Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3)

by Kristen McLean

  Good heavens, how dastardly could this fellow be? Now his curiosity was piqued.

  He mouthed, “Stay here,” and brought his finger to his lips.

  She nodded jerkily.

  “Hullo?” the voice came again from the front door.

  “Yes,” Drake answered, turning his back on Mrs. Tindall and moving toward the man standing just outside the cottage.

  “I thought I noticed a rider not long ago. I’m Mr. Gordon, local magistrate.” He smiled genially and dipped his chin. Then he leaned to the side to peer past Drake. “I had forgotten all about this cottage. It’s been abandoned for so long.”

  “Indeed, it has,” Drake said, moving to block Mr. Gordon’s view. “Are you looking for someone, Mr. Gordon?” Because, if so, he had a pretty good idea of whom that someone might be.

  “Why, yes, I am. A murderess, to be exact. Killed her husband only two days ago. Burnt the poor bugger to a crisp.” He pulled out a handbill from his coat pocket.

  Drake mentally rolled his eyes. He just couldn’t get away from the damn things.

  “She’s a handsome little thing by the name of Sarah Tindall. Have you seen her?”

  Well, that explained a few things. Although, he did not recall her smelling of smoke. Nor had he noticed any burns on her. Or bruising. Or blood. Something wasn’t quite adding up.

  Drake glanced at the notice, schooling his features to betray nothing as he gazed at a rather impressive likeness to the aggravation in his bedroom. He could give her away right now and be done with her. He would give his account of things, perhaps stop by the magistrate’s office for a report, and then continue on his merry holiday without further intrusions.

  But… she was intriguing, and damn him, he felt in his gut there was more to the story than a simple case of domestic homicide. Not that he thought she was innocent. She might well be guilty, but there were other facts to uncover, and he wanted to know what they were.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, but no,” he said, his stomach sinking with regret the moment those words left his mouth.

  He held out his hand to return the handbill, but Mr. Gordon stepped back without taking it.

  “You had best keep that,” Mr. Gordon said. “We believe she is in the vicinity, and she is dangerous. If you see anything, don’t hesitate to report it to the magistrate’s office in Barnsby. They will contact me, and I shall hurry over.”

  “I certainly shall. Thank you for the warning.”

  The man nodded and mounted his horse before riding off into the trees.

  Drake shut the door and stepped slowly back into the room. Her face was chalk white, her hands still clutching her skirts.

  A dangerous woman who had allegedly burnt her poor husband to a crisp was scared witless by this lone, amiable magistrate. Not exactly the trait of a heartless killer.

  “Is he gone?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

  He nodded as he held up the handbill for her to see. “Care to explain this?”

  Sarah felt the icy claws of fear the moment she had heard Gordon’s voice. But now, as she gazed at the freshly printed handbill, those claws became savage. They dug into her back and crushed her ribs until she could hardly breathe.

  She had suspected this was how things would turn out, but she couldn’t possibly have been prepared for it.

  Frank’s likeness was sketched into the bottom right corner, with her face taking up most of the space in the middle with words like MURDERESS and DEAD OR ALIVE scrawled along the top.

  He lifted a brow. “Well?”

  “It looks like a handbill.”

  “It looks like you,” he returned, not sounding the least bit amused.

  Her chest squeezed. Panic. She forced it down.

  “I didn’t kill my husband.”

  “Of course not,” he said, almost mockingly. “I suppose you were conveniently taking a stroll at the time. Alone.”

  He was an arrogant, insufferable human being, she decided—something that hadn’t taken long for her to discern. However, he was right, though he was being as sarcastic as his stony countenance would allow. She had been, in fact, taking a quiet walk about the grounds when it had happened.

  A walk had always been just what she needed on restless nights, and since arriving in England a month earlier, she hadn’t been able to sleep well at all, especially since Frank had become far less than genial the instant their ship had docked in Bristol. She had hoped he would have at least acted the gentleman a few more months, until she could take her portion of her dowry and leave, but she had underestimated the devil in him.

  “Mrs. Tindall, I do not have unlimited patience.”

  The masculine rumble was grating. She looked up at the imperious man who held so much power over her.

  He was attractive, with eyes like emeralds, but he was distant and over-analyzing. She could almost see the gears working behind his eyes. Pity. A stupid, less attentive man would have been easier to convince. Even so, she had to at least try to sway him. Her life depended on it.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I stepped out,” she said, deciding the best course of action would be to tell the story exactly as it had happened. At least part of the story. “I was only gone for a few minutes when I first noticed the smoke. When I returned, our bedroom window was filled with flames.”

  She could still smell it, the way it had clouded her vision and burned her nostrils. Tears stung the backs of her eyes as she envisioned the scene, recalling the panic that had engulfed her when she realized he could be dying… that he might be dead already. She hadn’t loved her husband, she hadn’t even liked him, but she had never wished for him to die, and she had certainly never wished to witness the morbid event.

  “Go on, Mrs. Tindall.”

  “I ran back as quickly as I could, calling out for him. I wanted to rush inside to….” She stopped, suddenly unable to speak. Her throat felt thick with smoke, and she could still feel the heat of the flames as they licked the roof.

