Duke with Benefits Page 10

  In the bright natural light of the library, Maitland was able to see the parchment wedged into the corner of the picture frame more clearly. “I may have discovered something useful,” he said, pointing to the section in question. “Since you are the one my aunt chose to tell about the cipher, I thought I’d let you be the one to have the first look at it. We may have lost whatever was hidden in the trunk, but perhaps this can shed some light on who took—” He broke off as she reached out a hand to remove the rolled document and without ceremony, unraveled it.

  When she did not speak, Ivy expressed the impatience they were all feeling. “For heaven’s sake, tell us what it says!”

  “Is it a clue?” Gemma demanded.

  Sophia put her hands on her hips. “Does it tell anything about the cipher?”

  Maitland’s heart sank as she shook her head.

  “It’s blank,” Daphne said turning the page to show them that there was indeed no visible writing on it. Her mouth was twisted with disappointment. “It was probably used as a wedge to hold the canvas in place. It’s not a clue at all.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Sophia said, moving to examine the open structure of the frame, which exposed the back of the canvas it showcased. “It’s far more common to use a bit of wood to secure a loose canvas. There is no reason I can think of for placing this page here.”

  She reached out to turn the frame so that the subject of the painting could be seen in the light, and gasped. “It’s a Catherine Read,” she said, awe in her voice. “I’m almost sure of it. Perhaps the best I’ve seen.”

  “And who is this Catherine Read, pray?” Gemma asked her sister with a touch of exasperation. “You forget, Sophia, that we do not all have your knowledge of obscure art.”

  “If you spent more time away from your fossils and bones, sister,” retorted Sophia, “you might recognize the name. And she’s most certainly not obscure. She’s one of the best-known pastel artists of her generation, as well as the member of a prominent Jacobite family. It’s no wonder Lady Celeste chose a Read for the room where she’d hidden the cipher. It fits perfectly, in fact.”

  “There’s no signature,” Daphne noted from where she peered down at the painting. “How do you know it’s by this Catherine Read person? There’s nothing at all that indicated who painted it.”

  “Notice the way the Prince leans his chin on his fist?” Sophia asked, pointing out the specific area on the painting. “Well, that is a characteristic in many of Miss Read’s works. Not to mention that I recognize other elements of her style. It’s not one particular brush stroke or element that makes me think it’s hers. It’s the thing as a whole.”

  Maitland frowned down at the portrait. “The chin thing,” he said with a nod toward the work, “I’ve seen that at the National Gallery. Sir Joshua Reynolds, I believe.”

  At the mention of Reynolds, the diminutive artist drew herself up to her full height. “You are not alone,” she scowled. “Miss Read’s work has often been mis-attributed to Reynolds. Mostly by men who cannot possibly believe a woman capable of such skill. Which is absurd, of course. But when has misogyny ever been a surprise?”

  All four ladies scowled in Maitland’s direction, and he threw up his hands. “I meant nothing by it, Miss Hastings. It was merely an observation. I’m as familiar with art as any man in my position. But I’m hardly an expert. And knowing Aunt Celeste, she was probably making a point by choosing a Read painting to adorn the hiding place of the cipher.

  “What’s really of interest, here,” Sophia said looking somewhat mollified, “is the fact that I’ve never seen mention of this painting in any collection. I’ve read through the catalogs of most of the better-known art collections in England and the continent, and I’ve made a particular study of Miss Read’s work. And I cannot recall ever seeing it mentioned.”

  “What if it has never been made public?” Daphne asked. “If this Miss Read was a Jacobite herself, perhaps the painting accompanied the cipher. As a sort of talisman?”

  “I’m not sure how practical it would have been for Cameron to travel across England carrying a portrait that all but shouted that he was a Jacobite sympathizer,” Maitland argued. It was a romantic notion, he supposed, but a man hiding from the authorities would wish to keep from drawing attention to himself.

