The duchess blinked at him. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘At supper, you admitted you had a stake in the well,’ Oberon said.
His mother laughed. ‘A stake is an interest, dear,’ she said. ‘Don’t take everything so seriously.’
‘So you are saying you have not put a penny into Queen’s Well?’ Oberon asked, eyeing her directly.
‘I have not put a penny into the spa,’ she said, but Oberon noticed that Mr Pettit looked pale. Had the fellow consumed too much alcohol, or was the course of the questioning responsible for his ashen hue?
‘So how is Miss Sutton paying for all these improvements when she has, so far, taken in very little?’ Oberon asked.
His mother smiled coyly. ‘Why, didn’t you know? Miss Sutton is funding the spa’s revival herself. Her father was quite successful in business, once well away from Philtwell, and that was before he wed.’ She laid down a card as if trumping her son, not her opponent. ‘Lady Ormesby brought her own money to the marriage, though, as I understand it, her father did not approve, forcing his sister, Miss Bamford, to side with his daughter.’
Oberon wasn’t quite sure why his mother practically crowed with this news, but he was grateful that none of his family’s money had been sunk into the spa, at least none of his immediate family. He turned abruptly towards his host. ‘And what, exactly, is your stake in the waters?’
‘Oh, uh, well…’ Pettit’s stammering was interrupted by the duchess, but Oberon held up his hand to silence her.
‘Well, uh, of course, we have a stake in the waters, in the house and in you two young people,’ the man finally said, looking pleased with his vague reply.
It was the latter part of it that garnered Oberon’s attention, for he well remembered the day he had been forced to drink the well’s swill, along with Miss Sutton, while everyone else abstained.
‘Surely you were not hoping to snare me into…marriage with some fanciful legend about the well’s romantic powers?’ Oberon asked.
Pettit nodded and then shook his head violently. ‘Of course. Not.’
‘I am not in the market for a wife,’ Oberon said.
‘Who said—’ his mother began.
‘Why ever not?’ Pettit asked.
‘That, sir, is none of your concern,’ Oberon said. ‘Are you even related to me by blood?’
Pettit looked sheepish.
‘I thought not,’ Oberon said, ignoring his mother’s protests and explanations. ‘And to whom does this residence belong?’
The expression on Pettit’s face might have been comical, but Oberon was not amused when the fellow inclined his head towards the duchess.
‘What the devil?’ Oberon said, swinging round to face her.
‘Oh, there is no need to get excited, dear,’ she said. ‘When the house came up for sale, I instructed Randolph to buy it for me, so that…I would have a place here should I ever wish to return.’
Oberon sensed she wasn’t telling him everything, but were her hidden motives a product of nostalgia or this nonsense about the waters? Either way, it appeared that she had lost her wits. And after years of uncovering deceit, he had been duped by a madwoman and a drunken fool.
‘You dragged me here under false pretences, away from important commitments in London,’ Oberon said, without bothering to hide his annoyance. ‘Is that the extent of it, or are you responsible for these attacks upon the spa as well? Were you tossing about boulders this afternoon?’
‘Oberon Makepeace!’ His mother threw down her cards. ‘How could you think such a thing?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ Oberon said, rising to his feet. ‘Tell me that you have involved no one else in this scheme of yours, who might have taken it further than you intended.’
For a moment, he thought his mother would refuse to speak, but she finally turned towards him, her expression one of rebuke. ‘There is no scheme, Oberon, and if you feel so strongly, perhaps you should run back to your commitments in London, for I would not want your family or anything else to interfere with them.’
Although his mother had made no mention of his father, it was there in her face, a silent accusation that he was not the man the duke had been. And how could he dispute it? Oberon turned on his heel and strode from the room, not even pausing when he heard the sound of Pettit’s voice from the parlour behind, calling drunkenly after him.
‘You can’t fight the waters!’
