Miss Farrow's Feathers (21 page)

"You have no proof of any of these accusations!" Nigel insisted. "I'm not even sure you are who you say you are. What proof do you have of that?"

"I'm well acquainted with the old earl's hand, and this letter is certainly genuine," Mr. Farrow said.

"And I can produce any number of reliable people who will attest to my identity," Max added. "It's no use, Nigel. I saw you making threats against Miss Farrow and I have this letter in our grandfather's own hand, doubting your trustworthiness."

"The old man didn't like me," Nigel said. "That hardly indicates I did away with him. I wasn't even here; I've been mourning my dead wife."

"And I'm sure there'll be an investigation into the circumstances of her death, as well," Max noted.

"I'll send word to the magistrate in that area," Mr. Barrelson said then turned a cold eye on Nigel. "Obviously in light of all this, my lord—er, Mr. Webberly—I'll be taking you into custody. Mr. Perkins as well, considering he was present during the time of your grandfather's death."

"I had nothing to do with it! It was all his idea!" Mr. Perkins cried.

"Shut up, you idiot," Nigel growled. "They have no proof of anything."

At that moment, there was more pounding at the door. Mr. Farrow wrinkled his brow and looked toward Nigel, oddly enough.

"Are you expecting anyone else?" he asked.

"I'm not t
alking to anyone about anything," Nigel hissed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"It's a messenger for Mr. Shirley," Mrs. Cooper called from the doorway when she had gone to answer it.

Max glanced at Hugh. Perhaps fate was working on their side tonight, after all. He nodded toward Mr. Farrow.

"We've been expecting word from my man in London. Send him in, if you don't mind."

The room became yet more full as the housekeeper ushered in a tall man Max recognized from his solicitor's office. He stepped forward to greet him. The man removed his hat and bowed politely.

"Good evening, my lord.
Forgive the interruption, but I was told you wanted to be notified immediately when the information you've been seeking was finally located."

"I do. Has it been?"

"Indeed, sir. My employer received word from Bow Street just this morning. He confirmed the validity, and I set off immediately to bring word."

"Excellent, Mr. Henning," Max said,
then turned to face Nigel.

"I regret to inform you, cousin, that my solicitor in London has everything needed to remand you over to the
courts. You'll have your fair trial, but I'm certain you will not care for the outcome of it."

"So is it safe to announce your return and your
rightful claim on the title?" Mr. Henning asked. "My employer has been most distressed at keeping such a thing under his hat, as they say."

"
You may inform him I no longer require his silence on the matter. Everything is in order and now that we have what we need to hold Nigel so he won't run off, there's no further need for subterfuge."

"Glad to hear it, my lord. Such a relief for all of us."

Nigel did not seem relieved. He stomped his foot and complained. "But I'm the earl! He was dead. The title is mine!"

More than once Max had held questions regarding his cousin's sanity, and now he was questioning again. The man certainly did sound a bit off.

"I was never dead, so you were never earl," he explained patiently. "The instant I learned of our grandfather's passing I went to London and corrected any misconceptions regarding my supposed demise. Your claim has been invalid from the start."

"But what about the treasure? I should inherit some of that, at least!"

"If there is any treasure I'm sure you're entitled to your share. Except for the fact that it's forfeit due to the little detail of you being a murderer."

He thought he caught Meg hiding a smile but he couldn't be sure. She was quite determined to avoid his gaze. He wished to God the room would suddenly empty and he could go to her and beg her to say she
might forgive his duplicity. Not being able to read her expression in the midst of all this was hell for him.

"Well I'll never tell you what I know about the treasure," Nigel said. "Grandfather left me some clues, too, you know. He told me the treasure is real and that Bartholomew is the key."

"And you figured out the book was a part of that," Max said. "Yes, I believe we've all come to that conclusion."

"The book?" Mr. Farrow questioned. "You mean, those old rumors of a Glenwick pirate treasure are true? And this horrid book tells where it is?"

"No, the book tells how to amuse yourself during a long sea voyage. The key phrases Bartholomew has been taught tell which passages from the book can be used as clues to find the treasure."

"I already knew that," Nigel snapped.

Mr. Farrow narrowed his eyes and glanced at his daughter. "And you knew about this, Meg?"

Now she avoided eye contact with her father as well as with Max. "Not all of it, Papa. Mr. Shirley and I recognized that Bartholomew's phrases came from certain rhymes in the book, but I had no idea it was related to any treasure."

