Never to Part (8 page)

“Leaves again? Whatever does that foolishness mean?” Saddie asked over her shoulder.

Daphne carefully removed the fragile sprig and picked up the thick envelope. “Let us examine it in your chamber,” she told Saddie. “We should be safe from interruption there.”

“But what if Master Geoffrey rings for breakfast?”

“Then let him see to it himself for once,” Daphne said. “Mayhaps that will bring home to him how foolish he is to continue to gamble.”

“Didn’t he shout and carry on how that was the only avenue open to him to save us since you refused Mr. Wardick?”

“Please do not mention that—that person’s name again,” Daphne begged.

Once ensconced on Saddie’s bed, Daphne set the wrapping and laurel aside. She gingerly turned the envelope over. There was a seal, but she did not recognize it. Daphne broke it and carefully drew out a thin sheet of folded parchment.

Crowding close Saddie scanned the lines of heavily scrawled words. “It makes no sense,” she muttered. “What is it?”

Daphne read to the last word. Excitement sent her blood racing. Salvation could be at hand if she proved wise enough, intelligent enough. “This first part,” she motioned to the top six lines, “is the verse Lady Dremore shared with me. ‘Tis about the Dremore Treasure. These next,” she said and read,

“And though most dreaded imp of highest Jove, Fair Venus son

That with cruel dart at that good knight so cunningly strike

With sly innuendo struck low Blan’chrd’s love for gentle Laurel

Turned him murderous and blind with rage

Till both lay in Morpheus arms in Bidle’age

Harmony guide the way to Gemini’s reflected dryad

Gain the path by Clandon; unearth the mystery”

Daphne looked up. “This is the second —the second clue.”

“A most unpromising clue,” Saddie snorted. “Who would send you such rubbish with no explanation for its use?”

Her gaze on the paper, Daphne’s brow creased. Just who would send her a clue? She had dreamt again last night of the first baroness but the dead could not frank posts. Daphne inspected the wrapping and the envelope. The post mark was London but no where near Mayfair. She pressed the two halves of the broken seal and traced a finger over it. “This looks like a
B
but I am acquainted with no one whose last name starts with that letter.”

“Mr. Blanchard,” Saddie told her. “’Haps this is what he meant about helping you?”

“Eldridge Blanchard would find the treasure himself if he were able,” Daphne stated with absolute certainty.

“Lord Dremore’s family name is Blanchard.”

“His seal has the letter
D
with gryphons upon a tree,” Daphne replied. She took in the other’s assessing look and heat rose to her cheeks. “His mother’s, which is the same, was on my invitation to the house party. You know they must be much alike,” she ended lamely.

Daphne hurriedly reread the last verse. “Bidle’age. I have heard of it before. Bidle’age?” she repeated softly.

“Of course,” Saddie laughed. “’Tis the village that is the home seat of the Clandons.”

“Mary Clandon George,” exclaimed Daphne. “One of my best friends when I attended Beatton’s Academy for Young Girls. When I stayed with her the summer of ’07 we went walking into the village of Biddleage to see the house Lord Nelson had resided in until his death at Trafalgar.”

“But the other words make no sense,” Miss McRae told her. “What would Gemini and a dryad have to do with a path or with solving the mystery? Is the mystery the treasure?”

“The treasure is connected with the first Lord Dremore and his bride,” Daphne began.

The laurel sprig beside Daphne leapt and began to tumble off the bed. She snatched at it. Her fingers closed about it. At once an image came into sharp focus. Daphne gasped for she was once again on the third floor gallery at Heart Haven. Her gaze slowly shifted down the length of the first Dremores’ portrait to the nameplate on the frame at the bottom.

“Laurel Clandon Blanchard,” she exclaimed.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Miss McRae soothed. “Who is this Laurel?”

“The first Baroness Dremore. Now I think of it, Mary does have somewhat the look of her.” A surge of great purpose brought her to her feet.

“Mary Clandon wed over five years ago but if I recall correctly—” Daphne thrust the paper into Saddie’s hands, heedless that the laurel fell back onto the bed. She hurried to the writing desk near the window. Daphne opened a drawer and began going through a box. Finding the letter she wanted she unfolded it and read.

