Page 7 of Most Ardently (Return to Culloden Moor #5)
7
ROCKS AND PILLOWS
* * *
M orning chaos filled the servants' quarters. Maids scurried with fresh linens. Footmen polished silver. Kitchen staff ferried breakfast trays to guests who preferred to break their fasts in their rooms. Violet blended in with her stack of towels, headed for the stairs.
“Violet!” Mrs. Finch's sharp voice sliced through the bustle. “Where are ye going with those? Ye are meant to be in the drawing room!”
Violet froze. She'd counted on another hour before anyone noticed her absence. Knowing the Ashmoores were in the dining room meant their bedchamber was empty and waiting, finally. But she was thwarted yet again.
Mrs. Finch's footsteps approached from behind. “Well?”
“Yes, Mrs. Finch.” She bobbed a curtsy and changed her direction, keeping her eyes down as a true maid would do.
“Wait! Give me those.” The woman relieved her of her stack of towels and gave her a wet cloth instead. “Fingerprints. Be sure to get them all.” She lifted the towels. “Someone waitin’ for these?”
“No, mum.”
“Just as I thought. Lollygagging.”
“Just looking to be helpful.”
The woman snorted and waved her on her way.
Violet fairly flew to the front of the house and made quick work of the drawing room. If Mrs. Finch called her out later for a poor job, she would claim poor eyesight. But at the moment, there was no time to lose.
She returned to the service stairs, made a cursory check for her employer, and took the steps two at a time. Each step took her further from her assigned post and closer to discovery, yet she pressed on. The weight of Iris's letter drove her on.
She paused at the landing and listened. No sounds of pursuit, but Violet knew her absence would not go unremarked for long.
That morning, over a breakfast of porridge, she’d overheard two footmen discussing the day's activities. Lord and Lady Ashmoore were to join some of the guests for a morning ride, followed by archery on the south lawn. The house would never be more empty than now.
Violet moved carefully through the silent upper corridors, past guest chambers and sitting rooms. The family wing lay ahead, separated from the guest quarters by a short gallery lined with landscapes. Her steps slowed as she grew near, but not for fear of being caught, but for fear of not finding what she’d come for.
She had yet to be in this part of the house. The rich carpets muffled her footsteps, the figures in the paintings, lining the walls, seemed to follow her with their eyes, as if they knew why she’d come.
At the end of the gallery stood a pair of heavy oak doors. The master's chamber. Violet stood before them, suddenly uncertain. But she had no time to linger, so she steeled herself and recalled the inscription on her father’s headstone. There was no doubt in her mind, the treasure was here.
“For Iris,” she whispered, and slipped through the doors.
The chamber was enormous, dominated by a massive four-post bed with deep green hangings and bed clothes that had already been straightened for the day. The heavy, intoxicating scent of a man filled the room and contended with the lighter feminine traces of the lady of the house.
Morning light filtered through tall windows, illuminating an elegant sitting area, a writing desk, and a door that presumably led to a dressing room. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the ceiling crossed with heavy beams.
Violet looked to the ceiling and recalled the exact wording of the inscription: “If ye'd join his treasured soul, look high within the lord's repose.” The lord's repose—the master's bed? Or just the room? That bed couldn’t be as old as the legend.
Despite that, Violet approached the four-poster and examined every inch of wood. Nothing out of place, nothing concealed. She ran her hands over the ornate carvings of the headboard, feeling for any irregularity, any hidden catch or compartment. Minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness as she searched, finding nothing.
Not the bed, then.
She studied the ceiling again. Nothing unexpected there. “High within. High within…”
The headboard stood against a wall of smoothed stones, the wall of the house itself. Without care for the consequences, she climbed onto the bed, stood amongst the velvet covered pillows, and ran her hands up and down the ancient construction.
“You are old enough,” she told the wall. “What do you have for me?”
Her fingers sought irregularities. There were many. The fine grout holding the stones in place showed no signs of weakness. She had no choice but to test each corner, no matter how long it might take. A quick glance around the room proved this was the only reasonable place to look.
Corner, corner, corner. She pressed as hard as she could. Corner, corner, corner, corner. Nothing moved except her fingertips, crushing themselves over and over again, until they throbbed.
She worked methodically, row by row, leaving no stone untested. She heard voices in the hallway, but they were distant, shrill, and jovial. Only guests, then.
Her back already ached from the work she’d done the day before. Her arms grew weary, but she wouldn’t give up until she’d examined every inch of the wall. To reach the highest ones, she wondered if the canopy would hold her weight?—
Something gave beneath her fingers. A loose stone moved into the wall on one end, and came out of the wall on the other! Just higher above her head. Too high to see inside the gaps. But she could feel…
She tried to remove the stone outright, but it would do nothing but turn. So she piled the pillows together, stood on them, and reached inside the hole. Another cavity lay beyond the stone, but instead of a pile of coins and jewels, she found only a small bundle of cloth inside. Still, the hole was no natural place for such a thing, so she clung to hope as she removed it.
Brown. Thin. Leather, not fabric. With shaking hands, she opened the folds and found an ornate key inside. Gleaming gold with three jewels set into its decorative head. A ruby, a sapphire, and an emerald. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the weight substantial. This was no ordinary key. The lock waiting for it was in no simple door or chest. This was something precious, something significant.
Her father had been right. The treasure was real. But was the key the final treasure?
Violet rewrapped the precious piece in its covering and tucked it into the pocket of her apron until she could find a safer way to transport it. She would examine it more closely later, when she was safely alone. For now, she needed to leave, to return to her duties as if she’d simply visited the privy.
She pressed the stone back into place and froze at the sound of voices in the corridor just outside. The door handle turned.
In three swift steps, she was off the bed. In three more bounds, she was at the window and tucking herself inside a heavy curtain.
The door swung open. “—need my other riding gloves.” The deep male voice of Lord Ashmoore. “These are worn through at the thumb.”
Violet closed her eyes, willing herself invisible. The sound of heavy, quick footsteps crossed to the dressing room, followed by distant rummaging.
“Found them,” he called out. “Tell Northwick I shall rejoin them momentarily.”
More footsteps, moving back toward the door. The sound of the latch catching as it closed. Silence.
Violet remained motionless for several minutes, hardly daring to breathe. When she was certain the earl had gone, she carefully peeked out. The room was empty. Her knees threatened to give out, and not from the leap she’d made off the bed.
She waited another minute to be safe, then moved swiftly to the door. She turned the handle slowly, opened it just a hair, and found the corridor empty as well. So she released her breath and stepped out?—
And collided directly with a solid form.
Strong hands steadied her, preventing her from stumbling. Violet looked up, her heart sinking as she met the cold, knowing gaze of Baron Astley himself.
“So,” he said quietly, not releasing her. “This is how you spend your mornings.”
Violet attempted to step around him, but he moved to block her path, his grip unrelenting. His expression was no longer the teasing, curious one of the previous night. His jaw jumped. His gaze was unforgiving despite the slight smile.
“I have had enough of these games,” he said. “Tell me exactly what you are doing, or I shall have no choice but to take you to the earl.”
The weight of the key pressed against Violet’s side, a physical reminder of all that was at stake. She stared up at her captor, torn between terror and defiance, knowing the next words she spoke might determine not only her fate but Iris's as well.