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“Can you do a French accent, Mr. Conolly?” Lord Dunsmore asked, curiously.
“I’ve never tried,” Charles admitted.
“Let me do the talking, then,” Lord Dunsmore said.
Lord Dunsmore helped Charles to put on the disguise—a blond wig, with a pair of spectacles. Meanwhile, Lord Dunsmore had colored in his eyebrows, giving himself a darker beard. He had put on clothes a size bigger, then stuffed them to give himself a bit of a paunch.
“You’re going to let me do the talking,” Lord Dunsmore repeated. “We’re going to say that your English is atrocious.”
Charles merely nodded. He wasn’t usually one to be nervous. But if he were caught, sneaking into the Millgate Club, he might lose business.
As the carriage raced through the streets, he listened to Dunsmore’s hurried plan. “We’ll visit tonight, observe. Get them to relax. Then, we will return. Their guards will be down and then we will begin to ask about Mr. Bones.”
“Oh, and by the by—you will be Lord Gilbert Durand, le Duc du Champignon. And I—” He thought for a moment, very seriously. “I shall be Lord Olivier Simon, le Marquis de Bordeaux.”
Charles sighed. “Don’t you think they’ll notice that I’m the Duke of Mushrooms, My Lord?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Lord Dunsmore said. “The more confident that you are in the lie, Mr. Conolly, the more people will believe you.”
“I imagine that there are many individuals pretending to be long-lost French nobility these days,” Charles replied.
“I might have done it once or twice,” Lord Dunsmore said, shrugging.
“Why? You’re actually a Lord,” Charles pointed out.
“Yes, but sometimes, I need to not be myself,” Lord Dunsmore pointed out. He stared at Charles for a long moment, frowning.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” Charles asked.
“Here,” Dunsmore said, pulling out a charcoal pencil. “I’m going to give you a mole on your cheek, and a little bit of a moustache.”
Charles felt silly, but he figured that Dunsmore knew what he was doing. The carriage came to an abrupt halt. The footman opened it, and Charles climbed out, Le Duc du Champignon. Beside him, his good friend, the Marquis du Bordeaux, stood.
“Allons-y!” the Marquis declared. For once in his life, Charles found that he was very glad not to be the one talking. His French, while passable, was heavily accented by his very British pronunciation.
* * *
Moving as silently as she could, Arabella went into her parents’ bedroom. Luckily, her mother was out, as well. She made her way into her father’s dressing room, which was off through a side door.
His room was empty. Arabella crossed it quickly, going right over to the paneled wall. She had been in the secret hallway many times when she was a child. She had snuck through it, with a candle, sometimes bringing a book with her. She reached up, pressing the panel which opened the secret hallway.
It was pitch black in there. It felt cold, and she shivered in the chill draft that blew through it. While Arabella had used the secret hallway often when she was a child, she had not much since. It came to an abrupt halt, something, she now knew, was because there was a room.
She faced the wall, running her hands along it, looking for the catch to open it. In the darkness, she wished that she’d brought a candle. She worked her way along it. Wherever it was, it was well-hidden.
Finally, her fingers found it—it was all of the way at the top—she would never have found it when she was small. As it was, she had to go up and onto her tiptoes to reach it. It swung open. She met with more darkness, and an overwhelming scent of cigar smoke and roses.
She had to go back—she needed a candle. She ran toward her father’s rooms, grabbing a candle and matches, then returning. Quickly, she struck the match, lighting the candle.
She held it up as she looked into the room. It was tiny—only enough room for one person to fit inside. There was a small wooden desk, with a maroon velvet chair pulled up to it.
There, sitting on top of the desk, there was a ledger. Her blood ran cold as she looked at it.
Arabella was faced with a dilemma. She didn’t know what she was looking for. Charles hadn’t told her. She opened it up, peering at it. In the center, there were several letters.
She glanced at their directions—all of them, addressed to her father. She set them aside, peering at the ledger. She saw many, many names. She scanned them, but found nothing. Only the names of his friends—Lord Diggar, Lord Drysdale, Lord Danbury. She even saw the Duke of Longmire’s name. There were many others, besides. Even Lady Linton.
Setting the letters back, she closed the ledger. She felt like she’d been snooping on her father. This had resulted in nothing. She wasn’t quite sure what business her father was conducting, but it was likely nothing to be worried about. She turned, her candle’s light falling on the shelf that was in the corner of the room.
