Page 20 of The Dare Before Christmas

“No, hear me out.” He raised a hand. “It’s pitch black down there and we’ve no way of lighting it. If you must investigate, at least let's come prepared. We’ll go back to the house and fetch a lamp, and—”

Silently, Victoria raised a dust covered lamp in one hand. “And there’s a tinderbox and tapers over there,” she added, looking appallingly smug.

Barnaby sighed inwardly but held his tongue.

“Oh, don’t look so Friday-faced, you know as well as I do you were hoping to talk me out of coming back again, and there’s no time like the present.”

“Fine,” he said, resigned. “If you can get the lamp lit, I’ll go with you. If you can’t, we’ll return to the house and come back when we’re better prepared.”

With a bit of luck, the daughter of a duke didn’t have the first clue about the workings of a tinderbox. Not when there was always an army of staff to do things for her.

“Fine,” she replied, a determined glint in her eyes.

Victoria retrieved the tinderbox, an ancient looking brass affair Barnaby guessed was from the previous century. Sadly, the box was full and perfectly dry, and Barnaby watched as Victoria took out a small length of jute twine and unravelled it. Next, she took the striker and flint and a piece of char cloth, and began striking the flint, leaning over with her elbows on the altar to keep her arms steady. She was clumsy at first and it took her a few goes to produce a spark, though to be fair, she was making a better go of it than he’d expected. She must have watched it being done a thousand times, he supposed.

“My father taught me,” she said tersely, making him jump, for he’d not spoken aloud.

“Oh,” he said.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she carried on. “You think I’m a spoiled little princess who has never lifted a finger in her life. Well, perhaps I am spoiled, but I’m not useless, nor do I wish to be. Papa insisted on all of us learning basic skills in case we ever had need of them. So I know how to make a fire, and light a lamp. I know how to untack and groom my own horse. I can cook—not with a great deal of skill, admittedly, but I can—and I know how to clean a fireplace, and—”

“I don’t think you’re a spoiled princess,” Barnaby cut in, before she could list all the practical things she had learned to do in order not to be thought pampered. “I just think you’re used to getting your own way.”

She snorted at that. “Oh, do you? There speaks a man.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked indignantly.

“Ask any woman when the last time was they got their own way,” she retorted. “Society does not allow us to have our own way. I’d like to go out riding by myself, astride, not side-saddle. I’d like to drink brandy and port, and to stay at the table when the men discuss more interesting topics. I’d like to have a conversation about something important, something that matters, without being told I ought not to worry my pretty little head about such things, and I am so sick of this blasted corset!” she added, straightening with a gasp, a hand to her midriff.

Barnaby looked askance. “I cannot imagine your father would ever—”

“Oh, of course not! Papa is different. Mama is the most different woman of all, but she’s a duchess and can afford to be. I want to find a man who lets me speak my mind without getting cross or telling me to hush, or that I’m getting overwrought. Someone who is kind and understanding and patient and not overbearing, but strong enough to hold his own with me. I thought that might be you. I thought you liked me,” she added sadly, before giving a little crow of triumph as the char cloth caught a shower of sparks and a tiny orange glow appeared.

Barnaby started, surprised both by her words and her exclamation. He could not help but smile, however, as her eyes glittered with delight, and she wrapped the fluffy pile of unravelled jute carefully around the char cloth. Victoria pursed her lips and blew gently until a thin stream of smoke curled out from the tiny bundle. She shot him a grin, her victory in this little conquest provoking a rush of tenderness towards her, even if it meant he was honour-bound to poke around in a blasted crypt, of all things. Though that was an odd thing, now he thought about it.

“Why did they hide it?” he asked.

Victoria glanced up before turning her attention back to the smoky bundle she was coaxing into flame.

“Hide what?”

“The crypt. Why hide it beneath the altar?”

She frowned with concentration. “Body snatchers?”

“On a private estate?”

“Oh, that’s a point. Well, I don’t know, then, unless….”

Her eyes grew big and round. She stared at him, and then gave a shout of pain as the smoky bundle burst into flames. She dropped it into the lid of the tinderbox and snatched up a taper, lighting it and transferring the flame to the waiting lamp. To Barnaby’s dismay, it lit at once, but rather than gloating about her success as he’d assumed, she turned back to him.

“The treasure! Mrs Payne hid the treasure, and no one ever found it. What if that’s what’s hidden down there?”

Before he could answer, she slid the glass cover back into place, reached for the lamp, and then dropped the handle with a hiss of pain.

“What is it?” Barnaby asked, stepping closer.

“Nothing, I… I burnt my hand a little, is all,” she admitted sheepishly. “I’m not so good with a tinderbox as I made out, I suppose.”