A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(52)

“Nothing there,” he said cheerfully.

I growled by way of response and bent to the panel in front of me, kicking it in my frustration. To my astonishment, it leapt open at the blow, revealing a narrow passageway behind.

“You’ve done it!” he praised, coming up behind me and putting a hand once more to my shoulder. The passage was dark and smelt of cold stone, and I was suddenly grateful for his presence.

I paused to examine the hinges, not surprised to see them gleaming with oil.

“Someone has attended to these recently,” I pointed out.

“No doubt planning their exit from the music room much as a conjurer might plot out a trick,” he agreed, coming forward to sniff the oil.

Stoker retrieved a lit candle and gestured for me to precede him into the passage. I gathered my courage along with the skirts of my nightdress. “If I am going first, I ought to take the light,” I said, taking charge of the situation. He acquiesced, handing it over and following me as obediently as a lamb as we made our way down the passage.

I was conscious of him behind me, too close for my own peace of mind, I reflected darkly, and I wrenched my attention to the task at hand—investigating the passageway.

Running the length of an interior wall, the little corridor had no doubt at one time been a means of moving from one part of the house to another. I had to push hard at the other end to force open the door. I emerged into the library, just behind a high-backed porter’s chair. The door here was neatly concealed by a narrow map case.

“Useful to have a passage such as this if the Romillys were hiding recusant priests,” Stoker said as he emerged into the library. It would have helped to move someone quietly from one part of the castle to another. In extremis, a clever Romilly might have permitted the queen’s soldiers to discover it, gambling that perhaps they would look no further and the rest of the hidden chambers would go undetected.

Without further discussion, we secured the panel and crept back the way we had come, pausing at the music room. Just as I was about to close the panel, I heard a footstep and Stoker and I turned as one to see that the doorknob was turning.

In the space of a heartbeat, he had thrust me back into the passage and pulled the panel closed behind us. In his haste, the candle blew out, plunging us into complete darkness. The passage was small and narrow, and we dared not move with only the thin oak panel between us and whoever had come into the music room. My back was pressed against the stone and my front was pressed against Stoker, a surface every bit as unyielding but much warmer. His heart beat slowly under mine and his exhalations ruffled the hair at my brow.

His mouth moved against my ear, intimate, caressing. “Veronica,” he murmured, his voice almost soundless in that small, confined space.

I turned my head to touch my lips to his cheek, whispering the words against his skin. “Yes.” It was not a question. It was a declaration, an invitation. He moved against me, and I stifled a moan, biting my lip so hard I tasted the sharp salty copper of my own blood on my tongue.

His mouth moved again. “You are standing on my foot.”

I reared back, hitting my head on the stone wall behind me. I smothered a lavish curse and realized that there was a faint glimmer of light in the passageway—a crack in the linenfold paneling. I put my eye to it just in time to see the glow of a single candle illuminating the music room, held aloft by Mrs. Trengrouse. She was wearing a sober dressing gown and nightcap. She walked forward slowly and took only two or three steps, as if steeling herself against what she might find.

She held the candle high, moving it from side to side in a slow arc. “Miss Rosamund? Is that you? Are you here?” Her voice trembled, and I held my breath, knowing that Stoker and I dare not reveal ourselves, as much for fear that she would faint dead away as for the lack of any possible excuse for our presence. Far better to wait for her to withdraw, then beat a hasty retreat to our own rooms. I slid a little aside, guiding his head to the crack so that he, too, could see. We were awkwardly arranged, with Stoker half-stooped and one strong thigh braced under my bottom so that we could both watch. I slipped a little and he caught me, planting one palm flat against the paneling, creating a sort of armchair for me out of his own body. The warmth of his flesh was almost unbearable and I wondered for a brief and irrational moment if he were deliberately provoking a physical reaction in order to annoy me. To show him I would not be goaded, I perched upon his thigh, making a point of wriggling just a little before turning my attention back to Mrs. Trengrouse.

She stood still for a long moment, listening, I suspect, and I fancied I could almost hear her heartbeat as well as my own in those seconds as they ticked by. “Go away,” she said with sudden ferocity. “You will not harm this family!” I froze, certain she had spotted the gleam of our eyes in the crack of the paneling, but she made no move to command us to come out, and I realized she was not speaking to us at all. “Go away, Miss Rosamund,” she called, a trifle more gently. “It is time for you to rest.”

With that, she left, closing the door behind her. We listened to her footsteps as they faded away. After several minutes, Stoker eased his posture, setting me onto my feet and releasing his arm. I nearly pitched over, for my legs had gone quite numb in the chill of the passageway. He took my hand as we crept out of our hiding place. We dared not light the candle again, but we knew the way well enough. There was no sign of Mrs. Trengrouse in the corridor, and we hurried hand in hand past the various closed doors. Stoker started up the turret stair, and just as I started up after him, I heard a noise behind me. I made a shooing gesture and Stoker continued on as I turned. After a moment I heard the almost imperceptible click of his door closing.