“Wait?” Rannulf’s eyebrows snapped together in a frown. Wait ? When Effingham was out there somewhere and so was Branwell Law? When Judith’s good name and liberty were still in peril? When there was probably planted evidence in Law’s rooms?
“If I am not much mistaken,” Bewcastle said, “this house will be receiving yet another visit soon.” He looked at the landlord again. “I believe you also agreed to show no recognition when the same dark-haired gentleman returns with a Bow Street Runner?”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and looked from Bewcastle to Rannulf.
“Show us to a room within earshot of the door,” Bewcastle said.
It was a small, dingy room with dark, faded furniture. The four of them were ushered inside and left alone there, the door ajar.
Freyja laughed softly. “Sometimes, Wulf,” she said, “I cannot help but admire you. How did you guess?”
“I believe it was at our mother’s knee,” he said, “that I learned that two and two invariably add up to four, Freyja.”
“But what if they do not on this occasion?” Judith asked. “What if there is nothing in Bran’s room? Why will you not let us look, your grace?”
“The landlord will tell the truth now,” he said. “It is best, Miss Law, if he can say with all honesty that no one has been into your brother’s rooms since Effingham left them this morning.”
“Bran was not here last night or this morning, then, was he?” she said. “Where is he?”
They were rhetorical questions. She was not looking for answers to any of them. Rannulf took both her hands in his, squeezed them tightly, and then held them flat against his chest. He did not care what Wulf or Freyja might think.
“We will find him,” he told her. “And if Wulf’s guess is correct, as I would wager it is, his name will have been cleared by the time we do. Stop worrying.”
Though, of course, the brother was probably in serious trouble even apart from all this business of stolen property. If he had been desperate enough to leave Harewood in the middle of the night because so many creditors were hounding him, he would be desperate enough to do some pretty heavy gambling to recoup his fortunes.
“Don’t worry,” he said again, raising one of her hands to his lips and holding it there for a few moments until she looked into his eyes and half smiled.
Freyja, he saw, had taken a seat and was looking at them with an unreadable expression in her eyes.
Bewcastle was standing slightly to one side of the window, looking out at the street.
“Ah,” he said, “not a moment too soon.”
Judith was terribly afraid. Afraid of what was about to happen, afraid of what would be discovered in Branwell’s rooms, afraid of what might not be discovered. She was afraid for Bran even apart from all this, afraid for her family and for herself. And she was afraid of this proud, haughty, powerful family which was fighting her battles for her.
Most of all perhaps she feared the look in Rannulf’s eyes, the firm kindness of his hands, the warm gentleness of his kiss on one of them. Did he not understand?
She could hear the landlord open the door again—they were all very still, listening. She recognized Horace’s voice and another, deeper, gruffer voice.
“I am with the Bow Street Runners,” that other voice was saying, “and investigating a large jewel theft. I must insist upon your letting us into Mr. Branwell Law’s rooms, where I expect to find evidence.”
“I s’pose it is all right, then,” the landlord said.
“I am hoping ,” Horace said, sounding both grave and pompous, “that we will find nothing, Witley, though I fear the worst. Branwell Law is my stepcousin, after all. But I do not know who else would have stolen his grandmother’s jewels but him and his sister. They both fled during that same night. I pray this will be a wild-goose chase and they have already discovered back at Harewood that some vagrant broke into the house during the ball.”
“It is unlikely, sir,” the Bow Street Runner said.
There was the sound of boots on the stairs going up and then the jingle of keys and the squeak of a door opening upstairs.
“Wulf and I will go up,” Rannulf said. “Judith, stay here with Freyja.”
Freyja snorted.
“I am coming up too,” Judith said. “This concerns me as well as Bran.”
There was an open door at the top of the first flight of stairs, presumably opening into Branwell’s rooms.
Judith could see the landlord standing just inside. He turned a worried face toward them as they stepped onto the landing. Horace was standing in the middle of the room, his back to the door, his arms crossed over his chest. The Bow Street Runner, a short, rotund, bald man, was coming out of an inner room, perhaps the bedchamber, clutching a glittering pile of what must be Grandmama’s jewelry.
“He did not even hide it very carefully,” he said with some contempt.
“And that , if I am not much mistaken,” Horace said, pointing to a chair that was just in Judith’s line of vision, “is one of Judith Law’s caps. Oh, my poor Judith, how careless of you. I was hoping you might be left out of this.”
“She more or less had to be an accomplice, though, did she not, sir?” the Runner said, setting down the jewels with a clatter on a small table and picking up the bonnet cap Judith had so detested.
She did not know what everyone else was waiting for.
“You are a liar and a villain, Horace!” she cried, striding into the room and drawing to herself the astonished attention of both men. “You planted the evidence in my room at Harewood, and you planted the evidence here. It is a wicked, dastardly form of revenge, especially against Branwell, who has done nothing to offend you.”
“Well, my dear cousin herself,” Horace said. “You have one thief to arrest without any further searching, Witley.” And then his eyes moved beyond Judith and the smirk on his face froze there.
“You might well lose that cocky air,” Rannulf said quietly.
“These are the Bedwyns, Witley,” Horace said, not taking his eyes off Rannulf. “With the Duke of Bewcastle himself. A powerful family, as you doubtless know. But I would expect your integrity to be above fear of such power. Lord Rannulf Bedwyn fancies Judith.”
“The game is up, Effingham,” Rannulf said. “The landlord who just let you into these rooms will swear that Branwell Law has not been home here for longer than two weeks—before the theft, that is. He will also swear that this morning you paid him a hefty bribe to let you in here unescorted and to tell certain lies if he was questioned, including one about Law’s having been here yesterday and today. I will swear to the fact that I last saw that cap at Harewood last week, that I have not seen it since though I escorted Miss Law to London. She has also not been out of the company of one or another of my family since we arrived here yesterday afternoon. If that is ail the jewelry that can be found in these rooms, I would guess that there is far more elsewhere. Judith, you would know better than I. Should there be more?”
“Much more,” she said.
“I wonder,” Rannulf said, “if you have been cocky enough to keep them in your lodgings, Effingham, on the assumption that no one would dream of searching for them there.”
The Bow Street Runner cleared his throat. “These are serious charges you are making, my lord,” he said.
“They are indeed,” Rannulf agreed. “Perhaps since we are on a treasure hunt, we should all invite ourselves to Effingham’s lodgings and have a look around.”
It was the moment at which Judith, watching Horace closely, knew that he was finally beaten. He had been foolish enough to keep the jewels in his rooms. And now he was further incriminating himself by turning red in the face and blustering. He was as cowardly now as he had been outside the summerhouse at Grandmaison.
She set her hands over her face briefly and stopped listening. This had all happened—all of it—because she had worn one of her unaltered dresses at Harewood the day of Horace’s arrival there and had not worn a cap. He had looked at her and leered at her, as men had been doing since she grew out of her girlhood, and everything had developed from that moment. It was all her fault.