  No one deserved to die in such an awful way.

  Saint Brides watched her from under a knit brow as he stuck a hand inside his coat, revealing a small notepad and pencil. “Did you hear him, or see him through the window?”

  She shook her head. “No, but he was sleeping soundly when I left. He must have still been there. I tried to go in after him.”

  “Into the fire?”

  She nodded. “I don’t know what I could have done. I shall never know. I was dragged away and strapped to a tree. The man accused me of murder. He said I would hang. I was… I don’t know what I was. Shocked, I suppose. When he ran off to help control the fire, I wriggled out of the ropes and made a run for the trees. I kept running until I twisted my ankle. That was when I came across this place.”

  “If this is the truth, why not turn yourself in to the local authorities? It would clear your name, and they could begin looking for the real culprit.”

  She met his stare with a grim smile. “It was the magistrate, Mr. Gordon, who tied me to a tree, threatening to deal justice right then and there. No trial needed. I daresay, my humiliating him by running away will not endear him to the idea of waiting for a judge and jury now.”

  His scowl deepened. “It isn’t far to the next district. You can plead your case there.”

  Sarah shook her head. “It wouldn’t matter.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It just wouldn’t.” There was no way she would be found innocent, even without Mr. Gordon ready to take the stand to prove her guilty. The evidence was already stacked too high against her. She had no alibi, no character witnesses, no defense whatsoever.

  If she were to be taken into custody, she would be as good as dead.

  Chapter 3

  Drake processed each detail, mentally assessing whether they were true, and filing them appropriately. The problem was he was filing far too many under true. She was either a brilliant liar, or there was a crooked magistrate in Yorkshire. Drake didn’t like either scenario
, but the latter was utterly unpalatable.

  The magistrate’s actions on the night of the murder were difficult to justify. Having just arrived on the scene, he could not have possibly known if the fire was an accident or not. Unless, of course, the magistrate noticed the same thing Saint Brides had—that Mr. Tindall did not scream or make for the window, suggesting he had been dead or unconscious when the fire had started. Considering the entire event had passed within a couple of minutes, and the window had been left open, smoke inhalation was unlikely the reason.

  The magistrate’s desire to see justice done might have spurred his irrational behavior, but to immediately accuse the victim’s wife seemed malicious. Even if she were the only suspect with a clear motive, questioning her would have been in order prior to making threats of the hangman’s noose.

  He threw another assessing glance at the woman sitting nervously across the room. He had to get her to London where he would be certain the magistrate would not be able to convince the officials to surrender her to Gordon. Her fear of the man was real, and Drake could not discount what she had said of his threats.

  His eyes narrowed on her irritably as he began untying his cravat. He ought to have known he would be robbed of his holiday, and by his own curiosity and sense of obligation to justice, no less. Why he allowed himself to think, for even a moment, he would have relaxation, he couldn’t say. Perhaps it was the last glimmer of hope still burning in his soul.

  Rest in peace, hope.

  “Here,” he said as he offered her the cravat. “Wrap it around your ankle.”

  She mumbled her thanks and bent to do as he had instructed.

  He made to turn around to give her a modicum of privacy when her ankle and the ridiculous way she was wrapping it caught his eye.

  “No, no. Not like that.” He crouched down and snatched the fabric from her fumbling fingers.

  “Oh!”

  “Please, allow me.” He slipped off her shoe and stuffed it in his coat pocket, resting her foot on his knee. Then he began wrapping his cravat around the dainty turn of her ankle and under the arch of her foot.

  Logically, wrapping the woman’s ankle was a thing of practicality. He could hardly take her across the country without tending to her injury first. It obviously wasn’t healing right on its own if it was still hurting her. But now that he was in the act, his hands brushing over the softness of her skin, it felt shamefully intimate.

  Heat crept up his neck as he forced his hands to move faster.

  “There.” He stood as quickly as he could manage. “I suggest staying off it as much as possible for the next few days. Since we shall be taking a carriage, that should not be an issue.”

  Her head snapped up, hazel eyes flashing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He blinked. “Well, you most certainly are not staying here.”

  “Then I shall leave,” she said, “but not with you.”

  His eyes narrowed on her. “I’m afraid you do not have much of a choice. You see, you are wanted for murder, and until that is no longer the case, you are in my custody.”

  She glared back at him. “Your custody? Who do you think you are? You are no magistrate. You can’t force me to go with you.”

  “If you would rather be left to Mr. Gordon’s care, instead of allowing me to personally see you to London for a fair trial, then by all means. I have enough responsibility without adding your safe transport to London to the list.”

  Her eyes narrowed challengingly, and for a moment, he thought she might fight him on it, but then she slumped back in her chair. He gratefully took that for acquiescence.

  Sarah was certain she wasn’t safe in England, but she didn’t stand a chance if she were handed over to Mr. Gordon on a silver platter. Heavens, the real murderer might be after her, too, looking to tie up loose ends.

  Not that any of that mattered if she could not find a way to escape Saint Brides.

