The Secret of Pembrooke Park(79)

Who was in there? The candle was partially shielded, not reflecting on its bearer, perhaps by design.

“It’s probably Duncan. Or one of the maids,” she supposed aloud.

“At this hour?” He frowned. “Did you happen to lock the front door when you left?”

“No. I didn’t think to. I didn’t plan to be gone more than a few minutes.”

William Chapman’s jaw clenched. “Perhaps I should go rouse my father. . . .”

“Your father and his gun? I don’t think that necessary. Or wise. Perhaps it’s my father wandering about for some reason.”

“Looking for you?”

“I wouldn’t think so.” The thought pinched her with guilt. She hoped not. She didn’t want to worry him, but nor did she want him to learn she’d left the house at night to speak to a man.

“Let’s go see who it is.” William grabbed his coat from its peg and shrugged it on. I don’t want you entering the house alone. Just in case a prowler has let himself in.”

He grasped her hand and led her across the lawn, taking the verge as she had done earlier to avoid the gravel drive, and then stepped lightly across the paving stones to the front door. He opened it with care, listened, then stepped in first, keeping her shielded behind his body. The main level was dark and quiet.

“Come on,” he whispered, leading her across the hall and up the main stairs. She liked the feel of his larger warm hand engulfing hers. Her heart pounded a bit too hard from his proximity, and the sense of danger in the air.

“This way,” she whispered at the top of the stairs, gesturing toward her mother’s bedchamber. She felt rather brazen, holding his hand, but did not let go.

The door to her mother’s room stood ajar. Had she left it open when she’d looked from its window?

“Shh,” she urged. They paused where they were, listening. A faint tap-tapping reached them from within. Again, he stepped in front of her, shielding her and slowly pushing open the door wide enough to enter.

In a dim arc of candlelight, Miles Pembrooke stood, candle in one hand, tapping against the wall with his stick, ear pressed close to the wood. Listening for the sound of an empty chamber behind the paneling?

“Looking for something?” William asked, his quiet voice cracking like a cannon in the dark room. Miles jumped, and Abigail squeezed William’s hand a bit too hard.

For a moment Miles froze, like a thief caught. Then he relaxed and a smile eased across his face.

“You two frightened the wits out of me.”

Abigail asked, “What are you doing in my mother’s room, Mr. Pembrooke?”

“I think you mean my mother’s room, Miss Foster. Or at least it was. I was looking for, ah, some memento. I’d hoped perhaps something of hers had been left here.”

“This late at night?”

“Yes, I found myself awake and missing her. And you, Miss Foster? I am surprised to see you up and about and keeping company with our good parson so late at night.”

Abigail glanced at William, then away, releasing his hand at last. No explanation presented itself.

“Miss Foster need not explain herself to you, Mr. Pembrooke,” William said. “But I judge it safe to say that a memento wasn’t all you were looking for. The treasure, I take it?”

“Well, yes, if you must know. I’ve been thinking about my father’s obsession with a treasure hidden somewhere in the house. All stuff and nonsense no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

Abigail said, “In future, Mr. Pembrooke, if there is something you wish to see in the house, or if you want to visit your mother’s former room, you need only ask. That is, until my own mother arrives, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Surely Mr. Pembrooke doesn’t intend to stay that long,” William said, sending the man a challenging look. “Do you?”

“Ah. Well, I have no definite plans. Though I admit I have been looking forward to making the acquaintance of the rest of Miss Foster’s family. We are related, after all.”

“Only very distantly,” Mr. Chapman said, smile forced.

“Well, closer than you will ever be.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

For a moment the two men stood, eyes locked, shoulders squared, jaws clenched.

Abigail hurried to diffuse the tension, saying, “All right, gentlemen. It is late, and I think it time we all called a truce and returned to our bedchambers. All right?”

“Very well,” Miles said, shuffling to the door, his limp less noticeable than usual.

They followed him out into the gallery.

William Chapman waited until the door to the guest room had closed behind Miles, before he turned to Abigail once more. “Are you sure you’ll be all right? I hate the thought of him here in the house with you.”

“Mr. Pembrooke is harmless, I assure you. A thief I might believe, but not a murderer. Besides, my father’s room is just there.”

“Even so, promise me you will lock your bedchamber door tonight and every night.”

In the darkness she could not clearly see his eyes, but his voice rumbled in solemn concern.

“Very well. I shall.”

Now that Mr. Chapman had forgiven her, she thought she would sleep soundly at last. But perhaps a locked door would be a good idea as well.