The Suspicion at Sanditon (Or, the Disappearance of Lady Denham) Read online

  The footsteps resumed. Quickly. Moving toward them.

  Charlotte inhaled sharply.

  “Trust me,” Sidney whispered.

  And kissed her.

  She was so startled that she hardly knew how to respond. It was a long kiss—long enough for her to wonder what on earth Sidney was thinking, kissing her without any sort of understanding between them, having known each other not even two days—and at a time like this! Long enough for Sidney to move his hands to hold her face between his palms. Long enough for her to know that she ought to raise one of her own hands and slap his presumptuous cheek. Long enough to realize that she did not want to slap his cheek, because she was kind of, sort of, maybe just a little bit enjoying the sensation of Sidney Parker softly kissing her.

  Long enough that, heaven help her, she began to kiss him back.

  In truth, the kiss probably did not last all that long. Time seems to slow down during moments of great apprehension, such the seconds before an unavoidable accident, or when one is about to be discovered by an ornery and possibly dangerous old man roaming suspiciously through a darkened mansion in the middle of the night. But it lasted long enough that the kiss was still in progress when the drapery panel was unceremoniously yanked back to expose them.

  Sidney immediately broke off the kiss, turned Charlotte’s head so that she faced away from him and Josiah, and moved his own head so that it blocked Josiah’s view of hers as he regarded Mr. Hollis.

  Josiah chuckled. “Well, now, Mr. Parker. I thought I heard somebody skulking about in here, but I did not expect to find you, let alone two somebodies.”

  Sidney stepped away from Charlotte and drew the panel so that it concealed her as they spoke. Her heart yet raced—in response to what had just transpired between her and Sidney, and in dread of what was about to transpire between Sidney and Josiah Hollis.

  “We did not realize anyone else was in this part of the house,” Sidney replied.

  “Obviously.” A pause followed, then Josiah spoke again. “I seem to have interrupted a tête-à-tête between you and Miss…?”

  Charlotte released her breath. Apparently, between the darkness and Sidney’s strategic movements, Josiah had not been able to identify her.

  “Miss Never-you-mind,” Sidney said. “You may embarrass me all you like, Hollis, but surely we can agree to allow the lady her privacy?”

  “Women are disappearing from this house left and right, Mr. Parker; you will understand if I am not sure what I just discovered. Is that lady with you willingly?”

  “Most willingly. I give you my word as a gentleman.”

  Most willingly. Charlotte’s face flushed so hot with embarrassment that she could barely listen as the conversation continued.

  “I could observe that a gentleman would not have put the lady in such a compromising position.”

  “I likewise could say that a gentleman would not be roaming the house at this hour in the dark without a purpose. You witnessed mine—what is yours?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “Come, now—you bade us all good night when you left the portrait room only a short while ago, and now, just when my friend and I thought we had found an empty corner of the house, you appear. Did you decide to follow Mr. Granville’s suggestion and take a sentimental tour after all?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Mr. Granville’s words inspired me to visit my uncle Archibald’s portrait before retiring for the night. Unfortunately, two careless lovers broke a vase and interrupted me, and now I suddenly find myself so sleepy that I believe I will barely make it to my chamber. So once more, I bid good night to you—and your friend.”

  “Good night to you, as well, then.” Sidney paused. “Mr. Hollis, I—we—appreciate your discretion.”

  “Believe it or not, Mr. Parker, I was young once, too.” He chuckled. “For that matter, so was my uncle Archibald. Yours is not the first stolen kiss within these walls.”

  * * *

  A long silence followed. Charlotte spent the time trying to collect herself before facing Sidney again.

  For him, the kiss had been a performance—a means of diverting Mr. Hollis from realizing they had been spying on him. It had been a desperate, last-second gambit, clever in its simplicity, successful in its execution.

  Too successful, for it had misdirected her, too; had led her to act in a manner inconsistent with her principles and upbringing.

  The kiss itself she could blame on circumstances. On Sidney. It certainly was not something she herself would have initiated, with any gentleman, ever. But she had returned the kiss—and for that, she could indict no one but herself.

  A gambit requires a sacrifice. Was that sacrifice to be her reputation?—If not her reputation among society in general (and she shuddered to think that she now was dependent upon not only Sidney Parker but Josiah Hollis for the preservation of that), then the esteem (or, now, lack thereof) in which Sidney Parker himself regarded her?

  At the very least, her own self-regard suffered. She was embarrassed. Ashamed. Most willingly. What did he think of her? At best, he believed her to be a naïve country girl, momentarily deceived by her own wishful thinking that the kiss was real, that the worldly Sidney Parker could possibly have developed romantic interest in her ever, let alone in the space of a day. At worst, he thought her a light-skirt, willing to sacrifice propriety for pleasure. Or would he simply take her for that too common of drawing-room denizens—a calculating husband-hunter who seized any opportunity to employ feminine wiles in hopes of catching a wealthy bachelor?

  Alternatively, had it been Sidney who was the opportunist, drawing her into a kiss that she could not resist without exposing their presence to Hollis? Trust me, he had said—but could she? Dare she? He was worldly—far more so than she. Was he in the habit of using his charm to seduce less sophisticated young women?