Clenching his fingers, Oberon stalked through the house, pausing when he reached the shaft of light that fell from the library. Although he had guarded his privacy for years, revealing nothing to anyone, right now he wanted nothing more than to go inside and unburden himself to Miss Sutton. But he could hardly discuss such personal matters with her, and while they once might have shared a laugh over his mother’s machinations, that, too, could prove an awkward topic, considering that he had kissed her.
That had changed everything.
It did not convince him that the swill he’d been forced to drink had any magic properties, but it prevented him from making light of such things to Miss Sutton. Oberon halted his steps, uncomfortably aware of his misbehaviour in connection with the well owner. A gentleman did not press his attentions upon a genteel young lady, and Oberon could just imagine what his mother’s response would be, if she knew.
She would expect him to do the right thing. In fact, she seemed to think that her revelation about Miss Sutton’s connections would prompt him to propose. Oberon shook his head, for she had only proven how little she knew her son. If he placed value in such things, he would still dismiss Miss Sutton as being in trade, despite her noble relations. But the young woman’s connections or lack thereof didn’t matter to him.
He simply was not in the market for a wife.
And knowing that, he had no business pursuing his acquaintance with Miss Sutton. He might be required to work with her, to aid her in his role as magistrate, but that’s not what drove him towards the beckoning glow of the doorway. And if he stepped inside, it would not have anything to do with duty, but the sudden selfish desire to take her face in his hands or bury his own in the smooth, scented expanse of her throat, seeking solace, if nothing else.
You are not the man your father was.
Clenching his hand, Oberon turned away from the shaft of light and headed to his room, where Pearson might provide him with company, though not confidences. It was ironic that a man famous for his social life should have no real friends, but Oberon’s work prevented such close associations. And, at one time, he had been glad to dispense with the demands of emotional attachments.
Only now did he feel the lack.
Letitia gathered up the cards and put them away, for her luck was at an end. She had been caught out and all her elaborate plans were for naught. She shook her head, for she had hoped that something here, if not the waters, then the air and the countryside far from London, would work upon her son as they had upon his father. But they had not, and now she felt foolish for pinning her hopes upon an old legend.
She had been deluding herself, Letitia realised, about Queen’s Well and about her son, who had been as lost to her as her husband for years now, distancing himself from her after his father’s death until he was her offspring in name only. And although that was not uncommon among ton society, where marriages were often contracts and children born of affairs, it was not what she and her husband had planned when they had set family above all else.
‘He might, even now, be preparing to leave,’ Letitia whispered, her throat thick.
‘He has commitments,’ Randolph said, waving his glass in the air.
‘Commitments to social functions,’ she murmured.
‘I don’t know,’ Randolph said, his words slurring, for in his remorse, he had hit the bottle in earnest. ‘He seems far too serious a fellow…’ Randolph paused to hiccup loudly ‘…to be so devoted to mindless gadding about.’
Swallowing her automatic reply, Letitia glanced at her dear
friend thoughtfully. For years, she had bemoaned her son’s increasingly aimless existence, but now it struck her that Randolph had a point. When Oberon was away in London, she knew little about his behaviour except what she heard through her own acquaintances, but after spending so much time with him here, she saw the truth in Randolph’s words.
Oberon was not the type of man to have no other interests beyond the drawing rooms of London. Why, even the Prince Regent himself fit some good works into his round of elaborate parties. Architecture. Travel. Art. Books. Oberon could talk knowledgeably of all those things, but he didn’t collect or build or take tours. He didn’t gamble or drink to excess or scandalise the ton with his affairs.
‘Then what, exactly, does he do?’ She mused aloud.
‘That is the question, isn’t it?’ Randolph said. ‘Perhaps he has a wife and ten children tucked away in Surrey.’
‘Randolph!’ Letitia scolded, snatching away his empty glass. But a faint spark of hope kindled inside her, and she leaned forwards. ‘Perhaps we should do some sleuthing. Do you know anyone in London who is discreet?’