  “It’s quite impossible anyway,” Sophia said. “Miss Read didn’t travel to Europe, where she likely met the Prince, until after ’forty-five. And if Cameron brought the cipher through this area before ’forty-five, there’s no way he could have even seen the portrait, much less carried it with him along with the cipher.”

  “So, Lady Celeste was the one who set up this secret room?” Daphne asked, puzzled. “But to what end? Why not simply tell me the location of the cipher in the letter she wrote me and be done with it?” She rubbed her forehead as if she were fighting a headache.

  * * *

  Unable to stop himself, Maitland placed a comforting hand on her back, which was turned away from him. “I know it’s frustrating,” he said in a soothing tone, “but there is a method to the madness.”

  “I’m sure I can’t begin to guess what that might be,” she said in a petulant tone.

  “I hate to add to the growing list of questions without answers,” Gemma added with an apologetic look, “but has anyone asked yet how Sommersby, who had, to our knowledge, never visited this part of England, knew precisely where to find this secret room? Can Lady Celeste have told someone who passed on the location of the cipher?”

  They all stared at the painting, as if its subject would leap off the canvas and give them the answers they sought.

  Finally, Daphne sighed. “I cannot imagine that Sommersby, who was not the most intelligent of men, could have discovered the room’s location on his own. I spent most of my time since my arrival here searching the library and I never came across it. I think you’re likely correct, Gemma, that someone else told him, but who?”

  “Let us not get distracted from our current conundrum,” Maitland said mildly. “If we begin pulling at every loose thread we’ll have nothing but a tangle.”

  Daphne nodded. “You’re right. First things first.” She picked up the scroll and stared at it again.

  “Aunt Celeste was quite fond of Gothic novels,” Lord Kerr said into the glum silence. “I suspect she saw all of this … theatre, for want of a better word, as part of the puzzle.”

  “Perhaps it’s just a painting,” Sophia said with a shrug. “A significant one, by a female artist of some note, with Jacobite connections. But we may be attributing too much significance to it. And letting ourselves fall prey to the excitement of mysteries and secret codes and hidden messages.”

  Something about what Sophia said sparked a memory, and with a renewed sense of hope, Maitland turned to his cousin. “Kerr, do you recall how we used to send secret messages to one another when we were boys?”

  The marquess met his gaze and frowned. Then realization dawned and he whistled. “I haven’t thought about those things in ages,” he said. “But she was the one who taught us how to do it, so of course Aunt Celeste would choose it as a way to include another clue here.”

  “What?” Daphne asked, turning to Maitland in puzzlement. “What are you two talking about?”

  “Someone get me a candle,” the duke said with a grin. “If I’m right, we’re going to unravel at least one mystery today.”

  * * *

  “Invisible ink,” Daphne said as she watched the duke hold the scrap of seemingly blank parchment over the candle flame. “I should have guessed.”

  She had read about the use of lemon juice instead of ink years ago in a book about spies in the Colonial Wars in America. Why hadn’t she thought of it as soon as they’d found the parchment? She was usually much quicker than that.

  Clearly the excitement of the past few days was taking a toll on her intellect.

  Leaning against Maitland’s side so that she could see more clearly, she watched as writing i
n Lady Celeste’s hand—which she knew well by now—appeared on the parchment in a brownish hue. A shiver of excitement ran through her.

  “I knew our boyhood schemes would come in handy one day,” Kerr said with satisfaction. Rolling her eyes, Ivy mock cuffed him on the ear.

  “This is serious business, Quill,” she chided, though her eyes were light with amusement.

  Diverted from the matter at hand, Daphne’s heart constricted at the interaction between the married couple. Would she and Maitland be that happy if they continued this hasty betrothal? She tried to imagine herself behaving with the easy affection that Ivy showed her husband. And failed.

  Breaking into her reverie, Maitland handed her the message, which was still warm from the heat of the flame. “You should be the first one to read this.”

  She swallowed, suddenly nervous at the prospect. What if it was something mundane, like a shopping list?

