He wanted to wake her and crush her to him, never to let her go. But he contented himself with a few comforting caresses as her disturbing dream subsided and she relaxed once again.
Nash had had his own nightmare, but it was not like the ones that had plagued him ever since Waterloo. This one had more to do with the Ashby curse than any real, tangible battle.
Something Sir William had said during their visit to Metcalf Farm came back to him. Sir Will had mentioned that Horace Carew had wanted Hoyt to marry Helene. Nash had dismissed it as Carew’s obsessive desire to see his daughter with a title before her name.
But Hoyt had refused the man’s offer and now he was dead.
Carew had made an offer to Arthur to buy the southern Ashby land, and Arthur had refused. Now Arthur was dead.
Nash had discounted Roarke’s comment about trench digging on the high road to Braithwaite. He could not imagine someone going to the trouble of shoveling away the side of a cliff in order to commit murder. Carew had to have an incredible motive in order to stage the murders of two earls.
But what could it be?
He did not seem deranged, but only a madman would murder two men so that a third might wed his daughter. And as for the land he’d offered to buy, Nash had looked at it and had seen nothing special about it. Sheep would not even graze there.
Nash pressed a kiss to Mercy’s head and slid away reluctantly from the warmth of her body. He would prefer to stay, but the questions preying on his mind would deny him any more sleep.
Something woke Mercy. It had likely been her dream, since it had been comforting and disturbing at the same time. Which was an obvious contradiction in terms.
She’d seen fleeting images of her mother and father. She knew they must be her parents, for they were unfamiliar to her in any other way but this. She curled her hand closed, nearly able to recall how it felt to have her tiny hand enclosed within her papa’s large one.
Perhaps her mind had created those dream images because she’d been thinking so much about Susanna’s journal and her true mother. The name Teeny haunted her, as did the floral scent that had permeated the dream.
But maybe the people she’d seen in her dream were pure fiction, just like the Robinson Crusoe adventures she and Emmaline had been reading.
It was still dark in her bedchamber, but Nash had already left. She would have liked to slide up against him and taken her ease in his warmth. But it was not possible, not now or any other time. She should never have taken him into her bed last night.
It was Sunday, so there would be no mail coach today. Mercy swallowed away the burning in her throat, thinking about how difficult it would be to wait until the morrow to leave. Everyone would go to the ball, but Mercy knew she could not face it—she could not bear to watch Nash being courted by all the marriageable ladies of consequence.
She found her clothes and dressed quickly, then went to the nursery, where Ruthie was getting Emmaline ready for church in a gown she’d laundered and altered.
“Emmy, you look beautiful,” she said as a wave of emotion threatened to choke her. She had not intended to become so attached to the little girl. But it had happened nonetheless.
Mercy turned away as Grainger came along with Mrs. Jones in tow, which gave Mercy an excuse to leave the nursery before she succumbed to her tears.
She welcomed the opportunity to show the housekeeper around the Hall before church, for it kept her from dwelling upon her impending departure from Ashby and those she had come to love so dearly.
Nash stood looking out the library window, lost in thought. He’d gone up to the nursery in hopes of stealing a moment alone with Mercy, but the new housekeeper informed him that she and Emmaline had already left for Sunday services in Keswick.
He had kissed her lightly as he left her bed before dawn, of course, but he craved her now. Just a touch, or even better—another taste of her before she left for town.
Feeling bereft of her presence, Nash pondered his suspicions about Carew, but could come to no reasonable conclusion. Sitting down at his desk, he puzzled over the letters that still lay there. Notes from Fitch and Randall were conspicuously absent, and Nash suspected he had removed the mail run from Lowell’s responsibilities a few weeks too late.
Nash could not imagine any reason why the steward should want Ashby to be unsuccessful. Failure meant there would be no wealth to share. Or at the very least, the estate’s profits would be delayed yet another few years. And Lowell was already impatient to see profits that would not materialize until after the shearing and the wool was sold.
He went in search of Lowell to query him directly, but learned that he’d also gone into Keswick to church. It was frustrating, but Nash was determined to talk to him before they all left for the Market Inn ball. He wanted answers to his questions.
By late afternoon, Mercy had not returned to the Hall. Nash knew that Henry Blue had escorted her and Emmaline into Keswick, so he was not concerned. He assumed she wished to stay away in order to avoid any further discussion about going to the ball. She’d been adamant against going.
Perhaps that was better, for Nash intended to confront Horace Carew with his suspicions at the ball. And since Nash did not know who he could trust—even the magistrate—he did not want Mercy to be there.
But before he acted on any of his suspicions, he decided to ride up to Metcalf Farm and discuss them with Sir William and his wife.
Mercy learned that the mail coach would arrive in Keswick the following morning at half past seven. She could slip out of Ashby Hall at dawn and easily walk the distance to be on time for it. Well, perhaps not so easily. She would be carrying her traveling cases . . .
And she would be leaving all that she had come to love.
Emmaline would be all right. She had Ruthie now, and was not quite so terrified of her uncle. They’d developed a tenuous bond that would only grow stronger with time.
But Mercy would miss the little girl.
