The Lion's Daughter by Loretta Chase
“I’ll never believe that.” Lady Brentmor shook her head. “I’ve learned the hard way never to believe you at all. Always blaming someone else for your troubles. Now you blame what happened twenty-five years ago?”
Her son approached, to lean over the desk. “It’s you who’s dredging up the past. Bound to keep Jason’s girl to yourself, aren’t you, though she belongs with her husband.”
“He can’t keep her. He’s next to penniless.”
“And you’ll see he remains so, won’t you? I do wonder how you managed it. Don’t tell me Percival never told either of them about the chess set. He knew of Diana’s bequest before I did, I’ve no doubt. She kept few secrets from him. Only one, perhaps,” he added bitterly.
“Edenmont don’t know about the set, and it’s going to stay that way.” Her eyes flashed a warning. “There’s no point telling him anyhow since it won’t do him no good.”
“Certainly not.” Sir Gerald drew back. “No more good than it does me, with a piece missing.”
He flung himself into the chair at the chess table. “Might as well let him have it. At least then I won’t be responsible for the curst thing.”
“You’ll do nothing. I’ll handle this my own way.”
He looked away, lest she see the triumph in his face. She’d just told him all he wanted to know. She was so determined to keep Jason’s girl that she wouldn’t let Esme have the dowry Edenmont so desperately needed. Yet why should the crone care, when the set was nigh worthless with a piece missing? She cared, he answered himself, because she knew the queen wasn’t missing. She had it, or knew where it was. That’s why she hadn’t demanded the set long since. That’s why she wouldn’t let him give it to Esme now. Selfish, ruthless old bitch.
“I know your way,” he said. “Keep us all tied like puppets to your purse strings. But not me, not any more, my dearest Mama. I’m ruined. I’ve nothing to lose now.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’d better not be threatening me.
Sir Gerald took up the black queen’s substitute. “I think my niece should be told the truth.”
“You mean your twisted version of it. She won’t believe you.”
“Maybe not.” He smiled at the chess piece. “It hardly matters. I’ve nothing to lose, as I said.”
Lady Brentmor put down her own glass and folded her hands upon the desk. “I figured you was up to something. How much do you want?”
Though they’d kept their voices low, Esme had heard all she needed: it was her grandmother who kept back the dowry, and all those grim warnings about Sir Gerald were nothing but lies. The reason was obvious. Esme had wed a man Lady Brentmor disapproved of. Since the willful old woman couldn’t dissolve the marriage, she’d tried to do the next best thing. She’d probably hoped Varian would drink himself into an early grave or come to any of the host of untimely ends fast-living men were prone to. The dowager must have been highly annoyed with his efforts to rebuild and restore his inheritance.
Luckily, Percival had heard nothing. He appeared satisfied with Esme’s brief summary and her pretense of disappointment. “He only wanted money,” she said, “and at last our grandmother agreed to give him some.”
“As she should have done in the first place.” Rubbing his shoulder, Percival staggered to the narrow terrace leading to the salon and collapsed onto a bench.
Esme sat beside him and took over the task of massaging his aching shoulder. “I did wonder why she would not bribe him. She told me he was desperate for money. But I supposed bribery was against her principles.”
Percival frowned. “I shouldn’t think so—though one can never be sure about Grandmama...or Papa.” His worried gaze met Esme’s. “Neither of them mentioned the chess set? It was there, right under their noses. I saw it when the footman went in with the wine.”
“Perhaps they discussed it before I got to the window,” Esme calmly answered. She wanted to get away and think. On the other hand, she suspected Percival knew more about his elders’ secrets than he let on. He had seemed very uneasy since they’d reached London.
“Not that it matters,” he said. “Grandmama would never give him the black queen. If he’d had it, Papa would have sold the set by now.”
“That it is legally mine would not stop him.”
“Not when it meant so much money. He might make off with it and pretend it was stolen and...” Coloring, Percival, added hurriedly, “But he doesn’t have the queen, so it’s perfectly safe, and I expect Grandmama won’t let him know she’s got it until she can make sure he can’t touch the set at all.”