"So you have been reading tawdry rhymes with the parrot trainer. Did you also know he was the legitimate earl?"

Now she did look at Max and he could see the anger and hurt in her eyes.

"He never actually mentioned that little bit to me."

"But he showed you his book,
" her father persisted.

"I thought he was using it to train the bird. I didn't realize he was merely hunting a treasure."

Her words twisted like a knife in his gut. Could she really think that's all it had been for him? That his time spent with her had been all about locating some silly treasure? He'd have to set her straight on that as quickly as possible.

"Well he can just keep on hunting that treasure," Nigel said. "There's not one area of the
manor that hasn't been searched. Not a single spot."

Bartholomew
—who'd been perched on his favorite cornice—seemed to think this was as good a time as any to chime in, repeating one of his favorite phrases a few times.

"
Dear Dot marks the spot. Dear Dot marks the spot."

Suddenly it was clear. All the parts to the puzzle made sense. Bartholomew really
was
giving the location of the treasure. Max felt like a fool not to recognize it right away.

"Pity you've had so much contempt for Bartholomew all along," he told Nigel,
tossing Bartholomew a biscuit and trying not to appear too proud of himself. "You'd have noticed something important."

"And what on earth would that be?"

"One of his favorite things seems to have gone missing."

"What are you talking about?"

"I noticed it was not on the wall in Grandfather's office. I wonder where it could be?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Dot, Nigel. I'm talking about Dot. Surely you recall her from our youth."

It took a moment for the light to dawn, but eventually Max read understanding over his
vacant face.

"You mean that hideous old
thing?"

"Did you have it removed?"

"Of course not. I haven't been wasting my time on decorating."

"
Obviously. But if she's not there, where did she go?"

"How the hell do I know? Maybe our grandfather had a glimmer of good taste and had the thing burned."

"I doubt it. I'm fairly certain that's where the treasure is."

"That dreadful thing is the treasure?"

"Dot marks the spot," Max said, gaining a cock-eyed stare from Bartholomew. "But where is she?"

"She?" Mr. Farrow asked. "I thought you were looking for an object."

"An object who is a she. Bartholomew's favorite perch," Max explained.

Now suddenly Meg caught her breath and put her hand to her mouth. "Oh! You mean the ghastly old figurehead!"

"You're familiar with it?"

"You think that will lead to the treasure?"

"Only if we can find it," Max said. "Unfortunately, she's not in her usual place of honor on my grandfather's wall."

"No, she certainly is not," Meg agreed.

"You know where she is?"

He was almost afraid of the answer. But Meg didn't cringe at her reply. Instead she gave him a beaming smile.

"She's here, in this very house!"

Meg was happier than she ought to have been. It was petty, but she had information to offer Max, information he needed and wanted. He may have only been using her for this all along, yet she was practically giddy to be able to supply it.

Pitiful, really. She should have some pride
—she should refuse to help him at all, the way he had lied to them and used her for his greedy little treasure hunt. But what did she do? She smiled at him like a simpleton and gave him exactly what he was looking for.

"Upstairs, in your room," she said.

He frowned. "What? I never saw it up there."

"Good heavens, no. Let us hope no one ever saw that thing in this house," Papa said.

"Come, I'll show you," Meg added when it seemed Max wasn't quite certain he could believe them.

She threaded her way through the people cluttering the room. Nigel sneered and let his eyes roam over her as she passed by, but she made sure he knew she was ignoring him. He'd be out of her hair soon enough and not likely to bother anyone else.
She'd not so much as waste her distain on him now.

Max stepped aside to let her pass and she was careful not to get too close. She knew from experience her knees and her heartbeat could not be trusted in close proximity to the man. It would be best right now if she keep all parts of her carefully under control. She would need every bit of resolve to get by when he apologized for using her in his scheme and then left to go take up his place as an earl.

What a fool he must think her! Treating him like a lowly parrot trainer when all along he was the Earl of Glenwick. At least he had the decency not to laugh in her face over it, so far. She doubted the meddlesome gossips of Richington would be so charitable toward her once they heard the whole of this story.

She led the noisy group
up into the room that Mr. Shirley—er, the earl—had been using during his stay. Once inside, she pointed toward the far corner.

"There it is."

He looked confused. "But that's just Bartholomew's perch."

She went to it to show him. Her face burned involuntarily, feeling the many sets of eyes on her as she stooped to untie one of the strings they had used to bind the padding and rags all around it.

"The old earl made us promise Bartholomew would never be parted from it," Papa explained, coming to her side to help with the unwrapping. "But of course, we just couldn't have this... thing... sitting out for public view."

