A Love Laid Bare (41 page)

“This is not to scale, Colin. See if you can come up
with a true length for the walls. There is a measuring line around
here somewhere.”

“I have one!” Frances jumped up and dashed out.

Richard looked after her, a faint smile touching his
mouth. Of course Frances would have a line handy. One never knew
just what she had squirreled away. He looked down at the blueprint
and then regarded the loft area. Perhaps it
was
possible…

Frances reappeared in the doorway, flushed and
somewhat breathless. “I spoke to Benson. He has asked that Mr.
Bolling come up to the house.” She handed Halcombe the line and
resumed her position on the floor so that she could re-examine the
plans.

Requesting the carpenter was a good idea, Halcombe
thought. Few people on the estate would be sleeping this night, and
indeed, Bolling arrived soon after.

“I apologize for the late hour, Bolling, but we are
in dire need of your expertise. Lady Halcombe feels there is an
inconsistency between the dimensions of the room and the loft. I
would like you to take some measurements so we can adjust the scale
on this drawing. You call them out, and I will record them.”
Bolling nodded. “We are hoping to locate some documents that might
possibly be hidden behind a wall or panel. It does not have to be a
very big space.”

Halcombe was aware that he sounded rather gruff and
he suspected his face was set into a cold, grim expression. But
then the carpenter’s countenance wore much the same look.

“Yes, sir.” Bolling clearly understood the sense of
urgency and he crouched down to survey the drawings for himself. He
studied the viscount’s notations and added a few of his own. “My
lady is right about the loft being off-kilter,” he said as he stood
up. “I’d like to take some measurements down here first.” Bolling
paused. “But if there is anything to be found, I do feel it will be
in the loft.”

Halcombe leaned over to help Frances to her feet and
then gave Summerton a hand. “Let’s put these on a table before we
wear out our knees. Frances, why don’t you take down the numbers?”
While the discomfort had been real enough—and was certainly a small
price to pay—Halcombe recognized that his wife needed something to
keep her mind busy. She was unnaturally calm now, her movements
controlled, but the vacancy in her eyes chilled him.

He gave her the pencil and a large, slim volume with
a sheet of paper placed over it. “If you’ll do the honours, I will
help Bolling.”

It did not take them long, although every minute felt
more like ten. The clock ticked off the time with relentless
precision and the allotted hour was soon past. Halcombe decided to
give it another thirty minutes. After that other plans would have
to be made.

“I’ll warrant it’s the loft, my lord,” Bolling said,
studying the list of figures that Frances had diligently recorded.
He rummaged in his tool carrier, stuffed several implements into
his overall pockets, and climbed the ladder. “I may do some damage
here, sir.”

“You can tear down the whole damn thing, if need be,”
Halcombe said, following behind him.

Bolling made his way to the far end of the loft,
pushed aside a chair and knelt to examine the wainscoting. The wood
was dark with age and layers of varnish, but there were no marks or
other peculiarities to indicate an opening.

As the earl watched the tradesman’s careful
examination of the wall, his hope began to dwindle. With only a
quarter of the surface area left to be searched, he heard Frances’
soft footsteps behind him and he shifted to block her view. Seeing
the last of her optimism crumbling away was more than he could
bear.

“You should have stayed below,” he said quietly.

“I want to be here, with you,” she said. “I…”

Bolling suddenly called out to them with excitement.
“Look here, sir! This section of the chair rail appears to have
been cut—very precisely, too. The lines are barely visible.”

The earl ran his hand over the indicated area. He
could just about feel the paper-thin cuts with his fingers. “How
does it open?”

“There now, sir, that’s what I’m wondering myself.
There must be some kind of mechanism but I don’t see anything.”
Bolling banged his fist against the wall. “Sounds like the whole
panel is false—a door, maybe.”

“Pry it off,” Halcombe said sharply. He backed away
and called down to Summerton and asked him to bring another
lamp.

Bolling pulled a chisel from his overalls, wedged it
under the chair rail, and tapped it firmly with his hammer—again
and again—until the wide board loosened and clattered to the floor.
“Looks like some kind of snap connections were holding it in place,
my lord. And it is a door of some sort, but I don’t see the way to
opening this either.”

