The Secret of Pembrooke Park(114)

Even as she told herself she was becoming worse than Miles and Duncan combined, she rose, lifted her bedside candle lamp, placed it on the nearby dressing table, and regarded the wall again.

She pressed her palm against the four-foot panel, then tapped it, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet room. How odd to feel self-conscious in her own bedchamber! Did it sound hollow? She tapped again, then tapped against another section of wall to compare. The two did sound different. But a difference in the structure of an interior versus exterior wall, or one with windows versus without, could account for it. She felt along the seams, coming away with dusty fingers. Then she lifted her candle lamp and held it nearer the wooden trim. Was that the narrowest slit—a simple seam where the wallpaper met the trim, or something else?

Her heart rate began to accelerate. She knew that sometimes servant doors—doors that led onto the back stairs, allowing servants to silently slip in and out of bedchambers—existed in many old manors. And often these doors were hidden to keep from marring the décor of the room—wallpapered to look exactly like the walls until they were opened. She pushed against the seam hidden along the slat of wooden trim . . . and felt it bounce back, as though she’d triggered a spring latch. She sucked in a breath, looked behind her to make sure her door was still closed, then pushed again. The four-foot section of wall popped ajar, opening toward her. A waft of cool, musty air met her nose.

She had found it! Found . . . something, at least.

Once again she looked over her shoulder, and then, on second thought, crossed to her door and turned the key in the lock.

Pausing to slip on her shoes and tie on her dressing gown with shaky hands, she returned to the hidden door. What would she find inside? Was there really treasure worth the lives it had cost and ruined?

As her fingers came to rest on the hidden door again, someone rapped soundly on her bedchamber door, causing her to gasp, jump back, and press a hand to her heart.

“Who is it?” she called, voice high, shutting the door and making sure the wall panel appeared undisturbed.

A muffled male voice responded. It didn’t sound like her father’s voice, but surely Miles would not come to her bedchamber at night. Or would he?

On impulse, she set a ladder-back chair in front of the hidden door as quietly as she could, wincing as it scraped the floor. Yes, the chair helped the wall look less noticeably bare.

“Coming! Just tying on my dressing gown . . .” She hurried over and unlocked the door. Since she already wore her dressing gown over her nightdress, she silently asked forgiveness for the lie.

She opened the door several inches. Miles stood there, waiting expectantly.

“What is it, Mr. Pembrooke?”

His gaze swept her nightclothes, and his brows rose. “Forgive me. I didn’t think you’d be dressed for bed already. It is still quite early.”

He was right. So perhaps his call wasn’t so audacious after all.

“I hope you aren’t ill,” he added.

“I was just . . . tired.”

“You look positively flushed.” He reached out and pressed a hand to her forehead. “Are you sure you’ve no fever?” The act pushed the door open farther, and she noticed his gaze dart about the room.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” She took a half step back from his hand. “Was there something you wanted?”

His gaze hovered on the wardrobe. “Done some rearranging, I see.”

Abigail hesitated, then asked, “And how would you know that? I don’t recall your being in my room before.”

“Your father gave me a tour that first evening, when you were at the ball.”

“Ah. What a keen memory you have. I’ve only moved a few things about. Making the room more comfortable. I hope you are not offended?”

“Not at all. Why should I be?” His eyes swept the exposed wall. “Find anything interesting?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sometimes long-lost treasures show up when one moves things that haven’t been touched for decades.”

“A great deal of dust, Mr. Pembrooke. That is all I have found.”

That was true. So far at least.

“Tut, tut, Miss Abigail. I have asked you to call me Miles. We are family, after all.”

That again. “I shall endeavor to remember, Miles.”

“That’s better.” He reached out again and tweaked her nose, a fond smile curving his lips and revealing the space between his front teeth.

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask to come in?” he pouted. “Though I hear a whole tribe of Chapmans spent time in here earlier today.”

“Oh, and who told you that?”

He shrugged. “I forget which of the servants mentioned it. Duncan . . . or Polly, perhaps.”

“Kitty is quite taken with the dolls’ house. Her brothers kept us company.”

“And helped move furniture?”

“While they were here, yes.” Wonderful, Abigail thought sarcastically. Word had reached Duncan and Miles already. “But that was during the daylight hours,” she added. “It would be quite a different matter for you to come in now. Alone.”

“Because I am a man, you mean?”

“Well . . . yes, I suppose.”

Another thin smile curved his lips. “I am glad you are aware of that fact. We are not so closely related, after all.”