  Self-doubt wasn’t something that Daphne was accustomed to. She was, most of the time, quite sure that she knew at the very least what the most logical course of action should be. But now she hardly knew up from down.

  Taking the note from Maitland’s hand, she read it aloud:

  If someone steals the prize hid here

  You may find it still, my dear.

  Another version I have hid,

  To find it just do as I bid.

  Three clues I’ve stashed with trusted friends.

  Each missive toward the map extends.

  For your first clue you now must chase

  The man whose help enhanced this place.

  “That’s it?” asked Gemma, scowling. “I’ve seen hieroglyphs that were more specific.”

  “It’s really only the last bit that’s the puzzle,” Daphne said with a shrug. “The rest is clear enough. She left more clues to the location of the cipher in case someone else got to it first.”

  “How on earth could she have known it would go missing?” Kerr asked, clearly aggrieved by the notion. “Aunt was canny, but she hardly had the ability to predict the future.”

  “She’s been clever enough so far,” Maitland reminded him. “She somehow managed to matchmake between you and Ivy from beyond the grave. And the Cameron Cipher is one of the most sought after treasures in all of England. It’s only logical to think that someone would figure out where she’d hidden it. Aunt was nothing if not thorough.”

  “The note itself is straightforward enough,” Daphne said, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand.

  “But who does she mean by ‘the man who helped enhance this place’?” Ivy asked. “A gardener? Or the decorator? Is this something perhaps Mr. Greaves would know?”

  Maitland cleared his throat, and Daphne turned to look at him. “Are you ill?” she asked, frowning.

  “I am not,” he said with a grin. “It’s just that I might be able to answer this riddle.”

  When he did not continue, Daphne tilted her head, as if to say, “Well?”

  “I think she might be referring to Mr. Renfrew,” he said, looking in Kerr’s direction. “You recall him, don’t you? The steward who was here when we were children?”

  Lord Kerr stroked his chin. “I haven’t thought about Old Renfrew in years,” he said frowning. “Though he does fit the description, since he oversaw the design and work on the gardens. I wonder what happened to him? I must confess I didn’t really pay much attention to his comings and goings.”

  He turned to the ladies. “Aunt went through several stewards after Renfrew left, as I recall, since many of them had a difficult time taking their orders from a lady who knew precisely what she wanted.”

  “Nor do I,” Maitland agreed. “But I suspect Ivy is correct that Greaves will know. He’s been here for decades.”

  Without waiting for the others, Daphne began walking toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Sophia called after her from where she stood with her hand on the bell pull.

  “To speak to Greaves,” Daphne said without turning back. She could wait for the butler to respond to the bell, but she was tired of inaction. She needed to do something proactive, instead of relying on others to solve the mystery Lady Celeste had left for her.

  “If you’ll just excuse us,” she heard Maitland mutter from behind her.

  He caught up to her in the hallway and followed as she strode toward the landing. “I take it this means you’ve decided which of our many mysteries you’d like to pursue?”

  “It’s the one that holds the key to all the others,” Daphne responded as she hurried down the stairs toward the ground floor. “If we find the cipher, we are likely to find who killed Sommersby.”

  “I agree,” he said trailing after her. “But the murderer might have already got to the cipher by now.”

  “I doubt that,” Daphne said with a shake of her blond head. “Your aunt must have known someone else would try to steal the cipher. Otherwise she would not have left the second set of clues. I think now that whatever was in the box, it was not, in fact, the Cameron Cipher.”

  They reached the shining black-and-white marble-tiled floor of the entry hall, and Daphne turned toward the door leading into the servants’ hall.

  Before she could push through it, Maitland laid a staying hand on her arm. “How can you know that?” he asked, looking flummoxed. “You didn’t see whatever it was that the killer removed from the box.”

  “No,” she said with strained patience. Did he think she was a simpleton? There was a rational reason for every conclusion she’d drawn so far about the cipher and the trail Lady Celeste had left for her. “Of course I didn’t see what was hidden in the box. How could I when I only saw it for the first time with you when we found Sommersby’s body?”

