by Cathie Dunn
SILENT DECEPTION
CATHIE DUNN
Copyright © 2012 by Cathie Dunn
Cover design by Laurence Patterson.
Photograph courtesy of Penny Mathews.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Discover Cathie Dunn’s other available titles at www.cathiedunn.com!
Author’s Thanks
Silent Deception emerged from a challenge. Can I write a novella to a tight deadline? I had two weeks!
I managed to meet the deadline, but the completed version was, of course, nowhere near publishable standard. So, my gratitude goes to my wonderful critique partners for their encouragement, suggestions and eagle eyes. You are fabulous!
A big Thank You also goes to Laurence, my patient husband and talented cover designer.
About the Author
Cathie Dunn writes romantic suspense and adventure. A hobby historian, she enjoys researching her favourite eras: Scottish medieval & Jacobite times, and medieval England and Normandy. This latest foray into Victorian England provided her with a fascinating glimpse into a different time altogether.
Cathie’s first historical romance, Highland Arms, was released in July 2011 through The Wild Rose Press. A romantic Scottish historical, Highland Arms has received outstanding reviews.
Dark Deceit, the first in The Anarchy Trilogy, and Cathie’s second release, was published through Crooked {Cat} Publishing in February 2012.
Cathie is a member of the Historical Novel Society, the Romantic Novelists' Association and the Celtic Hearts Romance Writers. She lives in Scotland with her husband and two cats.
Praise for Dark Deceit:
“Captivating characters and vivid descriptions...very well researched storyline...crafty mix of fiction and history...an engrossing read that I highly recommend.”
Booked Up Reviews
Praise for Highland Arms:
"A compelling story teller...Maybe just maybe love will find you along the way and take you into a journey of romance with a smuggler...I canna wait for more from Ms. Dunn."
Romancing the Book
Chapter One
A gust of wind tugged at her cloak the moment Minerva Goodridge alighted from the coach. She took a deep breath, relishing the salty tang of sea air after the stuffy interior and looked around. A row of neat cottages flanked a whitewashed inn, church bells rang the hour from behind her.
After a week’s travel, she’d finally reached her destination this early afternoon, the tranquil tin mining village of Trekellis. A gust of wind billowed her skirts and she patted them down.
“Thank you.” She smiled at the young lad who’d assisted her down the steps. “My, it’s a little breezy.”
“Aye, miss.” He grinned as he took her portmanteau from the coach driver, almost falling over in his effort, and set it down beside her with a thump. “Anyone coming to collect you, miss?”
Minnie shook her head. “No, I simply need to find someone to take me to Trekellis Manor.”
The lad blanched and took a step back. “Why would you be going to that place? It’s...empty.”
Minnie smirked, certain he meant to say it was haunted. “I know, but not for much longer. Is there anyone…?”
“Nobody goes there, miss.” He vehemently shook his head and pointed at the inn. “Best make yourself comfortable in the Deer’s Head first.” The boy grabbed the handles of her case and lugged it inside.
Minnie followed him through the smoky main room, keen not to lose sight of her only belongings. Well, apart from Trekellis Manor, that was. Excitement coursed through her again, just as it had done since she first heard about her unusual inheritance. A manor in a remote part of Cornwall.
The lad set down the portmanteau beside a small table in what was clearly the ladies’ corner, partly hidden by a wooden partition, then doffed his cap and rushed past her.
Surely, it can’t be that bad. Was she supposed to be haunted, too, simply by association? Superstitions! She shook her head.
Several men watched her. Head held high, Minnie sat on the wooden bench beside her case and returned the stares over the rim of the partition.
A young girl dressed in a simple black gown approached her. “Care for refreshments, miss?” She smiled, but Minnie declined.
“Thank you, another time. Once I’m settled. For the moment, I’m looking for a man to take me to Trekellis Manor. Would you know such a guide?” Someone would have a horse and cart to take her there. According to the map, the house was barely two miles from the village, perched high on top of a cliff overlooking the ocean. Minnie thought the location was rather romantic, even though the house would require some work after it had stood empty for over forty years. After a suicide.
“Trekellis Manor?” The lass took a step back, her voice hollow. A hush descended over the room.
Not another one. Minnie sighed. “Yes. I’m not asking anyone to enter the house. I can do that perfectly by myself, although I’ll be keen to hire servants to help me with the running of it.”
In a far corner, an old man spat on the floor, his grey, straggly beard quivering. “You wouldn’t want to stay there, miss. Walker’s ghost haunts the corridors. Go back to where you came from.” He rose and left, muttering to himself. The solid wooden door banged shut.
A shiver ran down Minnie’s spine. Walker’s ghost? Bartholomew Walker, the last resident owner? She glanced from one man to another, all obviously miners, their pale skin etched with wrinkles from a lifetime of working underground. Each wore the same forbidding expression.
“Old Joseph’s right, miss.” The lass nodded. “It’s not safe, the house.”
Minnie’s precarious hold on her temper flared. “Well, the estate belongs to my family, and it’s my decision to live there.”
“You’ll not find anyone wantin’ to work there and it’s not a good place to stay.”