Frances gasped when she saw the exposed door hinges.
Halcombe spared her a glance, watched her sink into a nearby chair,
and returned his attention to the carpenter.

“Take the hinges off, Bolling,” Halcombe ordered, his
gaze intent on the oblong panel now exposed. The hinges were easily
removed, and he and Bolling lowered it to the floor.

The small chamber behind it was empty, with the
exception of a flat metal box. Halcombe stared at it in disbelief.
Bolling stood beside him, wide-eyed and mouth agape. “Well, I’ll
be…” the carpenter said softly.

It was Summerton who finally broke the spell, the
light from his lamp reflecting off the metal. “Shall we move below
so we can view our prize properly?” He proceeded to descend the
ladder, Frances and Bolling following behind.

The box was heavier than Halcombe had expected. He
passed it to Summerton who was balanced on one of the lower ladder
steps and then climbed down to join the others.

Frances had not yet said a word. Halcombe was still
rather dazed himself. He wondered if she, too, was hesitant to
believe they had actually succeeded—if, in fact, the metal case
contained what they had been seeking.

They gathered around the table where Colin had gently
deposited the case. Richard flipped the catch open and raised the
lid.

“It
is
the Legacy Folio,” Frances breathed.
She lifted the top sheet of stiff parchment and carefully laid it
next to the box. “I’ve never seen it myself—or the replica—but I
have seen a drawing of the cover.”

The cover was truly a work of art in itself. It
featured a fantastical representation of the world with exquisitely
illustrated birds and animals, some of which had to be imaginary.
Or perhaps people once believed such existed, Halcombe thought. He
leaned closer to examine the remaining papers. The four maps, each
drawn on parchment, were beautifully detailed but had only a few
relatively simple illustrations. At the bottom of the case lay a
complete reproduction of the entire folio. The level of detail on
the forged cover was very similar to that of the genuine folio, but
the artistry was not quite perfect.

Blast it all to hell!

Halcombe slammed his palms against the tabletop. “The
reproduction of the cover is useless. Jensen is most likely too
familiar with the
illuminati
not to notice it right
away.”

“What about the maps?” Frances asked, laying a hand
on his forearm. Her voice was faint and tinged with despair.

Richard laid the two sets of maps on the table, side
by side, to study them. The room fell quiet as he, Frances and
Colin scanned the documents.

Frances let out a sharp breath. “They appear to be
indistinguishable from the originals,” she said. “We could
substitute the forged copies of the maps and then use the original
cover to create a counterfeit Folio.” She looked at Summerton and
then back to Halcombe. “Do you think it could work? Have you any
kind of plan?”

“I’ve a few ideas, but this changes things somewhat,”
Halcombe said. “It’s almost four and I want to leave no later than
dawn. We have only an hour to put things together.” He turned to
the burly carpenter, who had silently watched the proceedings with
grave interest. “Mr. Bolling, we are in your debt.

“No debt, sir. It was merely my job, and I am well
pleased if it helps Lady Flora.” He paused and looked somewhat
sheepishly at the earl. “But I’d be pleased to take a closer look
at the contraption up there someday—try to figure out how it
works.”

“You may spend as long as you wish with it, Mr.
Bolling,” Frances said, smiling faintly. “Thank you.”

“Please ask Benson to come in, Bolling,” Halcombe
added.

Bolling nodded and left the room. Colin continued to
study the Folio.

Richard reached for Frances and wrapped his arms
around her, pulling her close. He brushed his cheek over her hair.
“We will do this thing, and we will have our daughter home again
soon.”

Frances pressed her face to his chest. “I hope and
pray so.”

Halcombe prayed as well—not only for Flora and
Nancy’s well-being, but also for the strength and ingenuity to save
them. God keep them safe until then.

Their plan was not overly complicated. Jim and Mathew
were called in to add their knowledge of the terrain surrounding
Clifftop. Frances, of course, knew the area well.

