The Secret of Pembrooke Park(93)

On Monday, Abigail went down to the lamp room herself, irritated that Duncan had yet to replace the faulty lamp in the first-floor passage as she had repeatedly asked him to do. Striding down the dim corridor belowstairs, she saw the lamp room door slightly ajar and heard scraping and the ting of brass on brass within. Good, Duncan was getting to the trimming at last.

She pushed open the door, the manservant’s name already on her lips. “Duncan . . . ?”

Miles turned from the rear counter, his expression quickly transforming from sheepish to wide-eyed innocence.

“Oh . . . Mr. Pembrooke!” Abigail exclaimed. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

He smiled. “I imagine not. Sorry to startle you. I am not Duncan, but I am your servant, madam, to command.” He gave her a pert little bow, then wiped his sooty hands on a cloth. “At the moment I even look the part. If there is something you need help with, you need only ask.”

“Oh, I . . . Thank you. I was only looking for a lamp.”

“As was I. I was thinking of going up into the attic and wanted a nice stout lamp to light my way.”

Her expression must have communicated surprise as well as disapproval.

He pressed a hand to his heart. “My dear Miss Foster, I was under the impression from several things you and your excellent father have said, that I was free to look about as I pleased while here. To ‘make myself at home,’ as it were—temporarily, of course. But if I have erred, you need only tell me and I shall keep to my room from now on.”

“No, of course you need not keep to your room, Mr. Pembrooke.”

He said, “Perhaps you would come up to the attic with me, Miss Foster. Unless . . . Are you afraid of ghosts? Perhaps you might tremble in fear and I shall be there to offer a steadying arm?” He grinned.

“I am not afraid of ghosts, Mr. Pembrooke.”

“Pity. So inconvenient when ladies are brave and practical. Robs us poor gents of our chance to rescue you from billowing draperies and figures shrouded in bedsheets.” He repositioned his stick. “Then perhaps you might lend me your courage, Miss Foster. I shall have to act brave with you there to see me.”

“Why the attic?” she asked.

“When we were children, my siblings and I often played up there. Especially on rainy days, when we were trapped indoors. We acted out little pantomimes and played hide-and-seek. In my memory, it is a huge looming space with piles of valises, bandboxes, and trunks of every size and description. But my memory is no doubt colored by being young and small at the time. Perhaps I shall be disappointed.”

“You don’t need me to chaperone you, Mr. Pembrooke.”

“I would enjoy your company, truly. And it’s Miles, remember?”

She cocked her head to one side. “Tell me, Miles. Have you some reason to think the mythical treasure might be hidden in the attic?”

“Not especially, no.”

“I am curious. If you didn’t find it when you lived here for two years, why do you think you will find it now?”

“But I was only a boy then and lacked the proper motivation. Besides, I might ask the same of you, Miss Foster. If you have looked these several weeks before my arrival without success, why do you hesitate to admit that I might be of assistance? Surely my history with the house offers some advantages? You are clever—I can see that—but I have history on my side. What say you, why do we not work together? Join forces as it were? Would we not make excellent partners?”

“I don’t know about that. . . .”

“I’ll tell you what. If we are successful, I will keep the treasure and you may have the reward. Is that not fair? For Pembrooke Park and its treasures will never come to you or your father. Surely you know that?”

Abigail wondered if Miles had the right to any valuables found in the house either. Might he take what he found unlawfully if she “condoned” his search?

She said, “It is my understanding that the courts are still debating the rightful heir, due to your father’s disappearance. What if you find the treasure but they rule in someone else’s favor? Will you promise not to abscond with whatever valuables we might find?”

“Yes. I agree,” he said, a little too quickly to reassure Abigail.

He added, “Though one might ask, then, what is in it for me?” He looked toward the ceiling in thought and then snapped his fingers. “Tell you what. If we find a treasure and it belongs to someone else, then I will share the reward with you.”

She considered this. “Equally?”

“Of course. Then . . . have we a bargain?” He held out his hand, like a businessman might, but Abigail hesitated. What would it hurt? Fifty percent of nothing was still nothing and was likely all they’d ever see for their efforts. But if they were successful . . . ?

She was tempted to agree, but a catch in her spirit stopped her. For all the logic of his proposal, why did she feel to agree would be making a bargain with the devil?

“You know what, Mr. Pembrooke. Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all.”

He raised a brow, eyes glinting in challenge. “Feeling greedy, Miss Foster?”

“Not at all. Feeling foolish for even considering entering into an agreement with a man I barely know over a treasure that most likely doesn’t even exist.”