  “Then how do you know the cipher wasn’t in it?” he persisted, looking as frustrated as she felt.

  “Because she told me,” Daphne said. “I just didn’t realize it until a few moments ago.”

  When he only frowned at her, she sighed. “In the letter Lady Celeste left for me, she said ‘I hope you’ll find sanctuary here at Beauchamp House—where even Hypocrites could ne’er Soil Eden.’”

  “What does that even mean?” Maitland asked with a frown. “It’s … it makes no sense.”

  “When I first read the letter,” Daphne said with a shrug, “I saw the first anagram referring to the Cameron Cipher, and thought that was the only message hidden there.”

  “All right,” the duke said. “So I take it that means this other sentence contains a hidden meaning?”

  “I assumed the bit about Hypocrites was some classical quotation I was unfamiliar with,” Daphne said with a slight blush. “My classical education is not what it should be, since I insisted Mr. Sommersby, Senior, devote most of our studies to mathematics. And I did not wish to reveal my weakness, so I did not take it to Ivy, who would likely have told me at once that there was no such quote. And that the reference is religious and not classical.”

  Maitland sighed. “You are not supposed to know everything there is to know in the world, Daphne. You’re allowed to ask for help sometimes.”

  His words made her stomach flip. It simply didn’t feel right to rely on others when she was perfectly capable of finding out something for herself. But if Lady Celeste’s quest had forced her to learn anything, it was that Maitland was correct. Sometimes one had to ask for help from others. And it wasn’t shameful. It simply was.

  And, coming from Maitland, the reminder held more importance than it would have otherwise. She was willing to admit that at least. But not aloud. Not yet.

  “Just as with the message about the cipher,” she continued, “this second message is a simple anagram of the three capitalized words. Hypocrites, Soil, and Eden can be rearranged to read . Decoy in Priest’s Hole.”

  “I’ll be da—er, dashed,” the duke said, shaking his head in wonderment. “You are never allowed to doubt your powers of deduction again,” he said with a grin. “I would never have figured that out
in a million years of trying.”

  A line appeared between her brows. “You could not possibly try for a million years. You’d very likely die after the first eighty or so. Or sixty, I suppose given your current age.”

  * * *

  Maitland stared at her for a second before shaking his head. “You are a true original, Lady Daphne Forsyth,” he said, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, in that way she’d learned meant he was happy.

  Which, in turn, made her feel happy. “Thank you, your grace,” she said with a shy smile.

  “Perhaps you could call me Dalton now?” he asked, dipping his head so that he could see her eyes. “We are, for better or worse, partners in this adventure. And even if it’s only temporary, we’re betrothed.”

  At the mention of the betrothal, Daphne’s heart began to beat faster. “I suppose so, your … Dalton.”

  With an approving nod, he held out his arm for her. “Let’s go see if Mr. Greaves can point us in the direction of Renfrew, now. Because unless I miss my guess, whoever took the decoy cipher is likely growing very frustrated just about now.”

  “Will he come back here, do you think?” she asked, alarmed at the prospect. After all, this man had been willing to kill Sommersby to get what he thought was the real cipher. What would he do if he came back?

  “I don’t know,” Dalton said with a frown. “But if he does, we’ll be ready for him.”

  Together they went down the servants’ stairs in search of the major domo of Beauchamp House.

  Chapter 8

  “Yes, of course, your grace,” said Greaves, whom they found in his office, going over the household ledgers. “I am in correspondence with Mr. Renfrew and know his direction well. He’s gone to live with his daughter in Bexhill, no more than a day’s drive from here.”

  “And he is in good health?” Maitland asked. It would be just their luck if they drove all the way to Bexhill only to find him at death’s door.

  “As far as I know, your grace,” said the butler with a frown, as if the notion that an elderly man could be in ill health was troubling to him. Greaves was no spring chicken, after all. “Though now that you mention it, I haven’t had a reply from my last letter, sent at Christmastime.”