Lady Rosabella's Ruse. Ann Lethbridge

to the house. It bounced off slick cobbles.

      Of Mrs Travenor there was no sign.

      He crossed the courtyard, searching for a clue to her whereabouts. He scanned the back of the house. There. A light. On the second floor. It wasn’t very bright, but it had to be her.

      She’d gone inside. It was the only explanation.

      What in hell’s name was she doing?

      He walked carefully up to what was clearly the kitchen door and put his ear to the crack at the jamb. Nothing.

      Slowly, he depressed the latch. The door opened silently. He stilled, breath held. No cry of alarm. No footsteps coming his way. He opened the door enough to allow his body to slide through and closed it behind him.

      Now he really was in the dark. In the pitch-black, with the echoing sound of footsteps somewhere deeper in the house.

      It seemed Mrs Travenor was up to no good.

      A sense of disappointment slid through him, bitter edged and sharp. He hesitated. He could just walk away and forget what he’d seen. Or he could catch her in the act and, damn it, see her brought to justice. Clearly she’d been using Lady Keswick as her dupe to gain access to this empty house and now was about to make off with some sort of loot. His gut knotted. He almost preferred to think of her in the arms of a lover than this.

      He fumbled around as quietly as possible until he found the stub of a candle. Taking his time in order not to alert her to his presence, he lit the wick. The light revealed an abandoned kitchen. Clean. Tidy, but definitely not used recently. A narrow set of stairs led upwards. Perfect. He’d take the servants’ stairs to the second floor, where he’d seen the light, and catch her in the act.

      This was impossible, Rosa thought, staring around the library at chairs and tables covered in sheets and walls lined with empty bookshelves. Where did she start?

      She set her lantern down on the red-leather-covered rent table in the middle of the room. It had a keyhole within its central circular section. Would her father have hidden his will in there? It seemed unlikely. Any fool would look there first, and Grandfather wasn’t a fool.

      She pulled on the knob beside the keyhole. It lifted easily. She groped inside, feeling nothing but dust under her nails. Ugh.

      Walking around the table, Rosa pulled open the three drawers beneath its top where Father would have kept his records of rents paid and collected. More emptiness.

      She turned in a circle. This room still had all of its pictures. Perhaps they disguised a hiding place.

      She pulled one of the straight-backed wooden chairs underneath a hunting scene adjacent to the hearth.

      She hopped up on the chair. The picture shifted easily enough to reveal blank plaster painted blue like the rest of the walls. Disappointed, but not surprised, she slid the picture back in place. Something gave way with a snap. The picture slid through her hands. It was going to smash to the floor. She clutched it, wobbling on the chair.

      ‘Blast!’

      ‘Well, well,’ a menacing voice said from the doorway. ‘I had no idea you were an art lover, Mrs Travenor.’

      Rosa gasped and almost dropped the picture. ‘Lord Stanford?’ Oh, no. What was he doing here?

      He strolled to her chair and looked up at her. ‘It seems a call on the magistrate is in order.’

      ‘You followed me.’ Gripping the picture frame, she stared at the cynical twist to his mouth and the suspicion rampant in his dark eyes.

      ‘As well I did,’ he said. ‘Or you’d be making off with someone else’s property.’ He moved in close, too close, and grasped the picture by the frame. ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you to steal this.’ He took the frame from her grasp and set it down, one edge on the floor, the other leaning against the wall.

      He put his hands around her waist and lifted her. His hands were large and warm; he smelled of rain and cigars, and sandalwood. He set her down lightly, as if she weighed nothing at all. ‘Now then, madam, what are you up to?’

      How to explain without giving too much away? ‘I know this doesn’t look good, but I am looking for something that belongs to me. I did not intend for the picture to come down off the wall.’

      Stanford laughed. ‘Smooth, Mrs Travenor. Very smooth. You must think I’m an idiot.’

      ‘Then why do you think I have the key to the door?’

      He frowned. Looked a little nonplussed. ‘Perhaps you have an accomplice.’

      Her heart sank. She certainly did not want to implicate Mr Inchbold. Brazen it out. It was the best way—she’d learned that during her long years at school. And more recently in dealing with the doctor who had come to attend her sister, Sam. ‘I have the key, my lord, because I have every right to be here. I used to live here with my father and I believe he left something behind.’

      If anything, the curl to his lip increased. ‘Money? Of course. You are looking for a safe. Expecting to find the family jewels, perhaps?’

      ‘There are no family jewels here.’ They had all gone to her stepmama. Even those her father bought for her mother. Blast Lord Stanford—why couldn’t he just stick to playing cards instead of chasing after her?

      It was that business with Hapton in the linen closet, no doubt. A blush crept up her face. He thought she was no better than she should be. Apparently in more ways than one. ‘This really is none of your business.’

      ‘It is every man’s business to protect his fellow from thieves and burglars.’ He gave a rather nasty laugh. ‘Indeed, I’ll have you know I am sworn to uphold the law in my role as a member of the House of Lords.’

      She gave him a sour look. ‘God help England.’

      He cracked a laugh. ‘Indeed.’

      Dare she trust him? She heaved a sigh. ‘Perhaps if I explain …’

      He nodded, his eyes wary. ‘I’ll listen. But stick to the truth. I will know if you are lying.’

      Not telling everything was not lying. All she had to do was convince him she wasn’t a thief. ‘As I said, I lived here once.’

      He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Mrs Travenor, you are the most outrageous female I have ever met.’

      ‘It’s true. There is a servant here who can vouch for me.’

      ‘Where is this servant?’

      She winced. ‘He had to go to Rye, but he will be back and he will confirm that my father was a tenant here before he died. We had to leave in a hurry.’

      The laughter left his face, replaced by a swift frown. ‘Debts?’

      Well, there were debts. Just not her father’s. ‘Yes.’

      His mouth twisted in that cynical smile. ‘And what do you expect to find behind the pictures?’

      He didn’t believe her. She swallowed. She couldn’t tell him about the will because then he would want to know the names of her relatives. If any word got back to her grandfather about her search, he would no doubt ban her from the house and Inchbold would be in terrible trouble.

      She clasped her hands together, a prayer for his trust. ‘A miniature of my mother. It was only after he died that I realised it was missing from his effects.’ It wasn’t completely a lie. Change the word miniature for will and it was as close to the truth as she dared get.

      He looked unconvinced.

      ‘In two days the house will be rented again. This is my last chance to search.’ She couldn’t stop the pleading note in her voice. Not that she thought pleading would do any good, judging by his forbidding expression.

      ‘Are you sure it is here?’

      ‘It