Page 42 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

There was a quirk at Ralph’s lips, though it was gone so fast that she wasn’t sure it had been there at all. “Of course.”

Mrs. Hewitt was in the hall, craning her neck in both directions. “It’s empty. This way,” she said, motioning them to follow her.

Mrs. Hewitt set a brisk pace, but Ralph lagged behind, helping Ivy when she realized just how unsteady her legs were. Judging from the musty carpets and closed-up rooms they passed, they were in the rarely used north wing of the house. Why had Arthur brought her here instead of to her room?

Ivy chanced a sidelong glance at Ralph, though he was so close to her that she could only see the green wool of his coat, the brass livery buttons glinting in the dim light. His arm was looped gingerly around her waist, almost as if he was afraid to touch her. Was Ralph right, had there really been something in her drink? She’d heard the stories whispered between women in powder rooms, about girls who’d had their drinks tampered with in the dance halls. But Arthur was her fiancé, he loved her, or at the very least, cared about her. He wasn’t some anonymous cad in a club. He was a gentleman.

Ivy had only been in this part of the house a handful of times, but Mrs. Hewitt was taking them somewhere that she was sure she’d never seen before. They abruptly stopped at the end of the hall, moonlight pouring in from a window and casting the wood-paneled walls in deep shadows. Mrs. Hewitt put her finger to her lips, and then pushed on the wall next to the window alcove with both hands. The panel swung away, revealing a hidden door.

Ralph’s arm tightened around Ivy as he guided her through the dark passageway. It was musty and narrow, but the assurance with which they moved told her that both Mrs. Hewitt and Ralph had been this way before. They emerged onto a gallery so low that they had to crouch, and Ivy caught her breath as it dawned on her where they were. She’d never been on this level before, hadn’t even realized therewasa third gallery in the library. They were well hidden by a heavy wood guardrail and thick shadows cast from the dim lamplight below. Chancing a peek over the side, Ivy’s head swam at just how far up they were. She leaned into Ralph, glad that his strong arm was there to support her.

Below them, the various members of the party chatted in groups, some browsing the shelves. Their voices carried up even to the third gallery, the acoustics as clear as if Ivy was standing among them below.

Arthur was in conversation with his father, a drink in hand. “Should we go have a look, just to make sure she’s all right?”

Lord Mabry scoffed. “Dr. Prescott said that the dose was enough to put her out for hours yet. In the meantime, I say we find the manuscript and begin.”

Coldness shot through Ivy’s veins. Arthurhaddrugged her, and they were down there talking about it as if it was just another item on the evening’s itinerary. Ralph must have sensed that Ivy’s body was coiled and ready for an outburst, because he placed heavy hands on her shoulders with a squeeze, ensuring that she couldn’t move. Biting her tongue, Ivy felt her eyes water as the betrayal washed over her in waves.

Lord Mabry cleared his throat and raised his glass. Immediately the crowd fell silent. “Esteemed friends and colleagues, Sphinxes, your attention for a moment, please.” His commanding voice carried through the library—herlibrary. “We find ourselves in an extraordinary position, one never before achieved by our society. The library is not only within our grasp, but we are poised to seize the manuscript for ourselves. Arthur will be married to the Lady Hayworth, and the library will be de facto in our control.”

A murmur rippled through the small crowd. One man was helping himself to a cigar, waving his match perilously close to the books, and another had made himself comfortable in Ivy’s favorite chair, his boots propped up on the velvet ottoman. It was like watching a horde of soldiers desecrating a temple.

“Will she allow it?” the man with the boots asked.

“She is a woman and will be a wife—she has little choice in the matter. Besides, the library needs her, needs her to feed. I will not risk my son to its appetites by removing the lady from the picture.”

What were they talking about? Why did the library need her? Ivy shot a look at Ralph, but he just gave her a slow shake of his head.

“But we still need the manuscript,” said a man Ivy recognized as Sir Alfred from the parlor.

“And what do you think we’re doing here?” Lord Mabry snapped. “We have tonight to find it, and then everything else will fall into place. Once the wedding takes place, both library and manuscript will be ours completely. But I don’t want to take any chances until then. We find it tonight, then ensure that we have it well and firmly under our control.”

There was a ripple of agreement in the crowd. Throughout all of this, Arthur had been hanging back, his face horribly blank. Never once did he step in and defend Ivy or refute what the others were saying. He was not only party to whatever was happening, he was instrumental in it. Tears stung her eyes. He had used her, betrayed her in the very worst way.

A light touch on her arm brought her back to the moment, and she looked up to see Mrs. Hewitt motioning them to follow her. Ivy didn’t want to watch the man who she had thought loved her stand by while others devised her downfall, yet she couldn’t bear to tear herself away. Gently, Ralph laced his arm under hers, and half carried her out. Once they were back through the hidden passage and in the hall, Ivy allowed herself to finally crumple against the wall. Her stomach was churning, but it was not from the food or whatever they had put into her drink; it was the sickening, acidic compound of heartbreak and betrayal.

22

“What...what was that?” Ivy forced herself to ask.

“Come, let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll make some tea,” Mrs. Hewitt said quietly.

Ivy didn’t want tea. There was something sinister transpiring in the library, and as hard as it was to watch, she was desperate for the answers. But Mrs. Hewitt was already sweeping down the hall, and Ralph was taking Ivy by the arm, helping her as much as his limp would allow. She let herself be borne along like a leaf in a stream, too stunned to protest.

In the kitchen, they were met by Hewitt, who raised his head from a newspaper when they came in, a question in his eyes. Mrs. Hewitt nodded. “She knows.”

“Knows what? I don’t know anything,” Ivy protested as Ralph helped her into a wooden chair. “Why were they talking about a manuscript? Why did they want the library? I would have given them access to it anyway if—”

Mrs. Hewitt stopped her. “Tea first, then questions.”

“Do you really think we have time for tea?” Ralph said, eyeing the door. “They’re already looking for the manuscript.”

“There is always time for tea,” Mrs. Hewitt said firmly, putting the issue to rest.

Ivy waited in miserable silence as Mrs. Hewitt bustled about the kitchen and prepared a plate of biscuits for which Ivy had no appetite. Traces of the engagement dinner were still evident in a scattering of pots and pans on the counters, and the lingering scent of roasted meat. It looked as if the kitchen staff had abruptly left after the last course, simply getting up and walking away.

When a steaming cup had been placed before her, Ivy’s hands automatically went around it, the warmth seeping into her. At some point someone had draped a warm flannel blanket over her shoulders, and little by little some of the coldness that had overtaken her body began to thaw.

---