A Kiss in the Dark by Joan Smith Page A

house and began considering what excuse she could give for being there. When she heard Muffet’s voice, she sighed in relief.
    “Missy? Are you in there?”
    “Yes! Can you get us out, Muffet?” she called.
    The key twisted in the lock and he came into the chamber, tsking and shaking his head.
    “What your papa would say about this I do not like to think. Looking at the moon, indeed! I knew you were up to no good.”
    “Muffet, you are a pearl beyond price,” she declared, and kissed him on the cheek. “You may lecture me to your heart’s content later. Now I want to go home and have a warm bath, for I stink of fish.”
    “Now, missy, ladies don’t use such words as stink. It is not becoming.”
    “Neither is this stench.”
    They left the room, Muffet leading, followed by Cressida, and Beau with the poker bringing up the rear.
    “I shall just check up on the lady in white,” Beau said, and went to the bottom of the stairs. “Is there anyone up there?” he called. “They’re gone. You can come down if you’re there. We shan’t harm you. We’re friends.” He waited, and called again, then ran up to the top of the stairs and opened every bedroom door, but seeing no one, he returned below.
    “Wishful thinking,” he said sheepishly, and they went out into the moonlit night.
    * * * *
    Dauntry watched them from behind a concealing hedge. He had seen Muffet coming and was relieved that he did not have to confront Cressida after his partner had locked her up in that room. Not that she didn’t deserve it! A smile quirked his lips. Perhaps this interlude would dampen her enthusiasm for the cottage. If the incarceration didn’t do it, the kiss surely would. He was fairly sure she had not found the letter, at least. She had been inside for only a minute before she was intercepted.
    He was beginning to realize hers was not a spirit to be quenched by a mere fright in a dark house. He must arrange some more daunting obstacle to her returning, and he had a fair idea what would keep her away. He would bring some fair charmer down from London and install her in the cottage for the next few weeks. Amarylla was at leisure since the closing of her latest play. If she had not taken a new patron yet, she would do admirably.
    * * * *
    Cressida peered all around before leaving. Seeing the coast was clear, the trio hastened along the beach, back to the dower house. It was Beau who stopped and looked back at the cottage before they rounded the bend in the coast that cut it off from view. He was hoping to see a head at a window, but he saw only the reflected moonlight. They picked up their pace and soon reached home. Miss Wantage had not been asking for them, as Cressida feared she might, but Jennet soon appeared at the saloon door to inquire what Miss Wantage meant by a Welsh posset, which she had asked for.
    “Heated milk and vanilla, and three teaspoons of sugar with nutmeg grated on top,” Cressida replied.
    “Oh, you mean a spinster’s nightcap. Why didn’t she say so?”
    At this saucy speech, Cressida had to remind herself poor Jennet’s brain was addled and did not scold her.
    “And a regular posset for her ladyship,” Muffet told Jennet. “Which you will take up to bed with you, missy.”
    He was not such an optimist as to expect he would be obeyed, nor was he. Cressida and Beau sat for close to an hour discussing their adventure, and what steps they could take to discover elle.
    “I wonder if it’s brandy they’re hiding in that cottage,” Beau said, his brow puckered in concentration. “It’s l’eau de vie in French—feminine, elle.”
    “It would not be easy to lose a cargo of brandy in that little chalet. No, it’s something small enough to hide under a carpet. A paper? No, that’s masculine, le papier. A letter, perhaps. That’s feminine.”
    “I believe you’ve got it. We must get into the house in daylight,” Beau said. “One of us will stand guard while t’other goes in and has a look