The Secret of Pembrooke Park(8)

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Mr. Arbeau offered his card. “I represent the executor of the estate.”

Tucking the gun under his arm, the man snatched the card and glowered down at it.

Mr. Arbeau’s hooded eyes roved the taller man’s face with calculating interest. “You, I take it, are Mac Chapman.”

The man’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “And how is it ye know my name, when I have’na laid eyes on ye in my life?”

The younger man gave them an apologetic look, an ironic smile tugging his mouth. “No doubt your reputation precedes you, Papa. Or certainly will, after this.”

The humor was lost on the elder Mr. Chapman. He lifted his red-bearded chin toward Abigail and her father. “Who are these people? And why do they trespass here?”

Mr. Arbeau sent them a sidelong glance, likely considering how best to disarm the man—quite literally. “Miss Foster and her father have come all the way from London to see Pembrooke Park.”

Her father stepped forward, arms still raised but flagging to waist level. “I am Charles Foster. My maternal grandmother was Mary Catharine Pembrooke, daughter of Alexander Pembrooke.”

Abigail felt a flush of embarrassment on her father’s behalf. She had never heard him speak those names before. He must have been studying the family tree since the solicitor’s first call. His pride in his distant relationship to an old family they barely knew left her uneasy.

Mr. Chapman seemed to consider her father’s words with sincere interest, his eyes lifting to the sky as he searched his memory. “Mary Catharine Pembrooke . . .” he echoed. “Oh, aye. She would have been Robert Pembrooke’s great-aunt.”

“I . . .” Her father hesitated. Like her, he probably had no idea who Robert Pembrooke was.

The man continued to search his memory. “She married a Mr. Fox, I believe.”

Father’s head reared back in surprise. “That’s right. My grandfather. But how did you know?”

The younger man clapped his father’s shoulder. “My father served as Pembrooke Park’s steward for many years. He took great pride in his work, and the family he represented.”

“Apparently, he still does.” Mr. Arbeau drew back his shoulders. “Well, if we are finished with our genealogy lesson, I think it is time we went in.” He turned toward the door.

Mac Chapman stiffened and scowled. “Go in? Whatever for?”

“Why, to show Mr. and Miss Foster around the house. My client has offered to let the place to them for a twelvemonth, if it meets with their approval.”

Abigail did not miss the stunned look father and son exchanged. They were certainly not happy to learn people might be moving into the abandoned house.

Mr. Arbeau returned his attention to the padlock, struggling to unlock the rusted old thing. But Mr. Chapman handed his son the gun and strode forward, pulling a tangle of keys from his coat pocket.

“Allow me,” Chapman said. “That key ye have is for the door itself.”

Mr. Arbeau stepped aside, offense sparking in his dark eyes. “By all means.” Noticing a rusty orange-brown smear on his silky black palm, he wiped his gloved hands on a handkerchief.

Mr. Chapman employed one of his keys, and the padlock gave way. He unhooked it from the heavy chain and pulled the links from between the door handles.

The son offered, “My father has kept the roof and exterior in good repair over the years, as I believe you will see.”

Mr. Arbeau surveyed man, dog, and gun. “And taken it upon himself to padlock the place and act as self-appointed guard?” he suggested, black eyebrows raised high.

“What of it?” Chapman said, setting the chain aside.

“I suppose it is you we have to thank for the barricade on the bridge?”

“There have been attempted break-ins in the past.”

Her father said, “Youthful dares and vandals, I’d guess?”

“No, sir. Ye guess wrong. Treasure hunters. Thieves.”

“Treasure hunters?” Abigail asked sharply.

Mac Chapman looked at her directly, and at such close range, she was struck by his intense green eyes. “Aye, miss. Brought on by old rumors of treasure hidden in the house. In a secret room.” His eyes glinted. “Stuff and nonsense, of course.”

“Of course,” she echoed faintly. Treasure? Abigail wondered. Could it be?

He inserted a second key into the door lock. “Stuck eighteen years ago, and I doubt disuse has helped matters.” He butted his shoulder against the wood while pressing the latch. The door released with a shudder, then creaked open.

“Well, Mr. Chapman,” the solicitor said, “would you like to do the honors of giving us the tour?”

“It’s just Mac, if ye please. And no thank ye.”

His son said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing it, Pa. I haven’t been inside since I was a boy.”

Mac gave him a pointed look. “I am sure ye have important duties to attend to.”

He met his father’s steely gaze. “Ah. Yes, I suppose I do.”

Movement caught Abigail’s eye. She looked over her shoulder and saw a young woman step through the gate, accompanied by a girl of eleven or twelve. They crossed the courtyard, then stopped in their tracks at the sight of the visitors.