“Look,” Minnie stood, imploring, “all I need is–”
The door opened, sending the wind howling through the inn.
“Damned gale,” a tall man murmured as he pushed the door closed. He turned, spotted the lass and smiled. “Apologies, Kitty.” His dark gaze met Minnie’s and he cocked his head. “Good day, miss.”
Heat shot into Minnie’s cheeks, and she held a gloved hand to cool her suddenly scorching skin. “Sir.”
The girl, Kitty, headed back behind the counter with a sudden sway of the hips. “An ale for you, sir?”
The new arrival nodded, muttering greetings to the other men, then he faced Kitty. “I saw the coach arrive and hoped for a letter, but nothing as yet.”
“Sorry, sir. Nothing for you. It takes a long time for anything to reach Trekellis.” She placed a tankard of ale in front of him.
Minnie tapped her booted foot. She stepped forward, hands on her hips, and scanned the room. “I beg your pardon, but someone must be able to take me to Trekellis Manor.” Several pairs of eyes lowered; no-one volunteered. Then she met the tall stranger’s. His black eyes glinted as he turned to face her. The intensity of his gaze sent tingles across her skin; his height and the breadth of his shoulders blocked the room from her view. Her mouth went dry.
“Why would you want to go there, miss?”
Sighing, she gritted her teeth. What was wrong with these folk? This man–a gentleman of sorts, given the rich, grey fabric of his greatcoat and his expensive leather boots–didn’t look t
o be from from these parts, but he still appeared to hold the same superstitions.
“Because it’s mine.”
***
Gideon Drake, 8th Earl of Rothdale, stared at the beauty in front of him, puzzled. The lady’s pout and stubborn look intrigued him. He knew Trekellis Manor belonged to a landowner in Canterbury, but he was sure the man had died a few years before. Was she a relation?
Remembering his manners, he set down the ale and bowed. “Gideon Drake, at your service, Miss…?”
“Minerva Goodridge.” Her stance relaxed a little.
He smiled. She must indeed be related to William Goodridge, the last owner. He kissed her gloved hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Minerva Goodridge. So, Trekellis is yours, you say?”
She withdrew her hand and linked it with the other. “Yes, I’ve inherited it from my father.”
Ah, that explained the ownership. But did she know what had happened?
Not waiting for his response, Miss Goodridge continued, “I’ve travelled over a week and I’m exhausted. And now there’s nobody willing to take me to the house.”
“The manor may not be fit to live in. You might not even like it. Perhaps you should stay at the inn first?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter whether I like it or not. It’s mine, and I have no other choice.” Her voice quivered, and the amber eyes moistened with tears. “It is imperative I get there today.”
Gideon bowed again. “Then it will be my pleasure to accompany you myself.” He turned toward a young man nursing an ale in a corner. “Jim, get that cart of yours outside. We’ll take Miss Goodridge to her property.”
The lanky young man stood. “But I–”
“It won’t take long.” Sensing the man’s hesitation, he added, “It’ll be worth your while.”
Jim downed his ale and strode out the door.
Gideon turned to Miss Goodridge. “Please take a seat until Jim has brought his cart round, then we’ll be on our way before this gale worsens.” He sent her an encouraging nod, then followed Jim.
He caught up quickly with the young miner whose sullen expression showed Gideon exactly what he thought.
“I know, I know.” Gideon lifted his hands. “The place is supposedly haunted, but I’ve yet to hear of a ghost that attacks people for simply going near. Now, let’s go.”
Riding on the damp grass beside the cart trudging up a narrow lane toward the coast, Gideon watched as Miss Goodridge’s gaze roamed the untamed countryside. It must be quite a change to the bustling streets of Canterbury where her father had resided, a town he knew well. His associates had failed to advise him William Goodridge had a daughter, an omission which set back his own plan. He furrowed his brow.
The strong wind brought a becoming shade of pink to her pale complexion. Wrapped in a woolen blanket he’d pilfered from Kitty, she studied her surroundings deep in thought. Certainly of age, why wasn’t Miss Goodridge married yet? She exuded confidence and maturity missing in many ladies. Coming out here to claim Trekellis as her own was a daring undertaking for a young woman. After all, the manor had stood empty for decades after Bartholomew Walker’s suicide. Gideon shook his head, wondering anew how her arrival affected his investigations. ’Twas best he kept it a secret. The girl needn’t know. For now.
Her gasp shook him from his reverie. Following her gaze, he smiled. Trekellis Manor stood proud at the top of a cliff, facing out toward the sea. The roaring of waves crashing into solid rock reached them.
“Welcome to Trekellis Manor, Miss Goodridge.”
His heart jumped at the way her face glowed with pride and something akin to curiosity. She must have been told of Walker’s death, yet she wasn’t scared or hesitant, but rather eager to discover her inheritance.
But what if rumors were true, and the house was indeed haunted?
Pah!
Gideon didn’t believe in ghosts. The building was solid, his recent foray inside had proved as much. She could easily refurbish it to its former glory. All it needed was a good clean.
But staring at the house, the shadows behind its narrow, high windows, he couldn’t shake off a sudden prickling of danger.
