Page 87 of The Case of the Curate

“The end justifies the means?” she said doubtfully, opening yet another wardrobe door that was not her own.

“In some things. Not taking a life. Or trying to.”

“You really don’t like death, do you?”

“No,” he said from one of the windows, which did indeed look onto the front of the house. “It’s a post chaise. Just arrived, by the look of the horses. The postilions are taking it around the side.”

“Chadbon receives guests and messengers all the time. The road must be open at last. We need to solve this tonight, Rupert.”

He nodded, letting the curtain fall back into place and moving toward the bed.

Either Nye was neat by nature or his valet was. His hairbrushes and clothes brush were clean, his shaving kit neatly shelved by the washstand. Clothes, sleeve buttons, and cravat pins were all put away in their proper place, as were boots and shoes on the floor of his wardrobe. None of his footwear was muddy. Unless he had hidden a pair elsewhere in the room, he had not shot at her from outside the house last night. She found no firearms either, or anything remotely feminine that could have come from Dinah or any other woman, not even mementos of his late wife or his betrothed. Well, if he really had killed them, he probably didn’t want any reminders of them.

Part of Kate couldn’t quite believe what she was considering such civilized, important men to be capable of. She moved on to the desk at the same time as Rupert. Two or three folded letters directed to him at Chadbon Court were piled on one side. Another lay open and incomplete, perhaps Nye’s reply to one of them.

She let her eyes dart over the half page of his writing, her attention caught by the various names scattered throughout: Chadbon, Otteridge, Ambrose…

“It’s addressed to Lord Liverpool,” Rupert noted.

“The prime minister… Then he is spying.” Hardened by the knowledge, she let herself read the missive properly. He began by grumbling about the weather that was keeping him here, then immediately after mentioned Gilbert’s returning soldiers bill as the reason for the meeting.

They are still squabbling over the fine details, but frankly there is nothing to object to, and we might well consider supporting it, one way or another. My only quibble is Otteridge’s involvement. I suspect he is trying to steal Ambrose’s thunder, but as usual, they’ll both lose out to Chadbon, unless Ambrose’s charming young wife manages to whip them all into shape, which I would not put past her. Something odd—

“What’s that?” Rupert whispered, interrupting her perusal.

Only then did she hear it—approaching footsteps, surely from the main staircase. She caught her breath, staring at Rupert.

The footsteps slowed, as though closing in on them. Rupert seized her by the hand and dragged her toward the dressing room, which they had not yet had time to search. She only just managed to pick up their candle, which wobbled precariously in its little dish. The footsteps paused outside the passage door.

Almost at the dressing room, Rupert skidded to a halt and dived back to grab his hat from a chair, then they bolted together. Rupert seized the door handle and shoved.

It was locked.

And the bedroom door was already opening.

In panic, Kate grasped the key in the lock and turned it, and they fell into the dressing room. As Rupert swung the door, she could see the growing beam of candlelight entering the bedchamber from the passage.

Rupert finished closing the door very softly. For a moment they stared at each other over their own solitary candle, shaded by Kate’s hand. She didn’t see how they could possibly get away with this. Discovery was surely upon them. Yet Rupert’s eyes were dancing with mischief.

It was disarming. But dear God, if they were caught in here…

She frowned suddenly. Why would anyone lock their dressing room door when their door to the passage was unlocked?

As though sensing her thought, Rupert took the candle from her and held it higher, shading it from the connecting door with his hat.

They were not in a dressing room after all. They were in a feminine bedchamber, complete with four-poster bed and a lady’s dressing table. It even smelled of lavender, a perfume that was naggingly familiar. Who used that?

There was no time to discover. As one, they hurried across to the door opposite, which, presumably, led to the passage. From the other room, heavy footsteps approached the connecting door.

Rupert closed his fingers around the handle.

“It’s locked,” he breathed.

And it must have been from the outside, for this time, there was no key to turn. They were trapped.

*

In childhood, Rupert had developed an amiable, fatalistic approach to being discovered in mischief. He normally owned up to his guilt, apologized, and accepted whatever punishment came his way. Being observant, he had noted long since that those with power often found the attitude disarming, and even let him off occasionally. He had carried this easygoing practice into adulthood, even ordained, clerical adulthood—although since Waterloo, he had tried quite hard not to misbehave.