“In a hundred years’ time?”
“Quite.” She gave her gurgling laugh. “Have you been to the folly yet?”
Curtis felt as though everything to do with Peakholme was a folly, but he suffered Miss Carruth to lead him through the grounds, a good few minutes’ walk into young woodland, crunching through autumn leaf fall until they came out into a clearing that sloped up to the top of a ridge. Looking up, Curtis saw a round grey stone tower at the crest of the slope, dominating the view. The style of building suggested it was about eight centuries older than Peakholme. It seemed to be a defensive outpost of some sort, but Curtis assessed the ground with a soldier’s eye, and couldn’t see anything worth defending in the rocky slopes around them.
As they approached the folly, he saw Miss Merton, standing with her shoulders set and arms folded. He thought for a second that the man with her, silhouetted against the bright grey sky, might be Holt, but the languid stance was nothing like Holt’s solid, foursquare way of holding himself, and he realised it was da Silva, his slim form muffled under a bulky overcoat.
“Uh-oh, that looks like trouble brewing. Hello, Pat,” Miss Carruth called, striding up the slope a little faster. “Am I late?”
“Miss Merton and I have been having the most delightful intimacy,” purred da Silva. Curtis took one glance at Miss Merton’s rigid expression, and turned swiftly to contemplate the view.
“Let’s take a proper walk, Fen,” Miss Merton said. “I need some fresh air.”
Curtis seized his opportunity. “Then I’ll leave you ladies to it. I’m afraid my knee won’t bear much more, and I’d like a look at the folly.”
“Alas, I had hoped to commune in solitude with my muse,” da Silva murmured mournfully. “I might as well have gone to Piccadilly Circus.”
Curtis caught Miss Merton’s eye in brief, heartfelt agreement on Mr. da Silva and his muse. “Well, I dare say I won’t bother you long. See you later, Miss Merton, Miss Carruth.”
As the two women departed, da Silva went to open the oak door of the folly. He made an inviting gesture. Curtis, already stepping forward, was struck with a sudden hesitation, glancing round.
The ladies wouldn’t think this was some sort of…assignation, would they? Curtis slipping off to a remote place with a fellow like da Silva…
He shook himself at the absurdity. Nobody would think such a thing of him, even if it would be the obvious conclusion to reach about da Silva, and even if they did, he knew he was about no such business.
He strode through the doorway, glancing at the heavy door that da Silva held open. Its style suggested great age, but it showed no more sign of weathering or dilapidation than the stone blocks around it.
“Did Sir Hubert put this thing in?” Curtis wondered aloud as da Silva shut the door, enclosing them in the stone space. It was bare but for a couple of heavy wooden chests against the walls. The mullioned glass of the windows was secure and, he was sure, wrong for the building’s appearance. There were some steps up the side of the wall to a mezzanine floor, laid in new oak.
“Of course he did.” Da Silva led the way up the stairs. “He commissioned it as a brand new piece of antiquity. Shockingly vulgar.”
That from a man wearing an absurdly foppish velvet jacket and those appallingly tight trousers. Curtis wondered why a fellow would want to draw attention to himself so. “Well, you should know,” he retorted.
“Oooh. Harsh.” Da Silva sounded unruffled. “Restore your offended sensibilities with the view.” He indicated the astonishing vista over the Pennine slopes. “The single advantage of this ridiculous building. It helps that while one is in the folly, one can’t actually see it.”
That was quite enough of architecture, Curtis felt. “Let’s get to brass tacks. I want to know what’s going on.”
“I’m not inclined to tell you that yet.”
Curtis drew a breath. “Listen—”
Da Silva swung to face him, dark eyes intent. “Who are you working for?”
“What?”
“I said, who are you working for? It’s not a difficult question.”
“I’m not working for anyone.”
Da Silva exhaled dramatically. “Let us not beat about the bush. You’re a gentleman, not a player. You’re not a habitual thief. And you are the nephew of Sir Maurice Vaizey, chief of the Foreign Office Private Bureau. Did he send you here?”
“What? No, he did not. How the devil do you know he’s my uncle?”
Da Silva’s perfect eyebrows contracted into a frown. “We’ve limited time, don’t play the fool. Just tell me, are you here on Vaizey’s behalf? About the blackmail, or anything else?”