  She realized that she did not really know much about Sidney Parker—only that he was the brother of Thomas Parker, a man whom both she and her parents trusted, and who spoke well of Sidney. That connection ought to provide sufficient recommendation, but scoundrels could come from respectable families as well as disreputable ones, and kinship could blind one to a sibling’s faults. Even Thomas Parker had said that Sidney “lived too much in the world to be settled.” She now wondered exactly what he had meant by that.

  One thing she knew for certain: There could be no happy result of that kiss. Sidney had possibly revealed himself as a rake, she had proved herself a fool, and her reputation now lay at the mercy and discretion of Josiah Hollis.

  Her thoughts whirling thus, she had worked herself into an advanced state of mortification and misery when Sidney at last pulled aside the curtain.

  “Hollis is gone.”

  Another round of lightning had arrived outside and its intermittent flashes offered sufficient illumination for them to see each other’s faces once more. She searched his, hoping to find in it some hint of his thoughts. Unfortunately, his expression revealed little, beyond the impression that he studied her with the same goal in mind. She dropped her gaze, unable to bear his scrutiny.

  “I watched him walk down the corridor as far as I could see,” he said, “to ensure he did not linger outside the doorway to eavesdrop on us. I think he is indeed sleepy, or perhaps had too much wine—he wove a bit as he walked.”

  She nodded in acknowledgment, but said nothing. She did not trust her voice to remain steady, even if it managed to find its way around the enormous lump in her throat that defied every attempt to swallow it.

  “Miss Heywood—” He paused. “Pray forgive me. I thought only of thwarting Hollis, to embarrass him into overlooking any other purpose we might have had for being here. It was the decision of an instant, motivated, I assure you, by well-meant—if flawed—intentions. In the clarity of hindsight, I realize my failure to adequately consider all the repercussions.”

  There—it was confirmed. The kiss had indeed meant nothing to him. Her humiliation was complete. Now
it was merely a matter of how many people would know of it.

  “Do you honestly believe he will keep his discovery of us to himself?” she asked.

  “I cannot say for certain. I am more inclined to think so than I would have been an hour ago, but we all distrust him. Fortunately, he could not identify you—only me.”

  “There are six ladies among the guests. Two of them are your sisters, Miss Denham is missing, and Mrs. Darcy is happily married. That leaves me and Miss Brereton. My identity cannot be difficult to puzzle out, even for Josiah Hollis.”

  “Perhaps he took you for one of the housemaids?”

  She had been wrong—now her humiliation was complete. She struggled to maintain her composure. And to think of something to say that would not expose the mortification consuming her.

  “Did you?”

  The blunt question startled him. It startled her.

  “I meant that in a hopeful way,” he said. “If Hollis thinks I was with a servant, that is hardly a matter worth spreading tales about.”

  “Why? Are you in the habit of dallying with servants?”

  “No.” He seemed about to add something else, but stopped. She wondered what it had been. Only deluded daughters of country squires? The awkwardness between them was palpable, more than she could bear any longer.

  “I am returning to the portrait room,” she declared.

  He nodded, looking relieved. “I will escort you, then attempt to catch up with Mr. Hollis again.”

  “I can find my own way.”

  “Miss Heywood, whatever your feelings toward me at this moment, I implore you to reconsider. Four ladies have gone missing tonight—pray, do not render yourself vulnerable to becoming a fifth. I will see you there safely. My conscience will not permit me to do otherwise.”

  “I have seen what your conscience permits. Mine dictates that we part company.”

  “I cannot allow you to do that.” He spoke with intensity that made her nervous.

  “You cannot allow me? Who are you to determine what I am allowed to do?”

  “I am your friend, whether at this moment you believe me to be or not. The man you entrusted with your safety earlier this evening, when I found you alone in the dark.”

  A defensive shiver ran down her spine. Indeed, he had been cultivating her trust all evening, using his charm to disarm her. And yes, she had trusted him when they encountered each other in the gallery—despite his never having fully explained what had brought him to that room, of all places in this vast house. Or why he, too, had been wandering the house past the appointed time at which all the guests were to reconvene. Or where he had gone after parting ways with Mr. Granville.

  He had found her after she fled Susan Parker’s chamber, spooked by a sense of being watched. He had dismissed the significance of her experience—indeed, had outright discouraged her from mentioning it to the Darcys. How could he have been so confident that she had nothing to fear? When people were missing and everybody was trying to piece together what was happening?

  A terrible thought took possession of her. What if his discovery of her in the gallery had not been a coincidence—because it was he whom she had sensed in his sisters’ chamber, and he had followed her?

  “Miss Heywood?” His voice penetrated her disturbing reverie, and she realized she had not spoken for several minutes. “Is there anything I can do to regain your trust?”

  Another shiver passed through her. “Answer one question.”

  “Ask it.”

  “Do you know more about tonight’s events than you are letting on?”

  The moment she uttered the words, she regretted them. If he were indeed involved in the disappearances, she had just betrayed her suspicion to him. And at present she was once more alone with him in the dark. Do not allow yourself to be left alone with anyone you do not absolutely trust.

