by Brenda Novak
But what, exactly, had followed their first heated words?
Closing his eyes, he grappled with the remaining wisps of his dream, opening himself up to all sensation, anything that might have made an imprint on his brain, both real and imagined. And suddenly, almost too simply, too easily, it was there: a slight but important detail he had never noticed before.
The realization of what his discovery could mean brought him to his feet. “My God! Could it be true?”
He rounded his desk to pace in front of the fire, examining the vision in his head until he felt quite certain of it. Then he penned a letter to an acquaintance in London.
When he finished, he looked at Katherine’s portrait again, only this time he smiled. He wouldn’t let her win. In life, she had tried to destroy him, had hated him for knowing the leprous character beneath her pretty face. In death, she was more vengeful still. But he would persist, and when he could eventually see through the smoke that clouded the truth, he would know, at last, whether his soul had been worth the fight.
Chapter 2
Blackmoor Hall was a daunting edifice. Built in the Strawberry Hill Gothic style, with a little Palladian thrown in, its gray stone walls rose several stories high, extending along cliffs that fronted the ocean. Although most of the structure had been rebuilt after the fire, nothing looked new. Large, diamond-cut windows spaced symmetrically on two long wings collected snow in the cradle of their thick panes. At least half a dozen chimneys rose from the roof. And an elaborate portico sheltered the entrance. Ancient and overwhelming, the manse resembled something out of a history book, with tall columns, expansive gardens, fountains and Greek statues. Now, late as it was, the estate was dark and rather forbidding.
Leaning into the wind, Rachel prodded Mrs. Tate’s donkey forward while clinging tenaciously to the lantern she carried. Cold down to her bones in spite of her cloak, she shivered like someone with a palsy. Traversing the five hilly miles from the village to Blackmoor Hall seemed to take forever. But Rachel was so intent on her purpose she scarcely acknowledged the wet or the cold, except to wipe the clinging flakes of snow out of her face.
Amid the growling of the sky and the howling of the wind, Rachel could hear the surf not far away. Under normal circumstances, she loved the ocean, thought its rhythmic hush… hush the best of lullabies.
Tonight it proved a lonely sound.
As soon as she reached the portico, she lowered herself from the donkey’s back and ducked inside its half-shelter. Many of the villagers believed Lord Druridge set the blaze that had destroyed his ancestral home to kill his unfaithful wife and the unwanted child she carried. But why would a man like the earl risk his own life and property? If he was bent on murder, there were easier ways to rid himself of both wife and child—and Rachel’s imagination readily supplied them: poison, strangulation, an unfortunate incident on a horse. Any number of possible accidents, really…
Unless he acted out of rage.
Rachel remembered the clenched muscles of his jaw at her thoughtless words, “Someone else’s child,” and wondered if the temper she had glimpsed could provoke him to murder. Perhaps she wasn’t wise to arrive at his house alone in the dark with no one to say where she was. But she was determined. Her mother was dying. The earl had won. Only he possessed the trump card.
Stamping her feet to rid her skirts of the snow that clung to her hem, Rachel raised her lantern to reveal the door. Although she put all her energy into pounding on the thick, wooden panel, she could scarcely hear the impact of her fist above the storm.
“Let me in!” she called. “Please!”
Her efforts conjured nothing. No light. No sound.
After setting down her lantern, she raised hands as cold and unwieldy as blocks of ice to knock again.
Several minutes passed during which only the wind answered her pleas. The gale shrieked and moaned as it whipped about her. In that instant, Rachel could imagine the voice of the woman who had been murdered in the fire, crying out for vengeance.…
The door creaked inward, and a single candle lit an older woman’s seamed face. Deep-set eyes peered at her above a hawkish but proud nose. “Who goes here?”
In her panic, Rachel took no thought of the spectacle she made. She pressed forward with a desperation that caused the other woman to shrink back. “I need to speak to Lord Dru—”
A man moved out from behind the woman, leveling a pistol at her. “That’s far enough, Miss. We’ll ’ave yer name an’ yer purpose for besettin’ this ’ouse in the middle of the night before ye take another step.”
The barrel of his pistol glinted in the candlelight. Hugging herself in an effort to control the shaking of her limbs, Rachel said, “I-I need to speak to Lord Druridge.”
