Page 87 of The Countess Caper

His lips lifted off his teeth. George waved his hand. “You’ll have your chance if she doesn’t deliver.”

She pushed down the fear the way she always did.

With a lullaby.

I’ll gather you roses by the back door, as gold as your hair. One for you, and one for me, and one for little lark.

Fly high or fly low, wherever you go, the moon keep you, little lark. The sun keep you, little lark, and yellow roses for your hair.

Fly away, fly away, fly away home.

It wasn’t nonsense after all. It wasn’t poetry or a fairy tale or a lullaby.

It was a clue.

Just for her.

Her father might not have known his young nephew would turn out the way he did, but he certainly knew enough about his sister not to trust her or her mothering.

And yellow roses for your hair.

That was very specific. So she would start there. She turned on her heel and marched toward the back door and the very prolific yellow roses she was unsurprised to find pushing at the glass. She didn’t realize she was still humming under her breath until she saw that it made George anxious.

She hummed louder.

“Stop it.”

“Do you want me to find this strongbox, or not?”

The door with the roses was in a music room, used at dinner parties for ladies to display their talents at the pianoforte or harpsichord. She had been in dozens of rooms just like this, singing and playing music to entertain bored guests, either flirting behind their fans or dozing from too much port wine. It was always stuffy and stank of perfume and sandalwood hair pomade. This music room had nothing else to recommend it.

She wondered what was above the yellow roses. She darted up the nearest staircase, which happened to be the servants’ stairs. It chafed George’s dignity to follow her, even in an empty house. Earls did not take servants’ stairs.

The yellow roses climbed up to a guest chamber, decorated in mint green. Elegant but unremarkable. Except for the stars painted on the ceiling and a crescent moon.

The moon keep you, little lark.

She broke into a run.

“This is undignified,” George huffed behind her. The footman stayed close, in case she tried to escape.

Above the moon was the nursery. What had once been her bedroom. Sheets had been laid over everything, from the wooden horse to the dollhouse and the crib. It lent the space an air of melancholy, as if it was holding its breath. Waiting. A mobile of crystal drops still hung, catching the light, throwing little rainbows.

It hung from the mouth of a smiling sun painted on the ceiling.

The sun keep you, little lark.

She would bet her favorite pistol that the painted moon was directly below. And in between, her crib, also decorated with larks. She pushed it out of the way. She kicked the carpet away.

Underneath, carved on a very plain floorboard, a tiny lark with a rose in its beak.

George shoved her out of the way. “Pull it up!”

The footman used an iron fire poker to smash at the floor until splinters flew. Tessa wanted to know what was beneath it. What the lullaby meant.

But she wanted to get the hell away from them more. She took one step back, very carefully.

The footman lifted a small strongbox from under the floor. It was thick with dust. It had a lock made of iron, but the rest was wood, too long neglected. It cracked under another blow from the poker. George grabbed at the parchment inside.