Chapter 5

Theresia played her violin until after the supper dance, her fingers aching and her mind spinning. Thankfully, she'd been familiar with most of the music selected for the night. Had fate decided to play fair for once? She could hardly trust it any more than she could her selfish stepmother. However, there was no denying that the events leading to this moment had been most miraculous.

She forced herself to review the last several days, hoping to relieve the anxiety mounting with each song. She tuned out the room brimming with lavishly dressed people and focused on Johan. His genius had allowed them to get her trunk by Mrs. Bevin. Who knew that breaking into a locked cabinet and hiding the tea leaves could cause such a frantic distraction for a housekeeper?

After leaving Lady Caspar's home behind, Johan had brought Theresia to his brother-in-law's small tenant house he lived in along with Johan's wife and his mother, Mrs. Bedrich. Theresia had thrown herself into Mrs. Bedrich's familiar arms, a sob catching in her throat at the feeling it brought. Mrs. Bedrich looked and smelled like home.

Even now, thinking of her gave Theresia a moment of reprieve, and her lips curled with a glimmer of happiness. Mrs. Bedrich was short and stout, unlike her taller son, but those small arms had made Theresia feel safe and protected, as had her words: "My precious zlatí?ko!" Her thick accent had tickled Theresia's ears, making her laugh. But soon the laugh was replaced with her watery eyes and trembling voice as she explained about the stolen vase and that her only lead pointed to the Duke of Westmorland's house party.

The thought sent her spiraling back to the present. Her fingers moved effortlessly up and down the neck of her violin, but her nerves were still too fraught; she knew what needed to happen next, but would she be brave enough? She shouldn't even be here to begin with. She shouldn't be playing in public. Someone was bound to catch her the moment she left her seat. She closed her eyes, thinking of Mrs. Bedrich again.

"Stop fussing," Mrs. Bedrich said. "Do you still have your violin?"

Theresia nodded.

"Dust it off, my zlato . You are going to need it."

No one had called her the mature version of her nickname before, and neither had anyone ever thought it appropriate for Theresia to perform on her violin. Her favorite instrument had transformed into the only means of saving her future. As they'd concocted a plan, relief had filled Theresia's frenzied mind. With her old family friends as her allies, Theresia's vase would be far easier to obtain. So she'd put her reputation on the line, dressed like a Roma, and joined the traveling musicians. Giving up was too bleak an alternative.

And now here she was at Ashbury Court, the glamorous home of a duke, playing like her future depended on it—for it did. The evening had waxed long, but there were still hours before it faded into dawn and the ball ended. It was time.

She discreetly laid down her violin, resolution battling her fears. Johan gave her a nod just before she slipped away out a servants' door. If anyone caught her wandering through the house, her chance to find the vase would be over. Instead of sneaking around the corridors, waiting for someone to cross her path, she planned to reenter through a window, search the room, and leave again without anyone being the wiser.

In theory, it made perfect sense. In reality, she had never done anything remotely like this in her life. She had always been stubborn and opinionated, but she had also been disciplined. Despite the danger of what she was doing and that it went against everything Mrs. Stone had taught her about the proper behavior of a lady, she would persist until the vase was in her hands once more. It was time to be bold, like Papa had been while chasing his dreams.

With this in mind, she hovered for a moment, reassuring herself that no one was aware of her, before finding her way outside. The stars dotted the otherwise inky night, leading her away from the gardens and wandering guests. Keeping to the perimeter of the house and the shadows where she would not be seen, she found the first window on the ground floor. It was on the side of the house closest to the tree line that bordered one side of the property. Unfortunately, this was all the privacy she could be afforded. She prodded the seal of the sash window, but to her dismay, it was locked from the inside. She proceeded to the next window. It, too, was stuck tight.

She squeezed her fists. She would not be thwarted. Not after the years she had endured to get to this point. Several fruitless attempts later, she noticed an open window on the second floor. She was not comfortable with heights, but fate had once again smiled upon her. A lattice partially covered in ivy scaled the wall almost adjacent to the window. If she could pretend to be a Roma to stop a thief, couldn't she climb this? Letting out a shaky breath, she gripped the woven wooden structure. It was time to prove how brave she truly was.

"For you, Papa."

