Page 44 of Ladies in Hating (Belvoir’s Library Trilogy #3)

We found Jemmy. He’s safe as houses. As for the rest of it—I scarcely know where to begin.

— from Cat to Pauline, dispatched from Renwick House

“What,” said the Duke of Fawkes deliberately, “in the fucking hell is going on?”

They’d skidded into the oratory a heartbeat before, and Cat had pulled up short, baffled by the sight before her. The small latticed doors that lined the immense room all stood open, the femur-shaped bars dangling loose.

All except one.

A single small door was closed and barred, and before it stood Bacon, growling low in his throat.

As their little party stood frozen on the threshold, a handful of bats emerged from one of the passages and fluttered wildly in the direction of the marble Saint Sebastian.

“Is someone out there?” called a thin voice from behind the door.

“That’s him,” said Jem. “That’s Beckett.”

Cat recognized the clerk’s voice too—a trifle plaintive and right now thready with fear. Her mind reeled.

Fawkes strode a little closer to the door. “I am the seventh Duke of Fawkes and the custodian of this estate. Who the devil are you?”

“Elias Beckett,” came the weak muffled voice. “Is it gone?”

Fawkes looked baffled and furious, his beautiful waistcoat smudged with dirt. “Is what gone?”

“Th-the monster. The thing that trapped me in here. I…” Beckett’s voice trailed off into incomprehensible mumbling.

“Don’t let him out,” Jem said sharply. “He has a pistol.”

“I don’t,” Beckett moaned. “I did, but I used it already. Can’t reload… Stupid, useless…”

“He’s lying,” Jem said. “Don’t trust a word out of his mouth.”

“Jem.” Cat reached out and brushed at the bits of straw dotting Jem’s bright copper hair. “What in the world is going on? What are you doing here? Did you and Beckett come together?”

“No,” Jem said fiercely. “Absolutely not. I followed the bastard here from London when I realized he meant to rob the house.”

There was an outburst of general clamor—and some more barely intelligible protests from behind the door—until Fawkes raised his voice and bellowed, with the force of seven generations of ducal authority, “Enough!”

Silence descended. Percy, who’d been shouting at the latticework, looked a trifle sheepish.

“You,” Fawkes said, nodding at Jem. “James, is it?”

Wordlessly, Jem nodded.

“Start at the beginning and leave nothing out. And the rest of you”—he directed a glare at the assembled company—“do not interrupt.”

Jem shrank a bit into himself at the duke’s sudden, focused attention. His hands made their way into his pockets.

“Steady on, lad,” murmured Percy. “And don’t look at me like that, Fawkes. I’m not interrupting.”

Cat’s eyes flicked to Georgiana, whose lips had pressed tightly together at Percy’s soft-voiced defense.

Cat knew that look. It was the one Georgiana wore when she was trying desperately to pretend she was not moved. Cat wondered, for the space of a heartbeat, whether Georgiana had ever been the recipient of that gentle, brotherly protection. She wondered how often Georgiana had needed it.

“All right,” Jem said on a breath. “I scarcely know where to begin. I don’t even know who you two are .” This was directed at Ambrose and Percy.

“What’s your business here?” Fawkes asked. “Begin there.”

“I’m James Lacey. I work as a clerk for Martin Yorke. Your solicitor.” He looked at Fawkes, who nodded in confirmation.

“A few weeks ago,” Jem went on, “I overheard some conversations between Mr. Yorke and others about the late duke. Conversations that had me… curious. So two days ago, while Mr. Yorke was out, I went into his office and looked through some of his notes about the late duke’s will.

” He shoved at his glasses, slightly shamefaced, and very deliberately did not make eye contact with anyone.

“Beckett came upon me inside the office. He saw what I was looking at—the papers and notes—and told me, most regretfully, that he’d been working with Mr. Yorke on the project of identifying the late duke’s inheritors.

Unfortunately, he said, this particular bequest had come to naught.

It was worthless—there was no reason to find the legatee. ”

Jem straightened his spectacles, though they did not need it.

“I believed him. But then, just after I left the office in the evening, I realized I had forgotten a law book I needed. I circled back down the street to fetch it, and I saw Beckett emerge from Mr. Yorke’s office with stacks of papers—the same papers we’d only just been looking through—stuffed into his jacket.

He walked outside without observing me and then he hired a hack. And so I… followed him.”

“What?” Cat demanded. She waved a dismissive hand at Fawkes, who was frowning at her interruption. “You followed him? Why didn’t you stop and find someone—a runner—or me, for heaven’s sake?”

“I didn’t know he was going to go this far!” protested Jem. “Believe me, if I had, I would not have chosen a donkey cart as my means of pursuit.”

