Free Never to Part by Joan Vincent Page A

close. “I do know that.” She kissed her cheek. “But we are not on our last legs yet. Do say you shall look after Geoffrey for a day or three,” Daphne begged. “I shan’t be gone more than that.”
    “How will you explain arriving without even a maid?”
    “I’ll come up with some explanation. Think of it, Saddie. The Dremore Treasure. I could settle Geoffrey’s debts and buy us a cottage in the Cotswolds if Trotter House is out of reach.”
    “’Tis a miserable mangled clue. More like you’ll return from the journey knowing no more than you do now,” grumped Saddie but she kissed the young woman’s cheek.
     * * * *
Dremore House
Mayfair, London
     
    Richard Lord Dremore studied the faded images of the couple on the cameo he held. The powdered wig on the gentleman’s head was matched by his lady’s powdered style. “They look so happy. So much in love,” he murmured.
    “Talking to yourself these days, ehh,” Christopher Gunby said at the library door. “A certain sign of senility.”
    “Mayhaps mere madness,” Richard said ironically. He motioned his friend to the chair beside his.
    “Pour a glass of port if you wish,” the baron said. He picked up his glass and sipped while he studied the parchment sheet lying before him. “This is certainly madness.”
    “What is this unhappy humour about?” Gunby inquired. “Aren’t still brooding on those broadsheets?” He sat and took the cameo Richard offered.
    “The family founders I take it.” He handed it back.
    “Yes. I ne’er saw it before this afternoon. It came in a packet with this.” Richard handed the parchment to Gunby.
    When Christopher took it, tiny green fragments fell onto his buff breeches. He frowned and brushed them off.
    “Some sort of leaves, crushed beyond recognition, were folded into the paper,” Richard offered. He watched Gunby read and smiled at his friend’s growing confusion.
    “I don’t know who sent it,” the baron said when the other looked at him. “As to why?” He shrugged.
    “Whoever did so obviously wants you to follow the clue,” Gunby said speculatively. “This is a clue, is it not?”
    “A clumsy one if one at all,” Richard allowed.
    “Biddleage isn’t far from here. It would be easy enough to drive down and see if anything . . . materializes ,” Christopher said and broke into a guffaw.
    “Sorry, old man, couldn’t resist,” he said when he regained control of himself. He shrugged. “Your mother must have sent it. Can’t hurt to humour her.”
    Richard sighed. “‘Tis dangerous to do what a mother expects or wishes.”
    Ignoring this, Christopher studied the parchment. “Is there some reason Biddleage’s mentioned?”
    “Laurel Clandon Blanchard, first Baroness Dremore was born in that village,” Richard said. “Mother’s tutelage,” he added and took a bracing drink of sherry.
    “This line about both lay in Morpheus arms , Christopher quoted. “Was Lady Laurel buried there?”
    Richard frowned. “No, both are in the family mausoleum at Heart Haven. Ricman Blanchard had it specially constructed.” He snapped his fingers at a realization.
    “He also had a small mausoleum built in the centre of the cemetery on the church grounds in Biddleage. I wonder—”
    “Bloody hell,” cursed Gunby. “I shan’t be able to go with you. Promised Perceval I’d speak in the Commons on the morrow.”
    “I’m not going anywhere,” Richard told him.
    “I’ve seen that look,” Gunby chuckled. “Your mater has roused your curiosity. You’ll go take a look.”
    “Perhaps to put an end to Mother’s machinations,” the baron admitted unwillingly. “When I tell her there was nothing to be found she’ll have to desist from such nonsensical antics.”
    His mien turned serious. “If only she didn’t believe in the rubbish or speak of it to any and all. What about those scandal sheets when she starts going about again? She means to go to the Avonley soiree three days hence.”
    “No