  He paused before answering—too long. Long enough for his hesitation to condemn him. Long enough for her to wonder whether Mr. Hollis was still close enough to hear her scream if she had need.

  “My own sisters comprise half the missing ladies,” he finally said. “Why would I keep secret any information I might possess?”

  To use the circumstances to take advantage of her? Even if he had nothing to do with the other ladies’ disappearances, Sidney Parker could still be a rake. Her heart pounded; her head began to ache as thoughts came in such a rushed jumble that she could not sort the sensible ones from the panicked.

  “I do not know you well enough to speculate,” she replied. “Indeed, I realize I do not know you at all.”

  “Surely you know enough about my character—”

  “It is your character about which I am particularly in doubt after what transpired behind that drapery.”

  He looked as if she had just delivered the slap she had contemplated earlier. She had injured him. To impugn a gentleman’s honor was a matter as serious as his offense against her; were she a man, they might have gone so far as to settle their differences on a remote field at dawn. Then again, were she a man, he would not have kissed her behind the drapery.

  “I suppose I deserve that,” he said quietly. “My transgression was great. Again, I offer my most sincere and humble apology for my poor decision. But Miss Heywood, if you are unable to forgive me—and I do not deny your right to withhold your forgiveness—can you at least agree to a tentative truce long enough for me to return you to your friends the Darcys? There is a kidnapper loose in this house. I fear for your safety should you walk these corridors alone. I have enough on my conscience tonight; were your disappearance added to it, I could not forgive myself.”

  Charlotte wanted to trust him. She did not want to believe Sidney Parker capable of treachery against her or anyone else. But this had been the longest day of her life, one so fraught with confusion and anxiety that it now left her too physically and emotionally weary to trust her own judgment. Was it more dangerous—in any number of ways—for her to remain alone with him, or to venture through the house without him?

  She wondered what he had meant about having enough on his conscience; then wondered whether she truly wanted to know. Her pulse still raced. She felt like a mouse befriended by a cat, unsure whether he was toying with her before pouncing. She needed to remove herself from him, needed to think clearly.

  “I will return to the portrait room by myself,” she said.

  “If you are going anywhere, it is with me. Do not resist me on this, Miss Heywood. I will pick you up and carry you if I must. You leave me no choice.”

  She recalled how strongly he had seized her in the gallery when they had collided … how completely his arms had surrounded her behind the drapery panel. Fear overwhelmed her—along with a primal urge to flee.

  He advanced a step toward her. She flinched and instinctively retreated several steps back.

  “If you are a gentleman, Mr. Parker, you will not force me into a situation I do not want to be in.” Her voice trembled. So did she.

  He stopped in place. “You are right—I will not.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Is there no persuading you from this course of action?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then go,” he said. “Go quickly—do not tarry on your way.” She turned and hastened toward the door while he was still speaking. “And promise me that you will somehow keep yourself safe.”

  She made no promise; she had already begun her flight.

  Twenty-eight

  She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her own room, with her own heart only privy to its folly.

  —Northanger Abbey

  Darcy had not realized, during their first visit to the study, just how many documents its cabinet held. Now, after they had unrolled each one, the half dozen of greatest interest to him and Elizabeth lay spread on the desk.

  Elizabeth stood nearest an architectural drawing of the ground floor, alternating her examination of it with surreptitious glances over her shoulder at the bear head on the
wall.

  “It is not going to come down and bite you,” Darcy said.

  “I know—I just cannot understand the appeal of having it in here—staring at one all the while,” she said.

  The sketch closest to Darcy depicted the castle ruins upon which the house had been built. “It appears that the original castle had two posterns—tunnels constructed to enable escape or sallies in the event of a siege,” he said. “One led east, the other, west. However, there is no evidence of them on the architectural drawings of the modern Sanditon House.”

  “That does not mean they no longer exist,” Elizabeth replied.

  “Oh, I believe they still exist—or at least one did as late as a hundred years ago. But we still do not know where it enters the house or where it leads, let alone whether it remains in use today. In the course of time, either or both tunnels could have collapsed, or flooded, or been filled in, or had their entrances and exits built over.”

  “My guess is that Archibald’s letter refers to the west tunnel, and that it exits somewhere near the grotto. That seems to have been his and Ivy’s trysting place; he could go to meet her without being seen, or from there smuggle her into the house.”

  “Agreed. But who would know of it now? My impression is that the west side of the property sees little use. The hermitage has sat vacant since Mad Woodcock died, and the grotto abandoned since Archibald’s death, if not before.”

  “I should think the groundskeeper would be aware of it.”

  “Perhaps—depending upon how well hidden the exit is. The grotto itself is so covered in overgrowth that I nearly missed its entrance. Even the groundskeeper might be unaware of a tunnel that has not been used since before he was born, with an exit that is meant to be hidden, on a part of the property that has fallen into disuse.”

  “Which would make it perfect for a kidnapper to enter and exit the house without being seen. However, where would he then take his victims, once he emerges from the tunnel with them? Especially in this weather? You and Mr. Hollis already checked for Lady Denham in the grotto.”