Chapter Twenty-Seven

Someone had been in his bedchamber. And it hadn't been Timms.

He knew this because his valet had gone to the village on an errand just before Oscar had gone down to breakfast. As usual,

he had eaten alone. However, unlike his standard routine of leaving directly following his meal—thankfully, sans gray gruel

and burnt toast—he went back to his chamber for his gloves.

That was when he saw it.

The door of the wardrobe was slightly ajar. Which was something the surprisingly fastidious Timms wouldn't have allowed. In

fact, he'd been the one to inform Oscar of the warp in the door and had come up with a solution to keep it from swinging open

by itself. And there on the floor was the scrap of linen he always tucked between the gap.

That could have been easily explained away, of course. Perhaps it was mere forgetfulness on Timms's part, the lingering dampness

in the air and resulting expansion of the wood, or even a sudden gust of wind blowing down through the chimney. But that wouldn't

account for the book on his bedside table.

Years ago, Oscar had developed the habit of always laying his book flipped over with the front cover down. In his observations, he'd found that people assume a book was laid face up. It was just a natural inclination. Therefore, someone who might have been waiting for the opportunity to rifle through his belongings in a furtive search tended to lay a book down with the cover facing up.

Which was the way he found the volume of Faust he'd tried to distract himself with last night. But that was not the way he'd left it.

His brow flattened as he scanned the rest of the room, wondering what the widows were after. They'd already been through his

things. Twice. And he knew it wasn't the servants. Cardew said that most of them—aside from the steward—respected him. A small

triumph, though little good it did a charlatan who'd soon be gone.

There was no reason to stay. He knew that now, especially after seeing the look on Honoria's face.

A man could never outrun his past, his choices. They were part of who he was and always would be. He'd been a fool to think

otherwise, no matter how briefly.

So he would leave sooner than planned. He'd send word to Warring and, perhaps, by then Ladrón would be in Spain. Regardless,

he could still keep his promise to the dowager by finding her grandson, but he doubted he'd find the answer here.

Swiping up his gloves, he left his bedchamber with every intention of riding off the tension that gripped his neck and shoulders

in a vise. But halfway down the stairs, he turned, deciding to inform Cardew first.

If they could arrange it, why not leave by first light tomorrow?

Yet, as he turned to climb the stairs, he caught a glimpse of Mr. Price through the railing. The steward was a floor below,

walking swiftly in the direction of the old nave.

Curious and just irritated enough to confront the man who'd hindered him at every turn, Oscar followed.

But by the time he crossed the hall, moved through the nave and gained the winding corridor where Price had gone, the steward

had vanished.

This part of the abbey—the cloister—had fallen into disrepair over the years. A musty, stale odor of disuse hung heavy in the air. The rooms along the narrow corridor were situated close together, almost utilitarian in design with small windows set high on the outer wall for light but little else. There were no window seats for daydreaming the way that most of the rooms were designed at Hartley Hall.

He shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts that would wend their way back to Honoria.

But a headshake wasn't enough because the image of her gripping the door of the moving carriage flashed in his mind...

Then her face surrounded by a tumble of curls... Her eyes drowsy and dark... Her lips wet and swollen from his kiss...

And that leather pouch spilling open.

Bile rose to the back of his throat at the memory. His fists clenched at his sides as he wondered how she'd dared to look

so shocked, so hurt by his reaction.

Though, the logical part of his brain reminded him that the money was the reason he'd come there in the first place. Or, at

least, that's what he'd told her.

But that was before, he argued internally. Before she'd kissed him. Before he'd carved her brother's name into the old ash

tree. Before he'd held her trembling body within the walls of Awildian Palace. Before he'd found his place at her family's

table across from her. Before he'd been foolish enough to imagine that she cared for him...

He could kick himself for what he'd revealed to Honoria last night. And with his admission, he had ensured that whatever tendre

she might have felt was utterly destroyed.

Though, why should that matter when nothing would ever come of it? It wasn't as though she ever would have married someone

like—

The faint shriek of a hinge interrupted his thoughts, and he knew Price was close by.

Just around the corner, he saw a fan of pale light fall across the dusty stones beside a partially open door.

According to the old ledgers and diagrams he'd found, this room had originally been the old library. However, during the persecution

of Catholics in the sixteenth century, the abbey had been raided, priests and nuns forced to march on foot, leaving what little

they had behind. But then the patriarch of the Dunne family—a Catholic himself—was bequeathed this estate by the king for

his support of the new Protestantism.