Cat scowled. She knew precisely where her brother had got a donkey cart, and she very much regretted his friendship with the most mischievous errand boy in London.

Jem winced at her expression. “I am going to give it back!”

Fawkes cleared his throat rather loudly.

Jem’s gaze shifted back to the duke, and he sobered. “I followed Beckett all the way here in the donkey cart, and when I managed to get inside the house, I surprised him in the middle of ransacking the library.”

“I wasn’t!” This was Beckett, faintly, from inside the passage. “I was on an errand from Yorke!”

“Then why the devil did you shoot at me when I confronted you?” demanded Jem of the door.

Percy, nearest the door, addressed it as well. “You must admit, the firearm does make your story less convincing.”

Jem nodded in satisfaction, and then his brows drew together. “Who are you?”

“This is madness,” Fawkes muttered. And then he strode forward and unfastened the bone bar holding the latticed door closed.

“Wait,” moaned Beckett. “Please, wait…”

Out of an abundance of caution, Cat dragged Georgiana and Jem behind the marble statue of Saint Sebastian while they waited for Beckett to emerge.

He didn’t. Eventually, Fawkes made a sound of deep aggravation, bent at the waist, and dragged Beckett out by his ankle.

Cat recognized Elias Beckett’s thin frame, his familiar mousy hair. He appeared to be covered in bat excrement.

His gaze darted nervously around the oratory. “Is it gone?”

“Is what gone?” demanded Fawkes.

“The monster! The great white demon that locked me in!”

Cat glanced down at Bacon, who was sitting at their feet, his tail wagging lazily back and forth and his tongue protruding slightly on the left side.

Surely not.

Fawkes shook Beckett lightly by the shoulders. “There is no monster. And it was an express from Yorke about my father’s will that sent me down to Renwick House this morning, so do not attempt to prevaricate. Why the devil were you trespassing in my house?”

Beckett visibly deflated. “You had a message from Yorke?”

“Informing me that some of his notes about the property had been stolen.” Fawkes glowered down at Beckett. “Yes.”

Beckett turned toward Jem. Cat briefly considered throwing herself in front of her brother’s body, just in case Beckett had concealed a second pistol on his person.

As they were still behind the statue, such heroics did not prove necessary.

“It’s not fair,” Beckett said plaintively to Jem. “You were already Yorke’s favorite! He was going to sponsor you for the Rolls first—I heard him say it. You don’t deserve this too!”

“Deserve what?” Jem’s voice was low. “What are you talking about?”

Beckett threw up his hands. “This house! You’re already a bloody duke’s son. And now you get a treasure on top of it?”

“A duke’s son,” repeated Jem jerkily.

“A treasure ?” said Fawkes. “What treasure?”

Percy looked aghast. “This house?” He glanced warily around him, taking in the bones and doors and bats. “I’m so sorry. Bit of a disappointment if you were expecting a real inheritance.”

“It’s not a disappointment,” Beckett burst out. “This place may be a pit of hell, but the duke’s will stipulates that there’s a treasure inside!”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Fawkes gave Beckett another jostle, as if to shake some sense out of his mouth.

“Renwick House and the effects maintained within its walls, sufficient to the maintenance of the property in perpetuity,” Beckett quoted sourly. “According to your father, there was enough money in this house for its continual upkeep until the end of time.”

“In the walls?” Fawkes shook his head. “That’s madness.”

“Not madness,” Beckett insisted. “It’s there. Your father knew it was there. I’ve been searching for it for weeks but—” He broke off and looked guiltily at Cat and Georgiana.

Revelation struck Cat like a brick. “It was you. You sent Rogers after us.”

“Not after you! I told him to do whatever he needed to do to keep you two out of the way. To visit on the housekeeper’s day off and avoid crossing paths with any of you.

” Beckett looked almost offended, his brownish hair in matted clumps against his pale forehead.

“I sent him after the treasure . Twice.”

Cat shook her head as she tried to make sense of Beckett’s words.

“So Rogers barred the doors… to keep us out ?” Perhaps Rogers had been under the impression that they’d left the house with Graves that day.

Perhaps he’d been after privacy for his clandestine search and had not meant to imprison them at all.

Beckett frowned. “I don’t know anything about barred doors. But the second time I sent him here, he took my coin and never returned. Damned scheming varlet—I had to come up here myself to see if he’d found the treasure and made off with it.”

“He didn’t,” Georgiana said.

“He didn’t? How do you know?” Beckett’s eyes narrowed, a trifle scheming. “Did you find it yourself? Is that what you’re doing back here?”