Esme’s hand paused. “Yes, I imagine she has hidden it very cleverly. Somewhere in the country house.”
“Oh, yes, yes. Certainly. It’s miles away. Quite safe from Papa,” came the hasty response.
Too hasty. The wretched child knew it was not miles away. Now she did, too. Esme rose, her expression revealing only cousinly affection. “Then we’ve nothing to worry about,” she said.
Percival stared at his shoes. “Certainly not. Nothing at all to worry about.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Cook will be disappointed,” Sir Gerald told his niece. “You’ve taken no more than a spoonful of her famous syllabub. Or perhaps you find it too rich? I find it so, but then, I’ve never had a sweet tooth.”
He’d been sickeningly genial from the instant Esme had entered his London townhouse, and more so after meeting with his mother. She must have paid him handsomely, Esme thought.
She manufactured an apologetic smile. “I like syllabub very much, Uncle, and I hope you will tell your cook this is the best I’ve ever tasted. Every dish has been delicious. But my headache weakens my appetite. Tomorrow I shall be well again and make the cook happy.”
Percival gazed longingly at her dessert.
“Don’t stare like a begging puppy,” the dowager grumbled. “May as well eat that, too. You’ve finished everything else for her.”
Percival had, in fact, eaten as though he expected to be hanged first thing in the morning. He’d taken at least two enormous helpings of every dish, then disposed of everything Esme had left on her plate. She’d noticed before that his appetite grew in proportion to his anxiety. His conscience was troubling him. As it ought.
Sir Gerald bestowed a fatherly glance of approval upon his son. “He’s a growing boy, after all.”
The growing boy blinked once at this display of paternal affection, then snatched up Esme’s dessert and speedily disposed of it.
Sir Gerald’s kindly gaze returned to Esme. “I’m sorry you’re ill. Headaches can be dreadful. I suffer them myself. You’ll want some laudanum, perhaps?”
Esme accepted the offer and politely excused herself shortly thereafter.
While the others adjourned to the drawing room for tea, she went upstairs and made a rapid inspection of her grandmother’s bedroom. Having already thought the matter through, she wasted no time. Unless the chess piece was upon the dowager’s person, it must be hidden where even servants were unlikely to come across it. Which meant no place that was dusted daily. Not a locked place either, like a drawer or jewel box, for any determined person could pick a lock. And no place so obvious as under the mattress.
Thus it took Esme mere minutes to locate the little box wedged in a comer of the underside of the bedstand. She only made sure the chess piece was actually inside before putting the box back. She dared not take it now. The dowager might check before she went to bed. It was enough to know where it was.
Esme quickly slipped out and reached her own room minutes before Molly arrived, bearing a small pitcher of lemonade and the laudanum bottle.
The maid appeared so sluggish and stupid that Esme wondered if she’d been drinking. Not that Esme minded. She was perfectly happy to see the drowsy maid depart as soon as she’d prepared her mistress for bed.
When Molly had gone, Esme dumped all the lemonade and a small amount of the laudanum into the chamber pot. If anyone checked, it would appear she’
After what seemed like many hours, she heard Percival mumbling to the servant accompanying him. Soon thereafter, a grumbling Lady Brentmor passed the door. A while later, Esme heard her uncle’s voice. He must have stopped only to say good night to his mother, because his footsteps soon faded as he went on to his own room. That was on the other side of the house, thank heaven.
Esme continued to wait, though the house had already sunk into silence. It seemed she waited hours, yet when the hall clock struck, she was very surprised to count only ten chimes.
It was odd that the house should be so still at such an early hour. In the country, the dowager rarely retired before midnight, and the servants were always about some while after.