Oscar stepped closer, cautiously peering inside. Only to find the room empty.

Then again, as his gaze homed in on the cold stone hearth, perhaps it wasn't empty, after all.

A priest hole, he mused as he saw the concealed door in the dark paneling beside the fireplace. Apparently, the Dunne patriarch

had sympathized with the old religion and kept it a secret from king and country.

And now Mr. Price was using it for his own purposes.

But before pushing through the door, Oscar caught himself. Why was he even bothering to chase after Price? It wasn't his concern.

It was Vandemere's.

So he pivoted on his heel and walked away.

***

A short while later, he found Cardew in the garret by spotting the discarded turpentine and rags he was supposed to be using

on the railing. Not that it mattered any longer.

Without knocking, he opened the door... and summarily closed it, squeezing his eyes shut.

On the other side of the door, he heard Auntie Babette's giggle followed by the patter of bare feet on the hardwood and the

rustle of clothing.

When she came out, she grinned up at him through her lashes, trailing a fingertip along his shoulder. "No need to be prudish, nephew. It's all for the sake of art. And I just happen to be his muse."

She sauntered off, caring nothing for the fact that the back of her dress lay open, revealing her lack of undergarments. Then

again, he had seen that for himself just a moment ago when she'd been posing for Cardew. Posing!

His irritation vaulted as he stepped into the room and closed the door firmly behind him. He clenched his jaw, taking considerable

effort not to raise his voice when he gestured to the canvas on the easel. "You were supposed to keep this quiet."

"Fear not, cub. I explained to my lovely muse that I've never even considered painting a portrait before in my life..."

"Until you met her," Oscar concluded, knowing that particular speech was a favorite method of Cardew's. "And by some miracle

she brought out the hidden artist within?"

He grinned. "Coincidentally, it has always been a dream of hers to become a patron of the arts and be memorialized on canvas.

And I think it's my best work yet. Just look at the way the brush loves all those delicious curves. She is a feast for the

eyes."

Well, Oscar had certainly had an eyeful.

"I call it Venus in Summer . The bed will be an altar draped in vines. Meadows and orchards beyond the open terrace. The warm glow of the sun rising

over the—"

"We need to talk," Oscar interrupted.

Facing him, Cardew's excitement over his current painting dimmed from his eyes, and his smile fell. "Did you receive word

from Warring?"

"Nothing yet. But there is no reason to stay."

Cardew regarded him thoughtfully. "I'd heard a rumor among the servants that your debutante's dowry is considerable. I thought,

perhaps—"

"What? That I would marry her for her fortune? Spend the rest of my days groveling at her feet to be deserving of it—of her—while she looks down on me with disgust?" It turned his stomach to realize he was tempted to do just that. "No. That is not an option."

"Then, we'll leave before first light," Cardew said matter-of-factly.

The easy acquiescence took him off guard. It was like slamming face-first into a lamppost. He needed a moment to reorient

himself and glanced absently around the room.

"Your canvas is wet," he said. "And we cannot leave it behind without risking a trail leading directly to us. So, we'll stay

until it dries."

"Or I could simply burn this one and start again somewhere else. It isn't as though we haven't done as much before." Cardew

shrugged, wiping his paint-spattered hands on a rag. "Unless, of course, you have a few loose ends to tie up before we depart."

The artist's gaze casually surveyed him as if he were painted on canvas.

Oscar's spine stiffened. "There is nothing keeping me here."

"It's for the best." Cardew laid a hand smelling of turpentine on his shoulder. "In a few days, it will be like it always

was, and you'll hardly ever think about this place."

Oscar only nodded before he turned and left. He needed that morning ride more than ever.

But as he descended the stairs, still cringing at the black lacquered railing, he knew that he would think about this place.

That was the way his memory worked. Every place he'd ever been was inside his head like cards stacked all neatly in a deck.

Even so, he feared that Honoria would be more than a mere memory. She would haunt him, a ghost rattling around inside his

mind, her kisses permanently etched upon his soul.

He expelled a hard breath, foolishly wishing to bury this part of his life, to put it to rest in a way that made it easier to leave behind. If he had time, perhaps—

He didn't have the chance to finish that thought.

An urgent knocking fell on the door, and Algernon opened it to a messenger.

Oscar knew, even before he saw Rowan Warring's distinctive scrawl, that he was out of time.