At that point the first strip of rags covering the figurehead's face fell away, revealing one darkly lined eye, a heavily rouged cheek, and the hint of unnaturally red hair. Bartholomew squawked loudly and leaped off of Mr. Shirley
's shoulder. Drat,she meant
the earl's
shoulder. He landed with clicking toes onto the figurehead, dancing and squawking with delight at the sight of her.

More rags came off and Meg
had to glance up for a moment. Her former house guest was watching, and chuckling. Not at her, though. His eyes were set on the figurehead. He grinned like a child as more and more of the offensive thing became visible.

"That's the old girl I remember," he said. "Let me help out."

He stepped over to them and aided in the unceremonious stripping. Meg found herself feeling a bit missish as their hands happened to come together just at the front of the figurehead. She hadn't meant to touch him, to make contact this way. The fact that she did so just as they uncovered the extremely buxom expanse of skin at the figurehead's bosom... quite mortifying, indeed.

"Don't let my adeptness at this make you think I'm the sort of man who goes around doing this to just everyone," he said softly.

The rest of the crowd grumbled and mumbled amongst themselves so Meg could reasonably hope his words had reached no ears but her own. She didn't quite succeed at hiding her smile. She hoped she was slightly more successful with the butterflies bursting to life inside her and the raging thrum of heartbeat in her chest. No lady should be so thrilled as she felt at helping a man undress a wooden wanton.

"So where is the treasure?" Papa asked as the last of the padding fell away and the figurehead was fully revealed.

Meg had to agree. The very last word she might choose to describe this item was "treasure" and she couldn't see how on earth any sort of treasure might be hidden anywhere in it or on it. So far all they had done was pull the covering off a thing that most definitely ought to have remained covered.

"I'm afraid now we will have to rely on the book," Mr. Shirley said.

Er... she meant
the earl
. Heavens, but when would she ever get used to thinking of him as anything other than that?

The magistrate handed him the book and he studied it, then walked around the perch, studying that. Bartholomew climbed along the waves of carved hair billowing from the figure
's head. Every now and then he would lovingly nibble at the wood and make soft, cackling sounds. It was the most calm Meg had ever seen the bird.

If she'd have known just how much he loved the ugly thing, perhaps she would have left it uncovered.
Since the earl had taken it off his wall a couple years ago and mounted it on this thick pole, Meg could have perhaps found a place to keep it out of view. She could have turned the pole to face the wall, even.

The phrase snagged in her mind.
Turned the pole.
That sounded remarkably like... Good heavens, perhaps she had it figured out!

In her enthusiasm she nearly ripped the book away from
the earl
and started flipping through pages.

"Look, my lord," she exclaimed. "They aren't just clues, but they're instructions!"

Max was only too happy to let Meg grab the book from him and rummage through it. He felt warm and electric every time she read through those lewd rhymes. Not that she seemed in any way affected by them just now. She frowned and chewed her lip in the most studious fashion as she hunted through the verses, clearly seeking something specific.

"Ah, here it is," she said brightly, and began reading.

"When your fortune has long since been missed, lad,
and your coffers ha
ve long since been....
well, I'll skip that bit...

Then go visit Dear Dot,
'Cause you'll want what she's got.

You need just give your old pole a twist, lad."

Nigel snorted. "The vicar must be so proud. What a demure little miss you are, my dear."

"Shut it, Nigel," Max warned. "She's searching for clues; nothing more."

Mr. Farrow cleared his throat loudly. "This is highly irregular. I can't say I approve of it."

"I'm sorry, Papa," Miss Farrow said. "I don't mean to distress you. But as we're all adults here, and since I have already read through this book and seen the worse that it offers, perhaps you'll allow me to continue."

The reverend sighed and gave her a nod.

"Very well, my dear. I'm sure the Lord will forgive you since there's so much at stake. I must go on record as saying, though, that familiarity with sin
hardly make us immune to its consequence."

Meg nodded
, all prim and proper. "Indeed. Thank you, Papa. That is an excellent point and I hope we will hear it in one of your sermons on some Sunday quite soon."

Now the older man turned his sermonizing scowl onto Max.
The usually docile minister could be quite formidable when riled, it would seem. Max's collar felt decidedly tight and he resisted the urge to tug at it.

"I'd much rather pursue further discussion on the topic in more private fashion," Mr. Farrow said pointedly. "I hope his lordship will indulge me at his earliest possible moment."