Then Esme recalled that the footmen who’d waited at dinner had seemed as sluggish as Molly had. Sir Gerald had ordered a feast for dinner, to celebrate his niece’s arrival, he’d said. Evidently, the servants had decided to celebrate, too. Not that they’d need to drink much if they ate any of the syllabub, Esme thought. It had contained a great deal more wine than any she’d tasted before. Even Percival was probably drunk after three helpings of it, plus the glass of unwatered wine his father had allowed the boy at dinner.
All the better, Esme told herself as she got up and pulled on her dressing gown. The family would sleep the more heavily for their overindulgence. This would not only simplify her task, but give her an earlier start.
Esme opened the door fully and listened. The house was utterly silent.
She padded quietly down the hall and opened Percival’s door first. She heard no stirring from his bed, only the sound of steady breathing. In the faint moonlight, she spied his trousers and shirt set out neatly on a chair by the window. After considering for a moment, she slipped in, took the clothes, and quickly slipped out again, noiselessly closing the door behind her.
The dowager’s room was as peaceful as Percival’s. From the bed came the low burr of heavy slumber. Esme got down on all fours, crept to the bedstand, quickly freed the container, removed the black queen, then returned the box to its hiding place.
In less than a minute, she was back in her room. After covering the narrow opening at the threshold with pillows, she lit a candle. Though she’d little packing to do, she’d rather not fumble about in the dark.
With steady hands, she braided her hair and pinned it into a coil about her head. Then she donned Percival’s shirt and trousers, wishing she’d brought her own. His were rather thin, and more snug than she liked. Still, they were preferable to a frock. In England, lone females were subject to every sort of annoyance.
Her packing took little time. The small heap of garments rolled up easily in a shawl. The queen and several hairpins she wrapped in a handkerchief, which she stuffed in her waistband. After arranging the pillows under the bedclothes to resemble a sleeping form, she put out the candle. A moment later, she was creeping down the back stairs, her boots under one arm, her bundle under the other.
Despite the darkness and an unfamiliar house, it was not so difficult to find the study door. It was the only one Esme expected to find locked. The Brentmor’s studies, Percival had told her, were constructed like vaults, with walls and doors of double thickness. When she and Percival had tried to eavesdrop from within the house, they’d been unable to make out more than a murmur, even with their ears pressed to the door or to the wall of the adjoining salon. Had the study window been securely closed, Esme would never have learned the truth about her wicked, selfish grandmother.
Kneeling at the study door, Esme felt no qualms or pricks of conscience whatsoever. The chess set was rightfully hers. Soon, she would put it into Varian’s hands. Then she’d learn for certain whether it was simply his poverty that kept them apart. If the truth turned out to be painful, she would endure it. Always, it was better to know the truth.
The lock yielded at last. Esme opened the door…and froze, her fingers still on the handle. There was light in the room.
A quick glance assured her there was no one within. The candle had been forgotten, that was all. It was a wonder if this was all the drunken servants had neglected.
Esme studied the door for a moment, then closed it again. Yes, it was the same at the country house: the bottom fit snugly against the threshold. No wonder she’d not seen any light. Yet how careless of her uncle to leave a candle burning in a locked room. The house might have burnt down about his ears…unless he had meant to return here.
She’d hear him coming, she told herself. He was a large man with a heavy footfall. Leaving the door open a crack, she made for the chess set.
She unknotted the shawl and began wrapping the chess pieces in the assortment of garments she’d brought. She didn’t want a single piece damaged in transit. She was about to knot up the shawl again when she remembered the black queen, which she’d stuffed in her waistband after getting the hairpins.
As she was pulling the chess piece out, one of the gemstones at the base caught on the wool. Esme eased it free very gently. All the same, she must have damaged it, for the base was coming loose.
Swallowing an oath, she brought the queen nearer the light. Then she stood a while, frowning at what looked like threads in the metal. She turned the base. It unscrewed smoothly.
It was very clever, she thought. She’d never have guessed the queen was made of two pieces. Wondering why anyone would bother, she turned the queen upside down. She was hollow. Or would have been, if a twist of paper weren’t wedged in the cavity.