Randolph shook his head. ‘Forget about London—and Surrey,’ he said. ‘Any sleuthing you do should be concerned with what’s happening right here.’ He punctuated his words by pointing in the general direction of the floor.
‘Why?’ Letitia asked.
‘Because of what happened on the crags,’ Randolph answered. ‘If your son and Miss Sutton should be killed, then that is the end of all your plans for any grandchildren.’
Letitia looked at him in startlement, both horrified by such a prospect and cheered that Randolph thought there was still a chance for success. His optimism fuelled her own, but cautiously, for there were many obstacles, not the least of which he had just pointed out.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Now that we’ve done all that we can to throw the two together, perhaps it’s time we turned our attention to finding out just who is trying to do them in.’
Chapter Eleven
Glory was bent over a pile of books when the duchess burst into the library and urged her to catch up with the duke, who was headed out to speak with Mrs Goodhew. If she’d had time to consider, Glory might have refused, rather than spend more time than necessary with the man, but her first reaction was a surge of delight at the prospect. And it was that which urged her on, as well as the desire for a much-needed escape from what had become her prison.
Snatching up her bonnet, Glory found him at the door, a tall, handsome figure superbly dressed in elegant clothes. And she tried not to imagine him without his midnight coat. Or his pale waistcoat. Or his white shirt. And when her face flushed from the effort, Glory began to question the wisdom of rushing to meet him, but with her hat in hand, it was too late to change her mind.
‘I’m coming with you,’ she said. ‘I’m going blind from looking over ledgers and mad from being cooped inside,’ Glory said, the admission making her more determined.
‘No.’
‘Your Grace, you can hardly keep me locked up at will,’ Glory said, a challenge in her tone.
But something flashed in his dark eyes that spoke of Westfield’s power, especially over her, and Glory glanced away, lest he see more than she wished.
‘I am only concerned for your safety,’ he said, which seemed to be his continual excuse for controlling behaviour. But this time he gave her his arm, and Glory bit back a smile at the small victory. Her pleasure was short-lived, however, as he soon issued a warning.
‘Keep alert,’ he said. ‘Not just to those nearby who might bump into us, but for anyone in the distance, even movement among the trees.’
Glory glanced around warily as the open grounds of Sutton House took on an ominous cast. A strong breeze rustled the leaves of the tall elms and she realised how many places there were to hide even in the familiar environs around Philtwell.
She had thought Westfield more than capable of subduing any opponent, and there were no rocks to send crashing down upon them, but the duke obviously was concerned with other possibilities. ‘You don’t think someone will try to…shoot at us, do you?’ Glory asked.
‘I’m not ruling out anything,’ he said. ‘So far the efforts against you have all been clumsy, but failures breed desperation.’
Glory blanched, and, for once, she tried to tell whether she was being watched. But she was aware only of Westfield at her side and her feelings for him, which made her efforts at conversation difficult. Thankfully, the duke was unaffected and asked her what she was learning in the library. Precious little, she thought, but she managed to report upon what she had been reading; before she realised it, they were standing in front of Mrs Goodhew’s home.
There, they were shown into the same cosy room, though Glory could have done without the fire today. It was warm outside and even more so inside. And she wasn’t taking into account the unwelcome heat that came from Westfield’s nearness.
‘Thank you for meeting with us again,’ he said.
Mrs Goodhew inclined her head. ‘Of course, your Grace.’ She paused to study them with a sharp eye. ‘I understand that you two have been busy.’
Her shrewd look suggested something of a personal nature, and Glory flushed once more.
But Westfield showed no sign of discomfiture. ‘Apparently, not busy enough to thwart whoever is out to close down Queen’s Well.’
‘Now that they have succeeded, perhaps they will cease their meddling,’ Mrs Goodhew said, settling back into her upholstered chair.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Westfield said.
