As he returned the pouch to the safe, however, he noted that he was mistaken. There was something else in the hidden compartment, a tiny key, less than an inch in length, with a great many notches along a spine as slender as a toothpick.
Lady Kingsley held the key up to the light. “If this is meant for a lock, then it’s a lock I can snap in two with my bare hands.”
They replaced everything except the coded dossier, which Lady Kingsley wanted to keep.
“Are you taking it to London in the morning?” Vere whispered, bypassing his exhausted vocal cords.
“I can’t leave all my guests and go away for eight hours. And you’d best not either. Or Douglas’s suspicion will fall squarely on you should he find it missing before we can get it back to the safe.”
She left first with the dossier. Vere closed and locked the safe. When he’d pushed the painting back into place and latched it, he turned around—and froze.
Miss Edgerton, when she’d come to check on her aunt, must have added coal to the grate. In the firelight, Mrs. Douglas lay with her eyes wide open, staring at him.
Any other woman would have screamed. But she remained eerily quiet, even as her eyes bulged with terror.
Vere moved carefully, inch by inch toward the door. She closed her eyes, her whole person shaking.
He took a deep breath, slipped out the door, and listened. If Mrs. Douglas was going to recover her voice and scream, she would do so now. The service stairs were near, he’d escape that way to avoid the guests her bloodcurdling shrieks were sure to bring.
But no sounds came from Mrs. Douglas, not a gasp, not a wheeze, not even a whimper.
He walked back to his room, completely unsettled.
The longcase clock gonged the hour, three brassy chimes that quavered in the dark, still air.
It was always three o’clock.
The ormolu banister was cold. The tall palm trees that his father was so proud of were now ghosts with long, swaying arms. One frond scratched against the back of his hand. He shook with fright.
Still, he kept descending, feeling his way down one step at a time. There was a faint light at the foot of the stairs. He was drawn to it, like a toddler to a deep well.
He saw her feet first, delicate feet in blue dancing slippers. Her gown shimmered, faintly iridescent in the light that came from nowhere. An arm, with its long white glove that reached past her elbow, lay across her torso.
Her white shawl curled slack about her shoulders. Her coiffure was ruined, feathers and combs embedded pell-mell in a tangle of dark knots. Her much-envied five-strand sapphire necklace had flipped itself and now draped her mouth and chin—a bejeweled muzzle.
Then, and only then, did he notice the impossible angle of her neck.
He was sick to his stomach. But she was his mother. He reached out to touch her. Her eyes suddenly opened, eyes empty yet petrified with fear. He reared back, his heel caught against the first rise of the staircase, and down he went.
Down, down, down—
Vere bolted upright in his bed, gasping. The dream recurred periodically, but never quite like this. He had somehow juxtaposed Mrs. Douglas’s terrified eyes onto his old nightmare.
His door opened. “Are you all right, Lord Vere? I heard noises.”
Miss Edgerton, a shadowed silhouette on the threshold.
For a moment he was seized with the mad desire to have her next to him, her hand caressing his cheek, telling him that it was only a dream. She would coax him to lie down, tuck him in, and smile—
“Oh, no, gosh, no, I’m not all right!” he said forcefully. “How I hate that dream. You know the one, where you are searching for a water closet high and low and there isn’t one anywhere in the house—and no chamber pots and not even a proper bucket. And there are crowds in every room, and out in the gardens, on the lawn, and—Oh, good gracious, I hope I haven’t—”
She made a choked sound.
“Oh, thank God,” he continued. “Your beddings are safe. But if you will excuse me, I must—”
The door closed decisively.
In the morning everyone drove over to Woodley Manor for a look at the disgusting mountain of dead rats. The rat catcher, with his exhausted rat dogs, a triumphant ferret, and an incomprehensible accent, proudly twirled his dark, luxuriant mustache as he posed for Lord Frederick’s camera, commemorating the occasion.
“My staff is already hard at work,” said Lady Kingsley to Elissande. “There is much to do, but they assure me the house will be fit for habitation by tomorrow. I promise you we shall remove ourselves the moment it is the case.”
Elissande saw the handwriting on the wall. There was no more time left. Something must happen.
She must make something happen.
God helped those who helped themselves.
Chapter Seven
Elissande had inherited a few things from her parents: a set of her mother’s silver combs, a bottle of perfume blended especially for Charlotte Edgerton by Parfumerie Guerlain, her father’s shaving brush, a bundle of letters tied in lilac ribbon, and a small oil painting of a female nude.
She was sure Lord Frederick would appreciate seeing the painting. She hadn’t shown it to him for one very significant reason: She was afraid that the subject might be her mother, and one simply did not go around letting gentlemen look at one’s mother in such a state of exposure.
But now she was throwing all scruples to the wind.
“My goodness, but it’s a Delacroix!” exclaimed Lord Frederick.
She was unfamiliar with the name; the books on art that the library had once housed had concentrated on the art of classical antiquity and that of the Renaissance. But judging by Lord Frederick’s expression of delight and reverence, a Delacroix was nothing to sneer at.
“Do you really think so, Lord Frederick, that it is a Delacroix?”
“I am almost one hundred percent sure.” He brought the small painting even closer to his eyes. “The signature, the style, the use of color—I would be shocked if it weren’t a Delacroix.”
His enthusiasm quite infected her. It must be a sign from above. How else could her treasure chest, which contained nothing of value—except the sentimental kind—prove so startlingly helpful on this very day?
“It is exquisite,” Lord Frederick murmured, enraptured.
She stared at him, similarly enraptured by her sudden stroke of good fortune.
“How did you come to have a Delacroix?” Lord Frederick asked.
“I haven’t the remotest idea. I suppose my father must have purchased it. He lived in Paris during the early seventies.”
“I don’t think so,” scoffed Lord Vere.
Lady Kingsley had letters to write. Lady Avery and the young ladies had gone to Ellesmere. Most of the gentlemen had departed to shoot what grouse there was to be had at Woodley Manor. Lord Frederick had declined, citing a lack of interest in badgering the poor birds. Lord Vere, who had originally declared his intention to go, had, to Elissande’s simmering exasperation, subsequently changed his mind to keep his brother company.
As a result, he sat at the other end of the morning parlor, playing solitaire. Elissande had done her best to ignore his presence, but now she had no choice but to turn her head his way. He did not look up from the cards he’d laid out—and they were not for a game of solitaire, but simply one long line from which he was now turning random cards faceup.
“I beg your pardon, sir? You don’t think my father lived in Paris?”
“Oh, I’m sure he did, but I’m not so sure he came by his Delacroix honestly,” said Lord Vere nonchalantly. “Lady Avery was chewing on my ears at dinner last night. She told me that your grandfather was a great lover of art and that your father stole some pieces from him before he ran away with your mother.”