Free Vice and Virtue by Veronica Bennett Page A

high.
    Mill Street was narrower and darker than Conduit Street, but the stone horse-trough was plain to see, with its inscription invoking St Christopher. There, on the corner, stood Edward’s house.
    He had been born here. His mother and father had both died here. It was here that he had learned his letters from a tutor and the violin from his beloved music master. “As a boy, I was never happier than when I was reading a book or playing my fiddle,” he had told Aurora. “By the time I was eighteen I had read all my father’s books, so together we embarked upon expanding his library.”
    They had chosen, bought, placed and stood back to admire each volume. But the years’ spent building this precious library had been in vain. Like everything else in the house, it had been lost to Josiah Deede.
    The house was substantial. There was no shop at the level of the street. Aurora counted three storeys, then stood back from the overhang and noticed a fourth built into the roof. All had the elegant sash windows of the wealthy. She could not quash the thought that by insisting to Edward that their marriage be annulled whatever the outcome of their quest, she had rejected the chance to become mistress of this house. And, furthermore, of Marshcote, Edward’s family seat in Lincolnshire, the aspect, situation and proportions of which she could only imagine.
    A man-servant answered her knock.
    “Good afternoon,” she said. “My name is Miss Drayton. I am expected by Miss Deede.”
    He opened the door for her to pass through. “Miss Deede will be down in a few minutes,” he said, leading her towards the rear of the house. “Will you wait in here, if you please, Miss?”
    Aurora found herself in a room which was clearly the library, though it perhaps also served as a study, and may have been a schoolroom in the past. There were many bookshelves, and a sturdy old-fashioned globe in the corner. In the centre of the carpet was a large table covered with books and papers. The space between the windows was occupied by a new, expensive cabinet, the type in which the front lowered to reveal a writing surface and many small drawers, cupboards and compartments.
    Aurora suspected this writing desk was locked, but she scrutinized it closely. There was a keyhole in the hinged front, and another in each of the three drawers below. The keyholes were all of the same type, and probably opened with the same key, perhaps similar to the key that unlocked the box in which Aurora’s mother kept a yellowing bundle of Father’s love letters.
    The desk seemed a suitable place to begin to search for something – a private paper, an account, a legal document, anything that might incriminate Josiah Deede. She could do nothing now, but she resolved to return as soon as an opportunity arose, and conduct herself like a real spy. She must either find the key or conquer the lock by some even less legitimate means.
    Above the fireplace was a painting of a country house. Aurora leaned closer to read the inscription on the frame. “Marshcote, 1656.” The house was low, made of red brick, not at all imposing. Set round a courtyard, it had casement windows and many chimneys, in the style of buildings of more than a hundred years ago. It must have been in the Francis family for generations. She thought about this for a moment. Her husband’s family. Her family, for the present. And now it had passed to the Deedes.
    Celia Deede flung open the door. Dressed in a pink and green silk house robe, its flounced sleeves trailing from her wrists, and with ribbons threaded through her blonde hair, her smiling countenance was as open as that of a child.
    “Miss Drayton!” she cried, taking Aurora’s hands, “how lovely you look!”
    Aurora had dressed in one of her two second-best gowns, a small-patterned brocade left unpaid-for by one of Mrs Eversedge’s customers, and eventually, after much unhappy correspondence, bequeathed to Aurora. It was a little heavy for a