***

With the ball still in full force after the supper dance, Rolland made his excuses and bid his friends good night. He was capable of staying up into the early hours of the morning, but his bad shoulder ached from dancing. Had he admitted to his injury, no one would have insisted he participate, but he did not deserve anyone's pity over a mere wound. Not when so many of his friends lay lifeless at the bottom of the ocean.

When he entered his bedchamber, there was no sign of his valet. He went to his closet, a rather large one for a guest room. He had forgotten to thank Marcus for his generous accommodations. Inside his closet was Granger, fast asleep on the floor, with a thin blanket pulled up to his white, scruffy chin. Rolland hated to disturb the old man. He undid his own cravat and managed all his buttons, but slipping out of his jacket and shirt would be quite a feat. He finally kicked Granger's foot with the toe of his boot to wake him.

Granger moaned and pulled himself to his feet. "Back already, Cap'n?"

"I stayed as long as I was able."

With careful fingers, Granger tugged off Rolland's jacket and other articles until Rolland was bare-chested.

"I've got the salve ready so we can change the dressings on your shoulder before you rest." Granger retreated inside the closet once more and brought out the needed supplies.

Rolland resisted groaning. He would endure the pain quietly. It was his way of remembering those who had gone before him and paying penance for living.

Granger peeled off the bandages, and Rolland was certain his skin came off with them. Gritting his teeth, he collected the bloody bandages on his lap. It was no surprise that the pain was worse than yesterday. The salve eased the burning sensation, but it would not last. It never did. Granger wrapped Rolland's arm once more with clean strips of linen. Every accidental touch, every pressure applied, stole Rolland's breath.

"Some of the blisters are finally healing." Granger's voice was too cheerful for Rolland's taste.

"Good." The word came out as a whisper, and with his good hand, Rolland wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. He had battled some infection before he'd been sent home, and he knew he was fortunate to be alive. The worst of it should be behind him now.

After Granger helped him into his shirtsleeves, Rolland desperately needed fresh air. His eyes drifted to the window, but it was closed. He'd opened it before he'd gone down to the ball, hoping the cool night air would help him sleep when he returned. In fact, he'd told Granger specifically to leave it open. Granger never disobeyed orders. "Did a maid come in while I was out?"

"No, sir. I knows I fell asleep, but I wasn't out long."

Rolland's brow lowered. He knew there was a murderer in their midst, but what reason would someone have to sneak into his room? No, a maid had to have come in. He scanned the room to make sure everything else was in order before studying the window again. Tilting his head, he observed the heavy damask drapes. Was one fuller than the other? His hand slid around Granger's wrist before he could see to any of the buttons on his shirt.

"That will be all, Granger. You can see to my things in the morning. Turn in for the night."

"If you insist." Granger might appreciate the offer for now, but if the culprit were truly in his room, Rolland imagined the valet would not be asleep before his assistance was required again.

The moment the closet door shut, Rolland went to his desk and slipped his knife into his hand. Then he made a point of noisily busying himself for bed. When he blew out his candle, he sat down hard on his bed and rustled the covers in the dark. When he finished, he slipped his feet back to the ground and moved with careful, silent steps toward the drapes.

If someone was there, they would eventually try to escape. And if no one was there, Rolland would simply blame the war for more of his madness. He kept his breathing slow and even, though his pulse was beginning to pound loud in his ears as he crept closer and closer to the window. Had he imagined it, or did the curtain move a little?

He froze in his step. Should he have confided in Granger and risked looking idiotic if he was proved wrong? At one time, Rolland could easily have claimed being physically stronger than most of his crew, but with his injury, he would be at a severe disadvantage in any skirmish.

One step closer and again the curtain seemed to shift ever so slightly. Rolland did not stop moving this time; he pushed himself ever closer until he was on the opposite side of the curtain from the window. If the person tried to flee through the window, Rolland would have greater luck taking him down from behind.

It all happened in a moment. The curtain pushed away from the wall, but instead of the intruder going to the window, he came out on the same side Rolland was on, taking him utterly by surprise. Acting on impulse, Rolland hunched low and dove forward, charging into him. The only thought that flashed through his mind, besides the real possibility that he might not come off the victor, was that at least he had not imagined the whole thing and his sanity was intact.

When they made contact, the intruder's slight frame flew backward to the ground. Rolland took advantage of the element of surprise and threw his body on top of the downed man. It was easier than it should have been to pin the man's thin arms down. He might not need his knife after all.