“Yes,” she noted to Miss McRae. “Her husband is in the cavalry and was sent to Spain a few months ago. Mary is staying with her parents while he is there,” she ended triumphantly, now certain of what she would do. Daphne sank to her knees beside the bed. From beneath it she drew out a portmanteau.

“What are you thinking?” demanded Saddie. “You can’t mean to go haram-scarum off to Biddleage without so much as an invitation? What do you hope to accomplish?”

“I shan’t learn what the rest of the verse means unless I go there,” Daphne told her. “My visit to Mary will give Geoffrey time to think about the present course he is set upon.” She hurried out of Miss McRae’s room and into her own. There she quickly stooped and tugged a valise out from under the bed.

While Saddie watched with a disapproving frown Daphne placed some stockings and a night shift in the bag. “I shall not even leave a note for Geoffrey explaining where I have gone.”

Saddie’s loud sniff showed sharp disapproval.

 “I have to attempt to solve the clue. I must try to find the treasure,” Daphne explained. “I know ‘tis wildly foolish but anything is preferable to marriage to that aged lecher.”

“Not everything,” Miss McRae sniffed.

Daphne hugged her close. “I do know that.” She kissed her cheek. “But we are not on our last legs yet. Do say you shall look after Geoffrey for a day or three,” Daphne begged. “I shan’t be gone more than that.”

“How will you explain arriving without even a maid?”

“I’ll come up with some explanation. Think of it, Saddie. The Dremore Treasure. I could settle Geoffrey’s debts and buy us a cottage in the Cotswolds if Trotter House is out of reach.”

“’Tis a miserable mangled clue. More like you’ll return from the journey knowing no more than you do now,” grumped Saddie but she kissed the young woman’s cheek.

 * * * *

Richard Lord Dremore studied the faded images of the couple on the cameo he held. The powdered wig on the gentleman’s head was matched by his lady’s powdered style. “They look so happy. So much in love,” he murmured.

“Talking to yourself these days, ehh,” Christopher Gunby said at the library door. “A certain sign of senility.”

“Mayhaps mere madness,” Richard said ironically. He motioned his friend to the chair beside his.

“Pour a glass of port if you wish,” the baron said. He picked up his glass and sipped while he studied the parchment sheet lying before him. “This is certainly madness.”

“What is this unhappy humour about?” Gunby inquired. “Aren’t still brooding on those broadsheets?” He sat and took the cameo Richard offered.

“The family founders I take it.” He handed it back.

“Yes. I ne’er saw it before this afternoon. It came in a packet with this.” Richard handed the parchment to Gunby.

When Christopher took it, tiny green fragments fell onto his buff breeches. He frowned and brushed them off.

“Some sort of leaves, crushed beyond recognition, were folded into the paper,” Richard offered. He watched Gunby read and smiled at his friend’s growing confusion.

“I don’t know who sent it,” the baron said when the other looked at him. “As to why?” He shrugged.

“Whoever did so obviously wants you to follow the clue,” Gunby said speculatively. “This is a clue, is it not?”

“A clumsy one if one at all,” Richard allowed.

“Biddleage isn’t far from here. It would be easy enough to drive down and see if anything . . .
materializes
,” Christopher said and broke into a guffaw.

“Sorry, old man, couldn’t resist,” he said when he regained control of himself. He shrugged. “Your mother must have sent it. Can’t hurt to humour her.”

Richard sighed. “‘Tis dangerous to do what a mother expects or wishes.”

Ignoring this, Christopher studied the parchment. “Is there some reason Biddleage’s mentioned?”

“Laurel Clandon Blanchard, first Baroness Dremore was born in that village,” Richard said. “Mother’s tutelage,” he added and took a bracing drink of sherry.

“This line about
both lay in Morpheus arms
, Christopher quoted. “Was Lady Laurel buried there?”

Richard frowned. “No, both are in the family mausoleum at Heart Haven. Ricman Blanchard had it specially constructed.” He snapped his fingers at a realization.

“He also had a small mausoleum built in the centre of the cemetery on the church grounds in Biddleage. I wonder—”

“Bloody hell,” cursed Gunby. “I shan’t be able to go with you. Promised Perceval I’d speak in the Commons on the morrow.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Richard told him.