Once again, she reminded herself that leaving Ashby was for the best. Nash could acquire a handsome dowry—whether it belonged to Miss Carew or someone else did not signify—and Mercy might even find her true family. She knew her present course was for the best.
Henry had taken them to church in Keswick in Nash’s little barouche, and they stayed after the service so that Mrs. Swan could introduce Emmaline to some of the well-heeled children of the parish. Ruthie joined in the play, encouraging Emmy to do so, too. Afterward, Mrs. Swan invited them to the rectory for a light breakfast.
Mercy was torn between accepting—thus avoiding returning to Ashby Hall and facing Nash—or declining so that she could see Nash. She yearned for a few moments alone with him before her departure, even though she knew it would hurt deeply to know it would be the last time she would see him.
Chapter 26
On Sir William’s suggestion, Nash looked for the last ledger kept by Hoyt and his manager. It was one of the earliest accounts he’d examined on his return to Ashby, and at the time, it had made little sense to him.
He lifted it from one of the library shelves, then sat down at his desk and paged through the entries, realizing that his vision was a good deal better now than it was when he’d first read it. Perhaps the physicians were correct, and his vision actually would improve.
Nash skimmed through the notations Hoyt and his manager had left for each other on a weekly basis, sometimes more often. Every entry had something to do with the sheep and the land, or tenants and their rents. There was nothing out of the ordinary in any of the entries he read until he reached the last quarter of the year 1814.
There were listings of the number of lambs weaned, and ewes returned to the fells. The manager had noted how many wethered males had been turned loose. He documented how many twinters they had, how many thrinters, and so on. Hoyt had written instructions to his manager on negotiations with wool dealers and meat merchants in Carlisle.
And then Nash saw it. “Decline Carew’s offer. Plan
to improve those acres next summer.” It was dated 10 October, 1814, four days before Hoyt’s hunting party. Four days before his death.
In a rush of stunned outrage, Nash pulled out Arthur’s last journal and flipped through the pages until he reached the entry he sought. The notation had been made on the sixteenth of June, just two days before Arthur’s accident. Suddenly, it did not seem so implausible that someone had intentionally tampered with the high road to Braithwaite—the only road Arthur would have taken to reach the Landry house party.
Nash sat back in his chair as nausea and disgust roiled through him. Ashby curse be damned. His brothers had been murdered for a piece of worthless land, whether through marriage or purchase . . .
And yet it could not be worthless, not if murder had been committed over it. Nash needed to revisit the property and see what he and Roarke had missed the last time they were there.
He dressed quickly and set out early for the ball, starting toward the Ridge path once again, but pulled up short when a man on horseback approached him from the main road.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, “I’m looking for Ashby Hall.”
“You’ve found it,” Nash replied. “What’s your business here?”
“I’m John Stone, sent by Mr. Gerald Hardy in London to deliver a letter.”
It had to hold some importance for Hardy to have sent a special courier all the way up to Cumbria with it.
“Mr. Hardy is my solicitor,” Nash said. “The letter will be for me.”
“You are Lord Ashby?” the man asked, though his notice of Nash’s scars was obvious. Of course Hardy had described him.
Nash nodded.
Stone took the folded missive from his waistcoat and handed it to Nash, who gave him several coins in return. “You’ve had a long ride.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Go into the house and tell Mrs. Jones I sent you in for a meal. You will find sleeping quarters near the kitchen where you can spend the night before you return to Town.”
“Many thanks, my lord.”
Nash looked at the seal and the handwriting on the outside page, recognizing both as belonging to his solicitor. He rode some distance on the Ridge path, out of sight of the house before he unsealed the letter and unfolded its pages. Reading quickly through the salutations, Nash got right to the point of the note.
A potent wave of anger and grief hit him as he read, and when he was through, he slid the letter into his waistcoat, grateful that Hardy had seen fit to send such a detailed reply so quickly. Now there was no question in Nash’s mind about what had happened to his brothers.
Mr. Hardy believed the man Nash knew as Horace Carew was really H. Carew Emerson, a charlatan who had swindled thousands of pounds from investors all over England. His most recent deception had occurred in London, with a spurious canal scheme. Some believed Emerson was really an American, and had gone back across the Atlantic to live in luxury on his ill-gotten goods. Whatever the case, he had disappeared without a trace several years ago.
Emerson also had a daughter named Lottie, said to be an exquisite beauty with white-blond hair.
Shaken by all that he read, Nash continued down the Ridge path. When he arrived at the spot where he and Roarke had visited before, he dismounted at the top of the rocky crest. Looking down into the boggy land below, just as he and Roarke had done on their last visit, he saw that the standing water had receded slightly. The reeds and grasses looked taller than they had during the earlier visit.
Nash glanced around and saw nothing of note—it looked exactly as it had before.
Leading his horse, he walked down to lower ground, soaking the boots Parker had just polished in the muck below. He looked in every direction, and saw naught of interest until a streak of black caught his eye.
It was a thick, dark line in the rock face hovering right at the water level where he and Roarke could not have seen it before, since the level had been higher. Nash went in closer, and the shallower water allowed him to see what it was that formed the distinctive black strip.