Even while telling herself she hadn’t time for idle curiosity, she was removing the scrap and smoothing it out. Then she stared at the four lines in bafflement.
It wasn’t possible, she told herself. Even if it was possible, it made no sense.
She looked up and listened. The house was still as a crypt, and she’d need only a minute or two to learn if she’d guessed correctly.
Moving to the desk, she found a pen and paper, and quickly began replacing the letters with their counterparts, as Jason had shown her years ago. The code had been one of his games to make her Latin lessons more interesting. In his own boyhood, he’d learned the game from his tutor.
This was the same game, she saw, for the letters did form a few words of ungrammatical Latin:
Navis oneraria Regina media nox Novus November Prevesa Teli incendere M
Merchant ship. Queen…midnight. New November…but ‘Prevesa’ wasn’t Latin. It was a port in southern Albania. Teli were javelins, darts, or just offensive weapons of some sort. Incendere was ‘to burn, to fire.’ Burn a thousand weapons?
She clicked her tongue impatiently. Then something clicked in her mind. In Corfu, she’d heard that in late October or early November British authorities had captured several ships en route to Albania. Ships bearing stolen British weapons.
This was the conspiracy Percival had told her about. Ismal’s conspiracy. The last line referred to firing weapons, like rifles or cannon. A thousand of them.
But Ismal couldn’t have obtained weapons on his own, not so many. He’d had help. Esme had only to glance about the desk, strewn with samples of Sir Gerald’s handwriting, to realize who the helper was.
There’s a stench about Gerald since he come back.
Had the dowager known? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But Percival must know.
Esme stuffed the message back into its hiding place, screwed the queen back together, and wrapped it up with the other pieces. She’d have plenty of time to solve the remaining riddles on the way home.
She held to the candle the paper on which she’d decoded the message and tossed the burning sheet in the empty grate. When nothing remained but ashes, she put out the candle and left the room.
Ismal frowned when the light in the study window went out. “He signals trouble, yet there should be none. Every other room is dark.”
“Perhaps it’s a trick,” Risto answered
“He can’t be fool enough to try to betray me now. Stay here and keep watch. I’ll speak to Mehmet.”
Ismal slipped out of the garden and into the street. Moments later, he found Mehmet at his post near the servants’ entrance.
“Ah, master, you answer my prayers,” Mehmet whispered. “You told me to remain, yet—”
“What’s wrong?”
Mehmet gestured upwards. “Her window was dark. Then, some while ago, there was light for a brief time. Then darkness again.”
“No light elsewhere?”
“None. The servants scarcely waited for the family to retire. I looked in, right after I saw the light in her window. Several never reached their beds. Two lie upon the floor in the dining hall, and one sits with his head upon the table. Another lies curled like a babe upon the rug by his bed.” Mehmet chuckled softly.
“Yet something is amiss.” Ismal gazed at Esme’s bedroom window. “She was listening at the study window earlier. I wonder what she heard.”
Mehmet shrugged. “The servants will be helpless for hours. No strangers have entered. That leaves only one fearful man, an old woman, a boy, and the little warrior. Even if the four of them set upon us at once, the battle would be amusing, that’s all.” He looked at Ismal. “You’d like to do battle with her, perhaps.”
“Tsk. Even to look at her window...” Ismal tore his gaze away. “Best I keep far from her. She makes me stupid.”
“We might steal her easily and be gone from England long before the others wake.”
“Nay. I’ll not risk everything for a female. Not a second time. She—” Breaking off, he waved Mehmet back and flattened himself against the wall of the house.
A moment later, they heard the click of the door handle. The door opened, and a small figure stepped into the shadows. Esme, curse her…with a leather pouch slung over her shoulder. Clothes only...or the chess set? There was but one way to find out. He waited until she pulled the door closed. Then, drawing his pistol, Ismal leapt.
It was only a nightmare, Percival assured himself. That huge ugly man had not bashed out his eyes with an immense stone in the shape of a chess piece.