“I’ve seen that look,” Gunby chuckled. “Your mater has roused your curiosity. You’ll go take a look.”

“Perhaps to put an end to Mother’s machinations,” the baron admitted unwillingly. “When I tell her there was nothing to be found she’ll have to desist from such nonsensical antics.”

His mien turned serious. “If only she didn’t believe in the rubbish or speak of it to any and all. What about those scandal sheets when she starts going about again? She means to go to the Avonley soiree three days hence.”

“No one will be that malicious or foolish,” Gunby said. “They know they would answer to you if they do. Go to Biddleage, do,” he urged. “The King’s Head has decent chambers and serves delicious fare along with fine local ale. You can visit the mausoleum. See if there are any dryads about.” Gunby winked. “A mausoleum is like a cave.”

Mindful of this part of the legend about dryads, Richard scoffed, “Shall I find one making love with Hermes?” He shook his head. “’Tis foolish to even consider going.” He stared at the floor and wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. Were those bits and pieces of laurel leaves moving? Narrowing his eyes he bent to look more closely.

“Do something,” the invisible Lady Laurel demanded of her husband as she moved behind the present baron. “He must go to Biddleage.”

With a nod, Lord Ricman vanished.

The countess closed her eyes and concentrated with all her might. “Go to Biddleage. Go to Biddleage,” she chanted.

“You know they can’t hear you,” chided her husband, now back at her side.

“But they do ‘take’ the idea from time to time,” she informed him haughtily. “As you well know. Where did you go?”

Richard glanced up sharply at Gunby. “What did you say?”

“I? Nothing,” Christopher protested.

“There you are my dear.”

At these words Richard glanced at the library doorway and saw his mother.

Lady Laurissa smiled and strolled towards them.

Both gentlemen stood. As they turned to Lady Dremore, Gunby discretely put the parchment sheet behind his back.

Behind the present baron, unseen by all, the first baroness kissed her husband’s cheek. “Well done, love.”

“I have decided to stay in this evening as you suggested,” she said.

Richard gave Gunby a speaking look and tilted his head toward the door. He hoped Christopher took his meaning and escorted his mother to his vacated chair. It would never do to let her catch sight of the parchment. “My plans have changed, Mother. I must go out of town.” With relief Richard saw Gunby turn so his back was to the door, the verse safely out of sight. I shall hold you to our agreement that you will not go out without my escort. I shall return in a day. Two at most.”

After a silent oath at the foolishness of his decision to follow the clue, Richard added, “I shall return in time for the Avonley soiree so you can attend as you planned.”

Lady Dremore nodded. “I shall be content with that.”

A loud thud near a book case turned all three toward it. They saw a book arc as if thrown by an invisible hand and thud loudly to the floor beside the one already there.

Then Richard saw his cousin Blanchard a few feet from Gunby. He nearly swore.

The prosperous village of Biddleage lay northwest of London. Richard arrived at the King’s Head late that night. Their best chamber taken, he settled in the second best and ordered a cot for his valet.

The fare proved good despite the late hour. Richard noted with a smile that the local ale lived up to Gunby’s testimonial. Relaxed and refreshed the baron returned to his chamber intent on a good night’s sleep. Seeing that his valet had turned the covers on his bed down, Richard was puzzled by the pair of laurel leaves atop the pillow. He frowned, then brushed them off and promptly forgot them.

After breaking his fast the next morn Richard went for a stroll. Outside the inn he saw the square tower of the church of St. George visible above the rooftops. Wending his way through the narrow side streets he went to the Norman church.

Relieved to find the cemetery, as was usual, beside the church, he slowly circled the small rectangular stone mausoleum set amidst aged tombstones. Back at its door, he put a hand to the iron ring on the door.

“’Tis locked, sir,” a deep voice boomed from the right. “James Tailor, vicar of St. George’s,” the slim, pale man said as he approached. He offered his hand. “Visitors usually go to see the house Lord Nelson called home until his death,” Mr. Tailor commented.

“Dremore,” the baron responded. “'Twas passing through and thought I would visit my ancestor’s folly.”

“My lord.” Mr. Tailor gave a small bow. “I have read about the Blanchard mausoleum. ‘Tis rather a curiosity.”