Chapter Two
Minnie couldn’t tear her gaze away, entranced by the Gothic turrets flanking the entrance to the estate. As the cart rattled through them, a shudder ran down her spine. The narrow three story buildings stood forbidding, the tiny windows covered in dirt and dust, rusty locks and chains on the narrow doors. Hedges grew tall against the walls, ivy covered the lower half of the towers, left to grow unchecked.
Inside the grounds, what obviously used to be a lawn swayed in the breeze, overgrown, with wildflowers dotting the knee high grass. Moss covered the untended gravel track beneath the wheels of the cart.
Then she glanced ahead and held her breath. The manor loomed proud, with tall double doors in the center of the wing facing her, marking the main entrance.
The cart ground to a halt just outside the worn stone steps leading to the oak doors. Cracks had split the faded wood.
Sadness washed over her. Why were people–Father one of them–so superstitious about a building? Not once had he mentioned Trekellis in her presence; even when she nursed him during his long illness.
“Here, miss. Let me help you.” Mr. Drake held out his hand.
As she rose, the horses lurched forward. Minnie lost her balance, her arms flailing through the air. “No!”
She toppled sideways, certain she’d land unceremoniously on the ground. But a pair of strong hands encircled her middle and instead of falling, she was pulled safely against a lean, hard body. Her face inches from his, she stared up, his dark eyes unfathomable.
Safe? Perhaps not.
Unable to pull her gaze–her body–away, her heart pounding in her ears, she swallowed hard. “Ups-a-daisy.” Heat rose in her cheeks.
A smile curved his well formed lips. “Indeed.” He raised an eyebrow, not relinquishing his hold. “Are you quite all right, Miss Goodridge?”
Despite wearing a thick, woolen cloak over her sensible dress and corset, her nipples stiffened as her breasts pushed against his broad chest. A dusky scent of sandalwood infused her senses. His eyes hadn’t left hers, the powerful gaze rendering her his prisoner. For an instant, she thought he’d kiss her. Then he cleared his throat and stepped back, gently loosening his hold. As he released her, embarrassment suffused her.
“Y…yes, I am. Thank you.” She glanced past him to the top step where Jim dropped her portmanteau.
The young man rushed past her, as if stung. Glaring at the horses, he said, “Told you the place was haunted, miss.” He nodded briskly to Mr. Drake, then jumped onto the cart and steered it away from the house.
Minnie shook her head, brushing the dust off her cloak. “Unbelievable.”
“Aye.” Mr. Drake nodded. “Come.” He touched her elbow and led her to the double doors.
Fumbling for the key in her reticule, she let out a triumphant shout. “Ha!” Her hand trembling, she inserted it into the rusty lock, and it released a grating sound as she turned it. “It must be years since someone visited.”
Mr. Drake remained silent.
With a flourish, she pushed back the heavy doors. A dark, gaping hole opened before her.
Mine. A place she could call her own. A home. No longer required to live according to Aunt Eleanor’s whims. Relief flooded her as Minnie realized she had finally gained her independence.
Her heart beat wildly as she stepped over the threshold.
A wave of dust settled on her skin. She blinked. A wide hall lay in front of her, the wooden staircase in the centre leading to darkness above.
“Why, it’s so gloomy.” Her heart plummeted and she cast a quick glance at her companion.
Mr. Drake stood behind her, his closeness comforting. Feeling the heat emanating from his body, she found the courage to look around. Up high, a chandelier swayed softly in the breeze wafting in behind them. Dust clouds hovered
over the mahogany bannister. To the side, a small table was covered in a thick layer.
Minnie placed her gloved forefinger on the long-ago burnished surface and drew a line. The thick fluff on her glove proved the neglect. She brushed it off, careful it wouldn’t tickle her nose.
A sense of excited anticipation coursed through her, replacing her moment of trepidation. She’d return Trekellis Manor to its former glory. She’d show those superstitious villagers.
Glancing at Mr. Drake’s narrowed gaze, she nodded. She’d show him, too.
“I’m not sure this is a place you should stay on your own, Miss Goodridge.” Had he changed his mind? His jaw was set as his eyes darted across the hall. “A parlor might take weeks to clean. You’d need to organize a bedroom for yourself, remove years of dirt. The kitchen is likely filthy.”
“Let’s see, shall we?” Faced with his skepticism, her determination emerged stronger than before, and she strode toward the stairs. “I’m going to start upstairs. That way I can see if a bedroom is in a suitable state for me.” Without waiting for his response, she put a tentative foot on the first step and cautiously made her way to the first floor.
“I’m coming with you.” A hint of stubborn determination in his voice, he followed her swiftly.
Minnie smiled over her shoulder. “I’m glad.” Whilst she wasn’t concerned about ghosts, his solid steps behind her reassured her. Even though they’d only just met, Minnie thought she could trust him. At the first door from the landing, she stopped, her hand on the door knob. “Right, what do we have here?” Hearing her own voice gave her courage.
A gentleman’s bedroom, the walls covered in faded mahogany. A giant oak desk stood by the window; above a fireplace hung the portrait of a man in his fifties with a fierce glare, as if piercing through her. Her great uncle, Bartholomew Walker? Most likely.