Glory was surprised by the statement, but quickly recognised the truth of it. For if her nemesis disappeared, how was Westfield, or anyone else, to snare the villain and normal activities resume? She realised, with sudden dismay, that Queen’s Well might be closed indefinitely.
‘I don’t understand it,’ Mrs Goodhew said, shaking her head. ‘Times certainly have changed when neighbours turn against neighbours.’
‘We don’t know that anyone from Philtwell is behind our troubles,’ Glory said in an effort to soothe the elderly resident.
But Mrs Goodhew was not placated. ‘Who, then?’
Glory leaned forwards. ‘Have you heard of anyone named Thorpe, who might have invested in the spa?’
Mrs Goodhew’s eyes narrowed. ‘When was this?’
‘Right before the fire.’
She looked pensive. ‘I never heard of any investor, though there was no denying the spa wasn’t as successful then as in past years. In those days, travel was more difficult, and we were far away, with fewer entertainments than some other resorts that were more popular.’
Mrs Goodhew paused to fix Westfield with a stare. ‘I know your mother would argue, for she has cherished memories of Queen’s Well, and rightly so, but it was not what it had been in my mother’s day or my grandmother’s. Sutton had closed one of the inns, leaving the place to stand empty, and the grounds just weren’t kept up the way they used to be. Not that it wasn’t still a lovely place.’
She frowned suddenly. ‘If this fellow was some kind of outside partner, have you no address for him?’
Glory shook her head. ‘Of course, I haven’t looked through all the materials yet, but I found no contract or legal documents, just a notation by hand and a name. Thorpe.’
Mrs Goodhew paused, as if in thought. ‘It seems as though I met someone by that name. He wasn’t from Philtwell, I can tell you that much. He was here with his wife and baby, but they were just visiting. In fact, I thought them guests just like any others, and that was some time before the end. I never saw them again.’
She shot Glory a sharp look. ‘Did you check the guestbooks?’
‘Guestbooks?’
‘All the visitors signed them,’ Mrs Goodhew said. ‘If they weren’t lost in the fire, you might be able to find a record of the family.’
Glory nodded, though she was not eager to go through more old tomes. Once, she had longed for information about Queen’s We
ll and had revelled in discovering it. But after so much time in the library at Sutton House, she did not look forward to searching for more needles among the haystacks, a reluctance she shared with Westfield after they left Mrs Goodhew’s home.
‘But what else have we right now?’ he asked. ‘Let us not dismiss this Thorpe until we’ve done all we can to find out more about him.’
Glory bit back a sigh. ‘But I don’t know where the guestbooks are or if they even survived.’
‘Which is why we are stopping at the cottage,’ Westfield said.
He paused to open the gate with a flourish and Glory blinked at it in surprise. She had not returned since Westfield had kissed her under the eaves, and she flushed as the memory came flooding back.
Unable to look at him, Glory shook her head. ‘But we’ve already been through most of the attic,’ she said, her heart thundering at the thought of being lodged again in that small space with the duke.
‘Yes, but what of the cellar?’ he asked, gesturing for her to precede him.
Glory could do little except comply, even as her pulse raced in a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. She told herself she was being foolish, for Westfield could hardly be planning an assignation below ground. In fact, she doubted he was thinking of anything of the kind and dismissed the kiss in the attic as an accident, a product of curiosity, spontaneity and proximity.
Or so she hoped.
Anything else did not bear considering because Glory did not trust herself to behave as she should, her feelings for Westfield tending to erode all of her good sense and scatter her wits. So when he opened the door that led beneath the cottage, Glory greeted the musty blackness with a sense of relief. It was even more unappealing than the attic.
Drawing a deep breath, Glory made her way down the narrow stairway into the darkness, as the light from the lantern struck cobwebs and revealed indistinct shapes ahead. The further down she descended, the more she wrinkled her nose at the air, rife with damp and the faint smell of rot, as though some animal might have crawled in long ago, never to find its way out.
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