“We must keep in mind that from certain vantage
points on the headland one can see an approach from miles away,”
Frances cautioned the men crowded around the map of Sussex spread
on a table. “Lord Halcombe must be seen as coming alone.”

“Jim and Mathew will leave now and go around these
hills toward the village.” Halcombe traced the route with his
forefinger. “They have the address of Thomas Blount’s home. He can
show them a way to Clifftop from that direction.”

Frances stiffened.

“They will stay hidden unless they see my signal—or
feel it otherwise necessary,” the earl added, obviously noting her
reaction. His gaze held hers. “You must trust their judgment. They
will not endanger Flora.”

Frances swallowed her objections. She knew the men
would not do anything foolhardy, but she was so terrified that it
was almost impossible to think rationally.

“Summerton and I will leave shortly after their
departure. While it is normally a four-hour ride, the roads are
sodden from the storms and will slow us down. I would prefer to
wait out the added time closer to Clifftop.”

Frances pressed her lips together to stifle the
vehement “No!” that had lodged in her throat. Richard knew what he
was about.
Let the man finish, Frances, before you open your
mouth.

Halcombe again tapped a finger on the map. “The road
here, that branches off below this rise of land…where does that
lead, Frances?”

The effort to concentrate on his question cleared
some of the fog in her head. Frances deliberately forced her
clenched fists to open and braced one hand on the table to more
easily study the route.

“If you head east, it eventually goes to the village,
but if you turn in the other direction, it starts winding up
through rocky terrain. Father and I made the climb, on foot, a few
times. It does not show clearly here, but the way is difficult.”
She took up the pencil and drew a meandering line from the main
road upwards to the coast.

“You traversed it on foot?” Summerton asked, looking
intently at the faint track on the paper. “Is it possible to get a
horse up it? And when you reach the top, what is the distance to
Clifftop?”

Frances looked from him to her husband. “You are
thinking of sending someone that way?” Richard nodded, and waved a
hand for her to continue.

She paused, her eyes narrowing in thought. “A horse
can manage it, if led. The trail ends here.” Frances penciled in a
cross at the edge of the cliff. “It is perhaps a mile, or a little
less, from this point to Clifftop. There is no road, of course, but
there is a footpath. If you send someone this way,” she added, her
words taut with warning, “they will be visible from the headland
until the road curves to the southwest. What purpose will it serve,
other than to alert Jensen?”

Halcombe’s eyes met Summerton’s, an unspoken message
passing between them. “I am concerned about Jensen’s claim that
Flora and Nancy are not being held at Clifftop. Despite his
warning, I think it likely he
is
keeping them quite close. I
expect he will move them before I arrive—sometime this
morning.”

“Move them? But where?” Frances heard the rising note
in her voice and forced several calming breaths into her lungs
before she went on. “Aside from the village and Clifftop, there are
no other buildings along that area.”

The grave concern in the viscount’s eyes sent a new
prickle of fear skittering over her skin. She knew Summerton was
not a man who displayed his thoughts often.

“If this headland is typical, hollows and sometimes
boulders of considerable size are common. Lady Flora and Nancy are
small and slight. If they have been made to lie anywhere on the
ground…” Summerton raised one shoulder and swiftly dropped it. “No
one would see them unless they were right on top of them. I propose
to walk from the trail end to Clifftop. I will leave my horse
hidden behind the rocks.”

“But…”

“Jensen’s attention will be entirely on me,” Halcombe
interrupted. “If he plans to meet me at Clifftop, as he said, he
has no choice but to leave his hostages elsewhere.”

The vision of Flora and Nancy plunging into the surf
below, lost in the unrelenting waves that slammed onto the cliffs,
was a waking nightmare. Frances bit her lower lip hard enough to
taste the coppery tang of blood.

Judging from the expressions on Jim’s, and Mathew’s
face, they agreed with Halcombe and Summerton. Why was she arguing?
She had to trust these men—men ready to give their very lives, if
need be, to rescue her baby.

Frances steadied her voice, her eyes meeting her
husband’s in silent desperation. “Do as you think best.” Then,
almost choking on the words, she added, “Flora will need me
there.”