“It’s this ghastly weather that brought me home,” the duke was saying. “It may clear up overnight, or it may settle in for a week. Since neither Kate nor I could countenance another week in Plymouth, home we came, jiggety-jig.”
“Leaving Susannah behind you?” Derek asked.
“Indeed not.” The duke turned his head, distracted by a loud thump and a few muttered words that came from the dowager’s bedchamber. The keening wind made it impossible for Emma to identify the voices. She gripped Derek’s arm involuntarily as the duke turned back to them, smiling.
“As I was saying,” he continued, “Dr. Singh gave Susannah the all-clear, so we brought her with us, one big happy family. She’s in her room how, with Mattie and Nurse Tharby.” Grayson looked at Emma. “Nurse Tharby is Dr. Singh’s assistant, though she’ll be his equal once she’s completed her studies. I believe you met her proud mother at the Bright Lady.”
Emma nodded. She recalled Mrs. Tharby very well. She also recalled how loyal the villagers had been when facing the onslaught from the press. They wouldn’t welcome anyone who threatened the generous lord of the manor. They might even see to it that Susannah took a sudden and entirely plausible turn for the worse. The same thought must have crossed Derek’s mind, for his arm had turned to steel beneath the soft cotton of his blue workshirt.
“Like to see her,” he said, with absolute composure. “Susannah, that is. Welcome her back. Let her know she’s among friends.”
“Not possible, old man.” The duke raised his hands, palms out. “Nothing to do with me. Nurse’s orders. If she declares that Syd and Mattie are to be Susannah’s sole companions this evening, I’m afraid we must bow to her authority.”
Derek relaxed a bit. “Syd’s up there, is he?”
“Planning to camp there, by the looks of it. I say, Emma, it was awfully clever of you to put him to work in Grandmother’s garden. Magical place, that garden. It’s done him a world of good.”
The duke turned his head again as a wavering glow began to penetrate the darkness in the dowager’s bedroom. Fire? Emma thought. She cast an uneasy glance at the marble walls and tried very hard not to imagine what would happen if the duke barred the only exit after setting the well-oiled antique instruments ablaze.
“Please,” said the duke, facing them once more, “won’t you join me? It’s frightfully uncivilized to stand chatting in doorways. And we have so much to talk about.” As he turned on his heel and left the room, Derek looked down at Emma and smiled encouragingly. Emma couldn’t quite return his smile, preoccupied as she was by thoughts of how thick the walls were in Penford Hall’s hidden passages, and how easy it would be to seal someone—or a pair of someones—in an out-of-the-way dead end. She comforted herself with the knowledge that Derek was probably as good at demolition as he was at restoration. With a bit of luck and the blade of his penknife, they’d be able to dig their way out. In a year or so.
Gathering her courage, Emma followed Derek through the doorway.
They reentered the dowager’s bedchamber in time to see Crowley rise, red-faced, from the gold-veined marble hearth, where his exertions had produced a brightly burning fire. Emma saw at once that the divan had been moved to one side of the fireplace, a high-backed gold brocade armchair to the other, and the ornate end tables had been pushed together to form a coffee table.
Hallard stood nearby, illuminating Crowley’s labors with a gold candelabra filled with flickering white candles. Kate was there, as well, in an oatmeal-colored fisherman’s knit pullover and dark-brown trousers, standing with folded arms before the door-concealing tapestry. No one seemed surprised to see them.
As immaculate as ever, Grayson was dressed in fawn cavalry twills, a hacking jacket, an ivory shirt, and a silk tie. He nodded cordially to Crowley as he sank into the gold brocade chair and motioned Emma and Derek toward the divan.
Crowley tugged his waistcoat into place, straightened his black tie and upright collar, then gestured for Hallard to follow him through a pair of white-and-gold doors that led, apparently, to the hallway.
For a moment, the only sounds were the moaning wind, the snapping fire, and the distant rumble of thunder. Then another rumble sounded, just outside the bedroom doors.
“Watch where you’re going, you nincompoop!”
“Sorry, Nanny, but your needles nearly caught me in the—”
Emma jumped as the bedroom door banged open and Nanny Cole swept in, magnificent in a red plaid robe and brown corduroy slippers, clutching a yarn-filled basket bristling with half a dozen lethal-looking knitting needles. Chief Constable Trevoy trailed after her, carrying a flashlight and keeping a close watch on the basket.
“You’re a ninny, Tom Trevoy, and you always were,” Nanny declared. “A poke in the goolies might stiffen your backbone, but I doubt it. Now, stop your whingeing and fetch me a chair!” She paused to glower at Derek and Emma, growling, “Nosey-parkers. Can’t bear nosey-parkers.” Peering around the shadowy room, she demanded, “Where’s that blasted daughter of mine? Comes mincing in without so much as a by-your-leave. Ah! There you are!” She crossed over to Kate, while Chief Constable Trevoy hastened to move the other gold brocade chair close to the fire, then sat meekly on the low bench at the foot of the bed, stroking his red mustache.
“Kate, you look like death,” Nanny Cole barked. “Off to bed with you, my girl, quickstep march!”
“I’d very much like Kate to stay,” Grayson murmured.
Nanny Cole’s lower lip protruded obstinately, but all she said was “Suit yourself. But don’t blame me if the chit keels over. I’ve a good mind to dose the pair of you before the night is through.”
The sound of footsteps in the hall announced the arrival of Gash, the chubby mechanic, and Newland, the taciturn gatekeeper. Newland went over to conduct a low-pitched conversation with Kate, then parked himself before the hall doors, rolling his long silver flashlight from hand to hand with the contained energy of an athlete. Emma’s heart sank as she realized that, although the gatekeeper was in his mid-sixties, he was in remarkably fine physical condition.
Gash approached the duke. “Power plant’s buggered,” he reported. “We’ve got the backup generator for emergency systems and alarms, and we still have the telephone, but the rest’ll have to wait till morning.”
“I’m sure you’ve done your best,” said the duke.
“Always do, Your Grace.” Gash nodded to Derek and Emma, then took a seat beside Chief Constable Trevoy.
A moment later, Newland opened the doors for Crowley and Hallard. Each carried a large silver tray, which they placed on the tables at Emma’s knee. Crowley’s tray held an enormous silver teapot, nine cups and saucers, a silver creamer and sugar bowl, nine teaspoons, and a stack of small plates. Hallard’s was freighted with four three-tiered pastry stands filled to overflowing with dainty, crustless sandwiches.
“About bloody time,” grumbled Nanny Cole. “What’s Madama sent up?”
Hallard pointed out paper-thin slices of lamb piled on nutty homemade bread, with a side dish of fresh mint sauce; morsels of lobster on toast rounds, topped with a dab of mayonnaise; triangles of white bread filled with translucent wafers of turbot; a round of cheddar cheese, a bunch of glistening grapes, and a bowl of peaches.
A flurry of activity ensued, as tea was poured and sandwiches were distributed. Although Emma had slept through supper, she had little appetite, and the rattle of her teacup on its saucer betrayed her nervousness. Were she and Derek about to be tried and convicted by the duke’s kangaroo court? She stared gravely at her teacup, then frowned, vaguely puzzled. What kind of kangaroo court served tea to the accused? She raised her eyes to search the faces that surrounded her. How could she feel threatened by these people? They’d shown her nothing but kindness. Newland was an unknown quantity, of course, but apart from him—and Nanny Cole’s knitting needles—did she really have anything to fear? Gradually, Emma’s nervousness subsided, to be replaced by an intense curiosity. What was the duke up to?