"Granger!" Rolland yelled. "Granger, get out here!"

The squirming, pitiful escape efforts of the intruder led Rolland to believe one of two things: the intruder was either inexperienced or simply very young.

Granger stumbled out of the closet and lit a candle. When he saw Rolland on the floor, he rushed over. "Cap'n, what in the name of all that is 'oly 'appened to you?" When he held up the candle, Rolland got his first good look at his intruder.

Or, should he say, violinist.

Her eyes were wide with a swirl of fear and shock, and her brown hair lay disheveled from its knot. For a moment, all he could do was stare down at her. For land's sake, the sheer idea of romance was a toxic one. He was in his head and not thinking straight.

"Cap'n?"

The title shook sense into him. It took less than a second more for him to realize that he had knocked the violinist flat on the floor, was sitting on her, and all while wearing only his open-necked shirtsleeves. He commanded a fleet of men and did not embarrass easily, but there was no denying the heat stealing over him as he registered the soft flesh under his palms. He pulled himself off her but hovered close on one knee out of necessity, keeping his attention alert on her. Just because she was a woman did not mean she was not a spy. He was not so naive to believe her gender had no intelligence or initiative, and he had already sensed something unusual about this one.

"She was hiding behind my curtain," Rolland offered by way of explanation to Granger before acknowledging the violinist. "Who are you and why are you in my bedchamber?"

Her cheeks filled with color. "May I sit up at least?"

Rolland shuffled back, giving her a foot of breathing space and no more before nodding.

She sat up slowly, and a small groan emitted from her lips. She rubbed her back—a back that Rolland could easily have done a great deal of damage to with the way he'd barreled into her. "Forgive me, sir. I became lost looking for the refreshing room."

"Try again." Rolland did not have to be an expert on truth-telling, like Marcus, to see through her story. "A musician would use the servants' stairs if they had need of anything. They would not wander through the main house."

"Mu-musician? How did you know who I was?"

"Your dress." He would not flatter her by explaining he'd noticed her talent and beauty earlier, not when her bell-shaped skirt defining her waist, poofy white sleeves tied with embroidered ribbon at her elbows, and velvet bodice gave her away. "Why were you in my room? The truth this time."

"It matters little. You will never believe me."

Would he? She seemed to be in costume, so what station was she? A servant would not be so naturally assertive. Nor would their speech be so polished.

The glimmer of candlelight caught in her eyes. Radiant amber. He knew at once why she had seemed so familiar. She was the woman who'd tripped the thief when he'd passed through London. Her gaze met his easily, although she adeptly avoided looking at his exposed chest.

"Try me." He kept his tone as friendly as possible, like Marcus had once instructed him to do when attempting to ascertain the truth. This woman could've killed him in his sleep, but Rolland wanted to give her a chance to explain her motivation for invading his privacy.

A look of resignation passed over her. Her high cheekbones seemed to soften, and she dropped her gaze. "Something was stolen from me. I was attempting to search the rooms when you found me."

Another thief? Rolland met Granger's confused gaze. That was not at all what he'd expected her to say. "Can you be certain something of yours was taken and not simply misplaced? Do you have any witnesses?"

Her almond-shaped eyes flashed to his, the resignation instantly replaced with fire. "I am quite certain. And I am the only witness that is required."

Rolland raised his brow but felt safe enough to take her at her word. He was just now beginning to feel the fire return to the top of his wounded shoulder and down his arm. He had been too focused on the task at hand to have noticed it earlier. "Tell me what is missing, and I will ask His Grace's staff to watch for it."

She shook her head, attempting to smooth her hair by her ears. "It is not something a person would simply leave out in the open. Once word gets out that I'm searching for it, it could disappear forever."

"It sounds valuable," Granger said, lighting another candle to brighten the room.

"You have no idea." Her eyes closed momentarily, and a long breath pulled from her full lips.

"Let's say I believe you." Rolland tilted his head and studied her. "Tell me who you think stole this precious but unnamed item."

"I . . . I did not see his face."

Her story was not a strong one, which actually gave him greater reason to believe her. If she were a true spy, she would have been trained on how to respond should she be caught. "Can you tell me anything about him, then? How can you be sure he's here?"

"I did not see him, but I heard his voice, and I am certain I would know it again. And he was very clear that he was to be a guest at the duke's house party."

