Page 45 of A Bride for the Baron

Maybe because the day had been an unsettling one. She had hoped that when Edmund came to dinner that evening, he would have had something to share about what he had discovered about the flask. He had only glanced in her direction upon entering the dining room, and he had shaken his head slightly. She had never had a chance to speak with him because his aunt had spent the whole meal lamenting that Lillian had returned to Sir Nigel’s house.

“Just when I thought you two were becoming much better acquainted,” Mrs. Uppington had said with a look in Edmund’s direction that would have quelled most men.

He had borne it with a smile. “I am sure we will see Miss Kightly soon.”

“On Sunday in the chapel.”

At that, Edmund had turned to Vera who had to shrug. She had had no idea why Mrs. Uppington had been certain that Lillian would be attending Sunday services at Meriweather Hall.

“It is Mothering Sunday, if you will recall,” his aunt had said before smiling at Lady Meriweather, who, like Vera and Gregory, seldom had a chance to slip in a single word during the evening meal. “Our hostess has invited the parishioners to stay at Meriweather Hall for a celebration feast, as she does each year.”

Vera wondered how Mothering Sunday had snuck up on them so quickly. It meant Easter was three weeks away. Time had sped past, unnoticed, while she had worked with Edmund. She’d had no time to prepare for Mothering Sunday.

“Miss Fenwick?” The maid’s voice sounded as if she were repeating Vera’s name for more than the second time.

Rushing to open the door, Vera swallowed her apology for keeping the maid waiting. The young woman relayed the message that Lord Meriweather wished to see her in his book room.

“As soon as possible,” the maid added before walking away.

Vera paused only long enough to check her appearance in the cheval glass. Her hair was in its usual neat bun, though a few strands curled around her face. Her light green gown was wrinkled, and she was glad that she had insisted Mme. Dupont forgo the stylish rows of ruffles that would have sagged by this time of the day.

The house was quiet as Vera went down the stairs and to the corridor leading to the book room. Was it because of the fog that had come in from the sea late in the afternoon and cut off the house from everything else, even the nearby stables? She saw no one else, not even the shadow of a servant. She eyed the suits of armor when she passed them. They were empty, of course, but she could not shake her childish trepidation that one of them would come to life and swing his weapon at her. She preferred going past the stern portraits in the other wing.

As she reached the book room door, Edmund was coming to his feet. He had left his coat over a chair, and his dark brown waistcoat contrasted with the unblemished white of his sleeves and cravat. She would have liked to take a moment to enjoy the sight of him dressed casually, but that chance vanished when he handed her a piece of paper.

“What do you think of this?” he asked.

The page was thick and brown, like the paper used in a shop to wrap purchases. The edges were torn unevenly, and the writing on it had been done with what looked to be coal. The spelling was so bad that she had to read it aloud to figure out what the words were supposed to be.

The message was short. It asked that Lord Meriweather meet the writer on the shore tonight when the moon was new and the smugglers occupied with their heinous trade far beyond Meriweather Hall. The writer professed to have information about the smugglers and their leader he was sure Lord Meriweather wanted to know.

“What do you think?” Edmund asked.

“My first reaction is that it seems too good to be true,” she said.

“That was my first inclination, as well.”

“Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

“I don’t think so.” He took the paper, crumpled it and threw it on the fire. “I think it’s more likely that it is an invitation to put my foot in a trap on a foggy night.”

“Do you know who sent it?”

He nodded. “Here is a second page with the precise location I am supposed to meet him. Stanley Cadman’s name is on the bottom.”

“Stanley?” she gasped.

“You know him?” His mouth twisted with a reluctant grin. “Of course you do. You know everyone in Sanctuary Bay. What sort of man is he?”

“A good man, but are you sure that he truly wrote this message?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” He paced between the hearth and the rosewood desk, easily stepping around the stacks of books. “I can’t trust such a boon falling into my lap.”

“Many parishioners are furious that the church was burned by the smugglers. I believe Stanley would want to help if he can.” She rubbed her hands together. “But to put such a request in writing is dangerous. He must trust whoever he gave it to would deliver without sharing it with someone else first.”

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