Chapter Thirteen
Meg felt like she’d drunk approximately seventeen cups of tea, with extra sugar. Anticipation vibrated through her bones, right into her blood. She understood her godfather a little better. When the hidden compartment door finally opened, she squeaked with delight. She couldn’t help it. They were going to show those blasted treasure hunters just how it was done.
Or not.
She craned her neck, jostling Dougal to get a better look. They were cheek to cheek, eager to discover silver plates or rubies or gold candlesticks. Embroidered priestly vestments. A painted cross.
Anything.
“It’s empty,” Meg said with rising disbelief. She sat back on her heels, thoroughly disgruntled. “Well, that’s not helpful.”
She’d been so sure. The maps showed her the secret vestibule.
It was just that there was no treasure in it.
And there was no way of knowing if there ever had been. This could have been a place to hide secret love letters. Plans of treason. Any number of personal things which Eaton could not claim or sell.
Actually, that was comforting. He wouldn’t have anything either, damn his eyes.
“Wait,” Dougal said softly. “Bring your candle closer.”
She did as he asked. “What do you see?”
“I’m not sure.” He reached his arm into the darkness. Meg lifted her candle, imagining spiders or rats. Something crinkled when he touched it, like old paper.
“What is it?” she breathed.
Dougal stepped back, opening his palm. In it lay a single dried flower, the stem gray with age, the petals crumbling.
Meg frowned. “What can that mean? Why a flower?” It must be some private jest, a secret message.
It was thoroughly unhelpful.
Although, something about it tickled the back of her brain.
She might have figured it out if there wasn’t suddenly a pained yelp from the Gold Room.
“Now what?” Dougal muttered.
They found the drawing room occupied by Canterbury, three footmen, and a treasure hunter, as expected. Less expected was Lady Beatrice in her nightgown, gray hair loose to her elbows, holding a spear to the treasure hunter’s midsection. She poked him again and there was another yelp. Dougal leaned in the doorway, grinning. “Where did you get a spear?”
“There’s a suit of armor in the hall outside my bedroom,” she replied.
“Help me!” the treasure hunter gulped. “She’s cracked!”
“She is,” Dougal agreed. “Make sure you tell the others.”
Lady Beatrice cackled once, just to underscore the point. She didn’t seem concerned when the constable finally arrived, only shot him a look over her shoulder. “About time you got here.”
The constable took note of the broken nose, the blooming bruise, the blood. And the spear. “I can take it from here, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” Dougal said.
“I fear there may be others,” Meg told him. “Someone is telling tall tales about hidden treasure.”
“Not that again,” he sighed. “Every time Lady Dahlia came home for a visit, the gossips were certain there was gold under every floorboard of the abbey. She did like to tweak her father’s nose. Not even a duke was enough to control her and the old duke had a temper, to be sure.” He dropped his voice as though it were a great secret. “The workmen in town made a pretty penny off repairs from his fits, especially the plasterers and painters.”
Lady Dahlia. Privateer. Possible pirate.