Читать книгу Dangerous Lord, Innocent Governess - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 11

Chapter Five

Daphne rose the next day when the sun crept over the horizon, just as she had the day before. So this was to be her routine, while in the Colton house. Rise at dawn, take all meals above stairs with the children, and have what little time to herself she could, after she had readied them for bed. They had gone to their rooms easily enough after the previous night’s meal. And she had taken time straightening the classroom and lingering in the dining room over a cup of tea.

Before going up to bed she had passed Sophie’s room, trusting that the older children would not need her help. And through the door, she had heard faint sounds of the girl whimpering in her dreams. But when Daphne had opened the door to come to her aid, she had found a candle burning on the nightstand, and Lily, sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand on the little girl’s shoulder. She’d looked up at Daphne, as though annoyed at the intrusion, and whispered, ‘She will be all right in a moment. But it is best not to wake her.’

Daphne nodded. Not her choice of action, perhaps. She would have shaken the girl awake immediately. But there was nothing about the sister’s actions that seemed rooted in malice. In fact, it appeared that Lily often took the role of comforter, and showed no desire to give it over to a stranger. Daphne had trusted her to do what was best and gone to her room.

Once there, she’d removed Sophie’s sketch from her own book and hidden it under the folded gowns in her trunk. Should someone enter the room, it would not do to let them think she was too interested in the subject. But should she need to provide proof of what she had found, it would be invaluable.

That morning, she went to breakfast with the children, and from there to the classroom. The Duchess had been right. They were quite capable of teaching themselves. In some subjects they were clever enough to teach her. She let them proceed, helping with such few questions as they had, trying to do as little damage to their educations as possible.

But if she wasn’t actually needed in the schoolroom, there was no reason she could not slip away for a short time, to begin her search of the rest of the house. She excused herself under the guise of going to the library for a book. And with one last glance at the bowed heads, she shut the schoolroom door and hurried down the hall.

She looked into the children’s rooms first. There was nothing out of the ordinary in Lily’s or Sophie’s room, other than that the connecting door appeared to stand open at all times, in testament to the sisters’ close bond. Further down the hall was Edmund’s room, orderly but boyish. And beside it the cold, dark room that would be Lily’s, still with some of her things scattered around, as if waiting for her to return.

She moved more slowly now. Somewhere down the hall was the master suite, and there was a risk of blundering into Lord Colton. Although at this hour he should be below in the conservatory, where she suspected he spent most of his days. She turned the knob on the door at the head of the stairs, and found his room, quiet and empty. It was ordered to the last degree, with no ornaments on the dressers, no item out of place in wardrobe or drawers. There was no wrinkle in the cover on the bed, no mashed pillow or lump in the mattress to hint that the owner of the bed might sleep restlessly, from guilt or any other reason.

If she had not known better, she would have suspected that the person whose room this was did not reside in the house. It was almost too neat to be inhabited. It was a blank. A cipher. And it was unlikely that he might be hiding anything in it. If he meant to write a journal of confession, there was not even a writing table on which to do it.

Perhaps Clare’s room would be different. She glanced to the wall that had the connecting door. If the servants had not already cleared the room, there might be some evidence of the state of her cousin’s mind in the days before her demise.

But when she put her hand to the knob, it did not turn. Locked. She sighed in exasperation and exited cautiously into the hall, ready to enter from there.

Also locked.

Every room on the floor was open to her, including the master’s bedroom. The only place she could not search was the room of her beloved Clare. In her mind, it became the room she most wanted to see. For there would be no reason to lock it if there was not something to hide.

She walked back down the hall to the nursery, frustrated by her defeat.

When she returned to her desk, the tea things had arrived. The children were busy, red heads bowed over the tray, pouring her a cup. They looked up as she entered with such innocent smiles that she was immediately suspicious.

So she smiled back at them, as guileless as they were, and said, ‘You are preparing my tea things. That is very kind of you.’ She took the cup they offered, watching the intent way they observed her, waiting for her to take the first drink.

She sat down on the small settee in the corner, and paused, with the cup halfway to her mouth, noting the rapt expression on the faces of the older two children.

‘But it is hardly fair that I should be able to take tea, while you have nothing.’ She set the cup down upon the tray, and, without looking at the contents, offered it to Edmund. ‘You should drink before me, for you are the heir and I am but a servant.’

The boy looked at the cup with alarm.

She smiled. ‘Here. Take it.’ She held the cup out to him again.

He picked it up, tentatively, and sipped.

She held up a hand. ‘Just swish it about your mouth for a bit.’

The boy made a terrible face, looking like he would gag rather than take another sip.

She waited for a second. ‘Now spit it back into the cup, please.’

He hurried to do as he was bade.

‘And smile.’

The boy opened his mouth to show a face full of bright purple teeth.

She smiled in satisfaction. ‘Just as I thought. You put ink into my tea, as a trick. And you never stopped to think what might be in the ink, or that it might hurt me.’