The house party? But they had only invited his parents and a handful of particular people to stay on after the ball. And each one of those people were either highly suspect as traitors to England or the most trusted Rolland knew. "And what reason would this thief have to take something from you?"

"I cannot say. Only, it is a rare piece and worth a small fortune. He attempted to buy it, but it was not for sale."

Granger smirked. "If what was stolen was worth so much, how's it that you came to 'ave it in the first place?"

Rolland wanted to know the same thing. He eyed her straight shoulders and spine, the delicate way she clasped her hands in front of her, and the battle to keep her features schooled. Was it proof of a proper upbringing? Or was it all an act? She had been dressed differently the first time they'd met. Which was costume and which was not?

Her expressive brows won out and furrowed in the middle. "You don't have to believe me, but it was given to me by my father and is rightly mine." She raised her chin, daring them to defy her claim. It almost made Rolland believe he was speaking to a refined lady of some social standing.

Regardless of who or what she was, it was not worth arguing with her. No harm had come from any of this besides some throbbing in his shoulder and likely a bruise or two for her. He blew out his breath, pulled himself to his feet, and extended his hand to her. "May I offer my assistance?"

She curled away from him, her cheeks darkening. "Forgive me. I do not touch half-dressed men."

He had already forgotten about his missing waistcoat and jacket. He was used to being around men, not ladies—especially not one so beautiful. He shrugged sheepishly. "I am sorry I did not dress to greet you. I was far more worried for my life than my attire. Granger, will you do the honors?"

"Certainly, Cap'n." Granger held out his hand to the woman, and she took it. Once she was on her feet, she dusted off her full skirt.

Suddenly her head whipped upward. "Wait. Did you say Captain?"

Granger glanced at him before answering. "Yes."

The title seemed to connect some unseen dots in her mind, because she gave a succinct nod. "I am glad to know I had the sense to pick your room. A captain should feel some obligation toward justice. If you'll excuse me, I must be going."

Rolland nearly laughed. The woman thought to excuse herself as if they had just had afternoon tea.

She moved to the door.

He had to stop her. "Unless you want the reputation of a light-skirts, I wouldn't go that way." While his words were said lightly, the suggestion made even him uncomfortable. He had worked hard to maintain a moral standard for himself. His lack of vices had gained him the trust of men in various fields, particularly among his fellow soldiers in battle. He was not prepared to lose his good name over this indomitable intruder. Especially with his parents and closest friends in residence.

Her feet froze and her hand went to her neck. "I... I did not think of that." He had been relatively certain of her moral standing when she blushed over his exposed chest and refused to touch his hand, but her reaction now solidified it. "I suppose I should return through the window."

"You're saying you climbed through the window in that dress?" Rolland frowned, reaching for his waistcoat.

Granger hurried to his side and assisted him with it. Once his arms were through the garment, he discovered the woman staring at the window with great reluctance. She forced a small smile and crossed to it, pulling it open.

Rolland came to her and looked down to see how difficult the descent would be. The sight made his jaw slacken. "How did you manage?"

She bit her lip and pointed to the lattice beside the neighboring window. "I climbed up there and used the small ledge to cross to here."

Ledge was a generous description. It was more of a trim. "There will be no returning that direction." He pulled back and found Granger looking rather amused. "Do you have any suggestions?"

Granger coughed into his hand. "No, sir. The corridors will be mighty unpredictable tonight since the guests will go to bed whene'er they please."

"We will have to risk it," the woman said.

"‘We'?" Rolland had risked plenty in his life, but tossing a woman out a second-story window was not one of them. It was time he discover the identity of this reckless lady. "Who am I coupling my name with, exactly?"

"I think it best we part as strangers." She curtsied her goodbye. "I will take the door after all." Without another word, she traced the path back to the door.

Irritation flooded him. Strangers? Was that even possible at this point? His equilibrium had not been the same since coming on land, but it was nothing to how unbalanced he was in her presence. It was too late to forget her almond-shaped eyes or the vision of her playing the violin. He certainly couldn't easily dismiss the insufferable way she disregarded him, even though it was his bedchamber she had invaded. But that meant allowing himself to feel again, and he wasn't prepared for that. She was a Roma, worse than a servant—a degradation to England—and he was as good as engaged to another. Indeed, they were better off as strangers.

Even so, there was no way he was letting her waltz out that door and ruin them both.