And that, Max recognized, was an angry father calling him onto the carpet for what he perceived as inappropriate behavior toward his daughter. Max could hardly dispute the man, either. He
had
behaved most inappropriately toward Miss Farrow. Given his growing fondness for her, it was only by the grace of God he had not found opportunity to behave even more inappropriately.

"Of course, sir," he replied.

Miss Farrow, however, seemed oblivious to the meaning of that exchange. She was still studying the book, turning pages and making comparisons. Suddenly she looked up at Max.

"Do you still have those lists that we made of the most common of Bartholomew's phrases?"

"I do, " he replied and went to the drawer where he had stashed them.

Laying them out, he looked over Miss Farrow's delicate shoulder as she compared them to the various pages in the book.
She pointed to lines here and there as a means of holding her place and before long Max could see what she was doing.

The rhymes in the handwritten pages were clues, that much he could see now. All of them pointed to the figurehead and insisted that something dear could be found by encountering it. The phrases Bartholomew uttered in particular, well those were instructions. They
referneced the rhymes in the book, but beyond that they gave specific directives. All they needed to do now was follow them.

"I wonder what order we should proceed?" Miss Farrow asked, clearly at the same
conclusion as he.

Max knew exactly what order he'd like to proceed, but letting his mind wander off in that direction would bring them no closer to the treasure. If there
was
a treasure. Then again, perhaps if the clues were taken from bawdy rhymes about carnal activity, Max's thoughts weren't so far off from the mark.

Perhaps in order to get to the treasure, he ought to consider the usual course.

"The bird says, 'Go visit Dear Dot.' What does one do first when one visits a bawd?" Max asked as he stood before the figurehead and contemplated.

"Well, you've already stripped her near naked," Nigel taunted.

"Mind yourself, Webberly," the magistrate warned.

"You would knock at her door," Miss Farrow offered. "At least, that is the first thing I do when I pay a visit
to anyone proper."

It sounded reasonable. Since Dear Dot did not actually have a door, Max knocked on the pole she was hanging on. It sounded as one might expect a knocked pole to sound.

Nigel groaned. "Cart me off to jail now if this is the way the rest of the evening will go."

"If you don't have anything productive to offer, keep your mouth shut," Max demanded.

But Miss Farrow was still deeply in thought. "Hmm. Bartholomew says, 'Climb on my pole'," she announced. "Knocking doesn't seem to do anything, so you don't suppose you are to climb the thing, do you?"

Well, if the lewd analogy of attaining sexual treasure held true, there would very likely be some form of climbing at some point. Max decided not to mention that just now. The woman's father was already glaring daggers at him.

"Not sure climbing it will have the hoped for result," Max said simply.

Miss Farrow nodded.
"What about twisting it? Perhaps now is when you ought to give your old pole a twist?"

Nigel snorted again and the other men in the room shifted nervously. Mrs. Cooper gazed on
in the doorway and Max thought he heard a slight snicker from her direction. Perhaps it would be best, after all, if the females found something else to do with their time while the men continued at this.

"I'm not sure if that means what it says," Max offered, reaching to take the book from he
r and end the torment of such suggestive phrases falling from her innocent lips.

"But Bartholomew says that repeatedly," she insisted, keeping the book. "And this is a pole. Why not try twisting it?"

"Very well," he sighed.

He put his hands on the pole and tried to twist, but of course nothing happened. He moved slightly to the side so he could reach around the figurehead to make a better grip. Still nothing. Miss Farrow was flipping through the book and the pages laid out before her.

"Go from behind!" she exclaimed.

"Excuse me?" Max choked loudly.

"
Thank God for the view from behind
," she recited. "That's one of Bartholomew's phrases. Try from behind it."

Nigel was not even attempting to hide his lascivious laughter. "That's right, Cousin, do as the lady asks. Try her from behind."

It took everything Max had to pretend he hadn't heard that. Keeping his mind on his business, he moved to the rear of the figurehead's stand and put his hands on it. He found he could get a much better handle on the large pole, so he gave a good twist. To his surprise, he felt it shift. The pole turned on its base, accompanied by an audible click. Clearly he'd done something.

"Something's happening!" Miss Farrow exclaimed. "Whatever you're doing, do it some more."

Now Mr. Henning was clearing his throat loudly, adding to the uncomfortable noise of Mrs. Cooper's snickers and Nigel's guffaws. Max ignored all of it and put some muscle into his twisting. The pole had stopped, though. He detected no further shifting.