  She turned her attention to the intimidating figure at the door, taking in the broad shoulders and thick waves of chestnut brown hair. He was austere and authoritative, his stature and vivid green stare silently commanding. He was obviously used to giving orders and having them obeyed, leaving her to believe he was a powerful man. Just how powerful, she had no idea. Although, she fleetingly wondered if he might just be powerful enough to clear her name.

  She shook off the thought almost immediately. Even if he were that powerful, he already made up his mind about the situation. She doubted he was the kind of man who changed his mind easily.

  No, she had to get away and find her way to a port city. She hadn’t any money, but she wasn’t above stowing away on a ship bound for America or France. She needed time to think of a plan of escape.

  “I hope you are up for a bit of a ride,” he said, breaking her out of her thoughts.

  So soon?

  “I… Er…” she stuttered, searching for any reason to delay. “My ankle.”

  “I assure you, we shall afford it the utmost care.” He gestured outside. “Come along, if you please. I would like to head out while we still have daylight.”

  “But—ooh!” She started to stand, then dropped down into her chair, holding her ankle.

  His brows knit as he looked from her to the offending appendage. “What now?”

  “I’m afraid I twisted it again just now. Oh, it hurts! I don’t think I could possibly manage on a horse. It would jostle so.”

  “We haven’t far to go, only a few miles.”

  “I couldn’t possibly!”

  “I assure you, you can,” he returned firmly.

  She pursed her lips and nodded. A few miles wasn’t London, and she hadn’t any hope of out-fighting him or out-running him in her current condition. Perhaps a night with her ankle wrapped would mend it enough for her to run on it again, or she might have an opportunity to get away without having to make a dash for it.

  He muttered something under his breath and stepped toward her. “Please, allow me.”

  She gasped when he bent, hooking his arm under her knees and shoulders and lifting her up against his chest.

  He started for the door with her in his arms, just like her father used to do when she was a little girl. But she wasn’t a little girl anymore, and this was nothing like being carried by her father. Her father was soft. This man was all hard lines and edges.

  When they reached the stable, he set her down to ready his horse. Then he turned back to her and, without a word, gripped her waist, hauling her up onto the saddle. Once she was balanced, he pulled himself up and settled her on his lap.

  Her face heated and breathing became significantly more difficult, just as it had when he had pressed her against the wall and she had seen those impossibly green eyes for the first time. Drat it all, the insufferable man was beautiful.

  His arms surrounded her, one gripping the reins while the other held her just under her ribcage, the imprint of his fingers burning through the layers of fabric. She could feel his muscled thighs under her, and the hardness of his chest at her back as they swayed with the horse’s movements.

  “Is your ankle giving you pain?” His breath fanned her ear as his voice rumbled from behind her.

  “No, thank you,” she managed, shivers of awareness tingling her skin.

  “Are you cold?” Even as he asked, he was unbuttoning his overcoat. He pulled it open and wrapped it around her, pressing her even closer against his chest.

  The masculine scent of him surrounded her. She breathed it in, the deep, musky essence of it. It was comforting. It ought not to be, but it was.

  There was a moment’s silence before he spoke again. “How long have you been in England, Mrs. Tindall?”

  “I arrived a month ago,” she said.

  “And how do you find it?”

  “Cold,” she answered honestly.

  “It will warm up in a few months.”

  She decided not to mention the fact she might not be around to enjoy the change of weather. She could very well b
e six feet under by then, either by the hangman’s noose or Mr. Gordon.

  “How much farther?” she asked, hoping to change the subject. They had been riding this way for half an hour at least, and she was more than ready for it to be over.

  “Another mile or so,” he said, then pointed past her. “You can just make out the pile of stones now.”

  Sarah squinted to see the structure just beginning to jut out of the landscape ahead of them. With the sun beginning its descent below the horizon, it took a moment for her to make it out. Then, a few minutes later, she was surprised she hadn’t been able to see it from the cottage. It was enormous, a great gothic castle, complete with turrets and tall windows.

  “Oh, my…,” she muttered, her eyes wide as she took it all in.

  “Welcome to Barrington Park, Mrs. Tindall,” he said grimly as they approached the long drive. “Home, sweet home.”

  “You live here?” She twisted in his lap to glance up into his scowling face, which was a mere inch from hers. Her breathing stopped.

  His hand tightened around her, and he swallowed. Then he lifted a brow. “The monstrosity is mine, if that’s what you mean. Though I haven’t inhabited it for several years. Now sit still, will you? I don’t want you falling and breaking your neck.”

  Once they reached the front steps, a groom was there to help Sarah dismount. Then she followed Saint Brides to the door where a butler stood to usher them inside.

  “We are pleased to have you back so soon, my lord,” the servant said.

  “Thank you, Martin,” Saint Brides returned. “Please prepare a room for my guest, and an extra place at dinner.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Martin bowed and set off down the hall.

  Sarah scrunched her brow suspiciously, not missing the way in which he had referred to Saint Brides. “My lord?”

  He cleared his throat and gestured her onward. “I shall explain, but first, come with me, please.”

  She nodded and followed him to a room lined with dark mahogany bookcases. A sofa and two chairs sat in the middle, with a side table holding a lamp and a small stack of tomes.