“I ken that. But his interest shoulda been a red flag anyway. I never shoulda trusted ’im.” She fell silent as she worked the boot off my foot and set it beside the other one to be cleaned later. She helped me step out of the skirt of my riding habit and unlaced my corset, but before she removed my chemise, she paused to look me straight in the face. “I’m more sorry than I can say, m’lady. Is there no way ye could give me a second chance? I’ll prove to ye I deserve your trust. I willna let ye doon again.”
Her voice was so pleading, her face so earnest, I felt myself beginning to yield. I liked Lucy—I always had—and until this journey we had always gotten along well. Was our working relationship worth salvaging?
I crossed my arms over my chest. “If you tell me what Donovan was so intent to learn about me, it’ll be a start.”
She nodded and proceeded to explain how curious he’d been about my background, particularly the time I’d spent married to Sir Anthony, which, fortunately, Lucy knew very little about. However, what she did know was enough to damage a reputation. But a large portion of Great Britain, or at least the majority of the upper class and their servants, must already be aware of my scandalous past. Gossip traveled swiftly among the elite. So what use could Donovan have for it? Blackmail? He would fail in that regard. I had little money of my own, except that which I earned from the sales of my artwork, and even less inclination to keep secrets that were already known to a large portion of the country. No, he must wish to use it for leverage of some kind. I just didn’t know what. And that thought made me uneasy.
*
For the most part, I ignored Gage at dinner that evening, uncertain yet how to interact with him, especially in front of an audience. I was still angered by his revelation about working for Sloane, but the hours since our argument had given me time to think, and I thought I better understood his reasons for doing so, even if I wasn’t quite ready to forgive him. There was much we still needed to discuss, but dinner was not the time or place. And in the meantime, we had an investigation to continue.
I had taken the opportunity after dressing for dinner to jot off a quick note to Philip asking for information on Dr. Thomas Callart. Perhaps he couldn’t be Dr. Sloane, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t working for him. It seemed somewhat unlikely—after all, there must be dozens of physicians and surgeons in Scotland alone who claimed to specialize in afflictions of the brain—but I had learned not to doubt my intuition, and it was telling me there was some connection. How, I didn’t yet know, but I had hopes I soon would. Or else I would have to take seriously my concerns over Will’s professed ability to escape whenever he wished and the boat I had seen stashed in the ruins of Banbogle Castle.
Rather than following the others into the drawing room after dinner, Michael made our excuses and led Gage and me toward the central staircase. I glanced at Gage in confusion, but upon seeing the watchful look in his eyes I realized where we were headed. My stomach knotted in dread.
I’d known we would have to view Will’s sketches and paintings sooner or later, since Donovan and Mac had been unable or unwilling to shed light onto Will’s melancholic episodes or the events that had occurred in the asylum—the ones we believed Dr. Sloane was so eager to keep hidden—but I had not been looking forward to the endeavor. Ten years ago Will’s artwork had given me nightmares, and though time and experience had hardened me, I still did not think I was prepared to see those images again. However, I didn’t dare voice my trepidations. I could imagine Gage would be only too happy to leave me out of this task, and I was determined not to shy away from it, particularly knowing what I knew about his involvement with Dr. Sloane.
At the top of the stairs, rather than turning right toward the staircase we had always taken to the next floor and Will’s rooms, Michael turned left and led us to the door at the end of the hall. My thoughts had been troubled by this door ever since late that afternoon, when I had seen Lucy and Donovan hovering there. It clearly led into the servants’ staircase, which descended two stories below to the kitchen, and now I could see it also led two flights up to the attic as well.
“Michael,” I murmured as we approached the door leading into the corridor beyond the first locked door on Will’s floor, “you told us you keep all the doors locked so that Will cannot get out, but what about this one?” I recalled the footman who had brought Will’s dinner the previous night, who had almost stumbled upon me and Gage kissing. He had come through the door off the main staircase, not the servants’ stairs.
“It’s locked, too. Only Donovan, Mac, and I have keys.” He pushed against the door in illustration and nearly fell on his face when the knob turned and the door unexpectedly swung inward. “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed, righting himself. “This isn’t supposed to be open.”
“Could this be how William is escaping?” Gage asked, voicing the same question I was thinking.