning the exquisite ball gown from Theresia's growing collection of beautiful dresses was like stepping back into her role as Lady Glass. She had never worn anything like the gleaming fabric that now hugged her frame. The bodice was made of soft blue velvet, and the skirt was a full blue-satin chemise overlaid with a white gossamer matching the sleeves. Her hair was pinned up with a blue-pearl comb, and at her neck was a white ribbon holding a matching pearl. But her favorite was the dainty dance slippers Mr. Plasil had gifted her. Sewn above her toes on each foot was a delicate glass flower—good-luck charms, he had called them. Besides her father's vase, never had she received anything she would treasure more.

As she stood outside Ashbury Court, nearly hidden in the tree line, she wished more than anything that she could see Rolland. His eyes would smile more than his mouth, and she would know at a glance that he appreciated her appearance. He'd stroll to her, with the same purpose with which he strode across the decks of his ship, and claim her for his own.

Swallowing, she tucked her daydream aside and pushed through the towering oak and ash trees and the doddering birch, avoiding the footmen and drivers by the line of carriages. She'd had Mr. Plasil let her off at a distance, near the peak hour of the dance, knowing subterfuge was her greatest ally. He'd wait an hour, and if she had not returned by then, he would come for her himself.

But she couldn't allow that to happen. She didn't want her newfound godfather and friend getting mixed up in the Frenchman's plot. Nor could she risk him alerting Rolland to her presence, or even Lady Caspar. Theresia had no desire to face her stepmother's scorn ever again. She had not the fortitude to survive another encounter, which meant she had to retrieve her precious crystal vase and return before midnight, all while not getting killed.

If she failed, all was lost, not just for her but for her friends.

Like a crescendo of music, her nerves soared with every step closer to the impressive manor. She hovered in the shadows, watching for the roaming footmen acting as guards. She had done this before, but the pressure not to fail had doubled. When the guards passed each other, they momentarily had their backs to her and created an opening for her to move unseen. Racing forward, she slipped to the side of the house undetected. Her chest heaved. There was no going back now. She couldn't see the guards' path well enough to return the way she'd come, but it didn't matter. She was determined to see this through.

A noise rustled behind her, and she ducked behind a shrub, hunching as low as she could. The voice of a man and a woman carried to her, but she could not identify them. Her heart went into an erratic pulse as they passed by. When they didn't see her and walked on, she clutched her chest. She couldn't be this scared yet. Her mission had only begun. After waiting a sufficient amount of time, she stood again and continued along the house until she reached the trellis just beneath Rolland's window. Sure enough, she noticed the window was parted open.

Bless that man for appreciating fresh air.

Entering there, of all places, would be sheer torture, and being seen would be her greatest risk of all, but she couldn't count on anything else. Saying a quick prayer that no one else was out for a garden stroll, she removed her long evening gloves and tucked them into the ribbon under her bust. She no longer heard Mrs. Stone's chiding voice in her head, not even when she brought up the hem her gown and shoved it into her pair of long drawers. She was showing enough of the under fabric to shock even Princess Charlotte, the Prince Regent's daughter, who claimed to adore the things. At the present, Theresia cared more about saving her beautiful dress than her pride or reputation. Putting her foot into the first crevice of the trellis, she began the difficult ascent.

When she reached the top, beads of sweat had formed along her hairline, and her arms shook dangerously. She pushed the window wider, shimmied along the crevice below it, and threw her upper body inside. She was not half in when one of her slippers fell off her foot and dropped behind her.

Holding back her squeal of frustration, she fell onto the floor. She immediately glanced behind her through the window. A glimmer of moonlight revealed it adjacent to a shrub. But it was dark enough out that perhaps no one would notice it. She squeezed her eyes shut. There was nothing for it now. She would have to retrieve her vase without her slipper. Letting down her gown, she turned in the dark room, immediately filling herself with Rolland's comforting scent. He wasn't here, but if she closed her eyes, she could see him standing in front of her in her mind.

He was Helena's now. What a cruel twist of fate. Theresia had once hoped she and Helena would be close, but Helena was no more than a puppet to Lady Caspar. Now her stepsister had everything Theresia had ever wished for. A loving mother. The home with her father's last memories. And now Rolland—the man who held Theresia's heart.

She forced her eyes open and the image of him away. The vase. She was here only for the vase. Leaving Rolland's bedchamber behind, she slipped into the corridor and moved to the room beside it.

She wanted to be wrong, for Rolland's sake, but she knew it wasn't likely. She'd searched everywhere else. The same hum filled her veins as the first time she had been drawn to this bedchamber, only to pulled away by Rolland. With the slow turn of the handle, she held her breath and pushed the door open.

Empty.

She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. Of course this room's occupant, of all people, was downstairs experiencing the frivolities. Whether he truly enjoyed the social distractions or it was a cover did not matter to her, so long as he was far away from his bedchamber.

She slipped into the room and noiselessly shut the door behind her. It did not take long to locate the flint in the likely place on the fireplace mantel and to light a candle. The warm hue spread just a few feet in front of her, but it was enough to search by. The closet was the most obvious place, but when nothing turned up, she searched beneath the bed. Nothing. Alarm filled her veins. It was here, wasn't it?