It was a band of coal. It was a thick, rich hint of the deposit below that would make its owner incredibly wealthy. This was what Horace Carew—or H. Carew Emerson—had been trying to gain possession of for the past two years. He’d spread tales of boggarts to keep everyone away from the site, so no one else would discover the deposit, and created the Ashby “curse” to account for his brothers’ untimely deaths.
Two years of lies, deceit, and manipulations were about to end. If not tonight, then as soon as Nash could summon a judge or the lord lieutenant of the district.
After a long afternoon of visiting in town and avoiding Nash, Mercy returned to Ashby Hall with Emmaline and Ruthie. When she learned that Nash had already left for Keswick, she should have felt relieved. There would be no argument about her attending the ball, and she would not have to face telling him that she was leaving Ashby.
And yet she wished he had stayed long enough to ask her just once more to accompany him to the ball.
But he had not.
The house was nearly empty. Nash’s men had already gone into town, and once Henry left for Keswick, Grainger and Mrs. Jones would be the only ones remaining in the Hall. Mrs. Jones was a fair cook, and she put together a supper for them. Mercy relaxed her rules long enough for Emmy to eat in the kitchen.
But Mercy had no appetite.
She went to her bedroom, and as she started to pack her things, she recalled her first encounter with Nash Farris.
The memory of his outrageous demands brought a painful little laugh to her throat and tears to her eyes, but she wiped them away and continued folding her clothes and placing them inside her traveling boxes. She could not think about all that she was leaving, for it was far too painful.
She thought of Nash at the Keswick ball, so tall and appealing, his broad shoulders and strong legs so tempting . . . Every woman there would want to dance with him. He’d said he didn’t want Miss Carew, but Mercy felt certain that others would be present—well-born ladies with fortunes to bring to a marriage.
She did not have a chance with him. Earls did not marry governesses, and Mercy could not live as his mistress.
But she did not know how she would live without him, either.
She finished packing and left her bedchamber. Intending to spend the rest of the evening reading with Emmaline, she entered the hallway and noticed that someone had left the attic door open. She paused as a fanciful, entirely hopeless thought struck her.
She could not give up Nash.
Her breath caught at the notion of fighting for the man she loved—and not giving up the way Andrew Vale had done when faced with her father’s refusal of his proposal.
Mercy bit her lip as she eyed the open door of the attic. She would never know who her parents were, and never have the money Nash needed.
But they had other resources that would surely grow over time. She had only to convince him that her love was enough.
Mercy crept slowly toward the attic door, feeling very unsure of what she was about to do, and yet utterly convinced that she had to try to win him.
She climbed the attic stairs and located the trunk containing the late Lady Ashby’s clothes. Lifting the lid, she removed the scarlet gown and pelisse, and held them up to her shoulders.
Could she do this? Did she have the nerve and the power of will to trust that Nash cared for her as she did him? That he would not wish to gain a wealthy wife at the cost of losing her?
Mercy took a deep breath and carried the gown down to her bedroom before she could change her mind. She dressed quickly, and when she came out again wearing Lady Ashby’s gown, with her hair artfully arranged, Emmaline and Ruthie were coming up the stairs.
“Oh my, Miss Franklin, you look beautiful!” Ruthie cried.
Emmy said naught, but her eyes grew wide, as did her smile.
“Thank you, Ruthie,” Mercy said. “Has Henry left for the ball yet?”
“No
, miss. Shall I fetch him?”
Mercy gave a nod.
It seemed as though everyone in the Lake District was present in the assembly rooms at the Market Street Inn. And Nash was still reeling from what he’d seen on the Ridge path and in his brothers’ journals. Hardy’s letter was the spoon that made the pottage come together.
A few of his men had arrived, although there was still no sign of Philip Lowell or the Carews. Nash had been tempted to go directly to Strathmore Pond and confront Carew with his discovery, but stopped halfway there.
Confronting the villain alone, in his own territory, was far too dangerous. Nash no longer had the slightest doubt that Carew was responsible for Hoyt’s and Arthur’s deaths, and he knew the man wouldn’t be pleased to have his crimes—any of them—exposed.
But Nash intended to survive the confrontation when it occurred. He intended to go home fully intact to Mercy later that night. He just wished he understood Lowell’s part in all this. Hardy specifically stated that he could find nothing on anyone called Philip Lowell, suggesting that Nash search through Hoyt’s old correspondence for the man’s references. Nash wondered if Lowell was aware of the crimes for which Horace Carew was responsible.
The ball was held on the uppermost floor of the inn, and the doors had been pulled open, leading onto wide balconies outside. The air inside was pleasant and cool, but Nash knew it would become heated once the dancing began.
He did not intend to stay that long.
The orchestra started the first set, and Nash allowed himself to be taken under Reverend Swan’s wing to be introduced to the various landowners who were present. They all seemed to have daughters, many of whom were exceedingly comely, and most certainly in possession of adequate dowries. But none of them was of any interest to Nash. There was only one woman for him, and the stubborn chit had remained at home with his niece at Ashby Hall.
For which Nash was grateful. He did not know quite how he was going to react when he saw Carew, but he didn’t want Mercy anywhere near.
Seducing the Governess Page 27