Had she been wrong?

Was Mr. Lewis trustworthy, like Rolland had said? How long had she been gone from Mr. Plasil? Did she have much time left before he stormed the manor? Her gaze caught on a small trunk just between the desk and the wall. It was covered with books.

She crept closer, holding the light up. It could be the right size to hold the vase. She set the candle on the desk and started moving the books as quickly as she could. Finally, she unearthed the trunk, unhinged the latch, and flipped open the lid. It hit the back of the wall with a dull thud, and she winced.

More books.

Her heart plummeted. She'd failed. She had dragged Mr. Plasil all this way and now faced the heartache of being so close to Rolland, and it was all for naught. How she wanted to cry. Her hand slipped, and her fingers caught something soft. Fabric.

There was fabric beneath the first layer of books, but its location was much too shallow for it to be covering the bottom of the trunk. She began quickly unpacking the books, which were fewer than she'd imagined in the dim light. Underneath them, the fabric was covering something, just like she'd hoped. Her heart knocked forcefully against her ribs as she pulled away the fabric. There, nestled in the bottom half of the trunk, was her vase.

Her hands shook. She lifted it up carefully and choked back a sob. It wasn't the crystal making her cry; it was the stark memory of her father gleaming before her that snagged her emotions and wouldn't let them go. It was hers again. It was finally hers.

"What are you doing with my vase, Lady Glass?" Mr. Lewis slipped into the room and, to her alarm, shut the door behind him. "Or, should I say, Miss Smith?"

She hadn't even heard the door open. She swallowed back her shock enough to muster, "Try Miss Dvorak."

Mr. Lewis's brows shut upward, and a sinister smile slithered onto his face. "Even better."

She clamored to her feet, feeling less vulnerable than on the ground.

She'd almost succeeded.

Stupidly, she hugged the vase to her chest. If Mr. Lewis had already killed two people, why would he spare her? With no better option, she attempted to talk herself from the room. "Lady Caspar sold you this without asking my permission. My father left it to me as my dowry."

"That is unfortunate, as I now own it."

"Please, Mr. Lewis." Maybe he would let her leave if she begged. Maybe he didn't know that she had connected the murders to him. Maybe he would even let her keep the vase. "I have money of my own. I will pay double what you paid."

"Where would you get that sort of money?" He took several steps closer, and she backed up against the wall.

"From my godfather." She pointed behind her. "He's in the carriage. If we go to him now, he can pay you."

Mr. Lewis chuckled. She'd once thought the sound aimable, but now it grated on her already frazzled nerves. "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

"I swear it!" Her chin wobbled. He was getting too close. He was going to kill her.

"Give me the vase. Your father owed Napoleon some crystal, and this shall be it."

She tried to dart past him, but he grabbed her arm and swung her to him. She clawed at him with her free arm and kicked desperately at his legs, all while desperately maintaining her hold on the vase. He twisted her arm backward, her shoulder erupting in pain, while his other arm covered her mouth, silencing her attempt to scream.

"That vase is mine. Now, be a good girl and hand it over."

She shook her head, wrestling against him, but his grip was strong. With enough pressure, she knew he could snap her neck.

"Do you really think you can escape from me?" He laughed into her ear. "If you want to leave with your life, then you are going to not only walk away from this vase, but you're going to tell me where the glassblower's treasure is."

She froze, shock pouring through her. So that was the real reason he'd taken her vase. He believed in the legend.

He slowly released her mouth with his hand. "There. That's not so hard, now, is it?"

"What makes you think I know where the treasure is?" she spat.

"Because only a glassblower knows how to read the pattern of the crystal map."

She had no idea what madness he spoke of, but she couldn't throw away her chance to live either. "What would you do with such a treasure?"

"Free Napoleon, of course."

Dread billowed beneath her panic. If she didn't live to warn the others, Mr. Lewis would get away with far more than a handful of deaths. He'd be responsible for millions of lives lost.

"Money cannot free him." She wasn't certain, but surely it couldn't.

She could feel Mr. Lewis's smirk near her ear. "Money has more power than any army or navy."

"But no glassblower is rich enough to do as you say."

"You're teasing me, Miss Dvorak. Your father was a leader among his fellow craftsmen and was made the treasure's protector. The secret is in this vase."

"H-how do you know it isn't a different vase?"

"Because this is the only one he didn't sell. He saved it... for you."

Was it true? Was there some great treasure after all? Had her father meant to tell her about it but had died first? Was that the real reason Mr. Plasil had avoided her question about it and encouraged her to return to Ashbury Court to settle her heart? Was it all about the vase? Did he want the treasure as well?

She forced out an answer to placate Mr. Lewis. "Maybe if you let me study the vase for a few days, I can learn to read the map."

"I have a better idea." She heard the cock of a gun. "You're going to read it right now."

He released her arm, and the relief was instantaneous, but the fear was still building. There was no way she could decipher the cuts of crystal to mean anything, and either way, there was no way Mr. Lewis would let her leave this room alive.