“Why?” The woman addressed her again. Rachel guessed, from her age and autocratic manner, she was the earl’s housekeeper. Dressed in a linen nightgown with cambric frill edging, she wore a mobcap on her head, testifying to the fact that Rachel had indeed summoned her from bed, which, of course, came as no surprise.
“My mother is dying.”
“And what has our master to do with that?”
Rachel eyed the pistol, checking her emotions. Evidently a commoner’s life wasn’t sufficient reason to disturb a peer of the realm’s slumber. “Lord Druridge offered me a trade today. I have come to accept it.”
The woman gaped at her. “And who might you be?”
“Rachel McTavish. My mother owns the bookshop in the village.”
“Well, you’re daft if you think I’ll drag Lord Druridge from his bed at this hour. I’ll tell him you were here. Perhaps he’ll send a few shillings to help with your mother’s burial.”
“I’m not after money!” Rachel heard her voice rise to a shrill note. “Lord Druridge will want to see me, I assure you. Just rouse him.”
The woman propped her fists on her hips. “I’m supposed to wake him on your word, am I? As if you have the right to come barging into this house?”
“Is the doctor here?” Rachel tried to circumvent the two servants, despite the pistol. “Doctor?” she called into the vast reaches of the house. “Is there a doctor here?”
Hurrying to bar her way, the housekeeper nodded to the man, who waved her toward the door with his gun. “Get out or I’ll shoot.”
Rachel turned back to the woman. “Please…”
The light of the candle expunged the color from the housekeeper’s face, leaving it as bleak and empty as the snow-covered hills. “Do you think for one second that—?”
“For God’s sake, it’s only a woman.” A deep voice boomed through the cathedral-like entrance. “Arthur, put that gun away.”
Rachel stared at the spiral staircase where the Earl of Druridge descended, a mere shadow in the darkness.
“But m’lord, she might not be alone,” Arthur argued. “Thieves can be right tricky, they can, and—”
“There is no need for this little incident to disturb your sleep, my lord,” the housekeeper cut in. “Everything is under control. I told this young woman that you would see to her in the morning.”
“By morning she might not have need of me.” Ignoring his housekeeper’s tacit disapproval, the earl moved toward them with the same sure-footed grace Rachel had noticed earlier at the shop. “Perhaps, Mrs. Poulson, you will be so kind as to put on some tea. I believe our guest could use a spot to hearten her nerves.”
“I haven’t come for tea.” Rachel’s eyes attempted to pierce the darkness, to latch onto the man she had come to see, but it wasn’t until he stepped into the circle of light shed by Poulson’s candle that she could make him out. There was no sleep lingering about his face, but he was wearing a close-fitting pair of dark trousers and a single-breasted dressing gown open down the front, as if he’d donned it in haste.
The sight of his chest, covered with a light matting of hair that tapered down a flat stomach, caught Rachel unaware. For a moment, she couldn’t help but stare. He looked so different from
her father, so firm and muscular.…
Her cheeks flushing hot despite the chill, she forced her eyes up as he captured and tied the ends of the belt dragging behind him. The scars on his left hand could not extend far, she realized. His torso appeared unblemished.
“Come in, Miss McTavish.”
Rachel shook her head. “No. I have to get back. I only came—”
“I know why you came. But I offered you a trade, remember?”
The wind swirled through the open door behind her, blowing his hair. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Then surely you won’t mind indulging my curiosity.”
Rachel gathered her cloak more tightly about her. The moment had come, yet the thought of breaking her promise to her mother was no more palatable for its expediency. She would answer his questions, but she would volunteer nothing of her own accord. “I have every intention of keeping my word, my lord. Ask me what you will, and let us be on our way.”
Druridge nodded at the icy flakes falling from a black sky. “I intend to do just that, Miss McTavish, but must we do so here?”
“I dare not dally.”
“I will be brief.”
It seemed she had no choice. “If it pleases you.”
“It pleases me.”
Held fast by the chains of hope, Rachel hovered at the portal while the man the earl had called Arthur tucked his pistol away and Mrs. Poulson lit several lamps. Blackmoor Hall was beginning to look more hospitable, but Rachel could not escape her anxiety.
“We must hurry—”
“You will lose no time, I assure you.” The earl took her by the elbow and guided her farther inside. “I will send Arthur to alert Dr. Jacobsen, so that when we are finished with our little chat, he will be ready to accompany us to your home.”
He also told Arthur to have his coach prepared. Then he led her into a room situated off the large, vaulted entry. Furnished with a pianoforte, velvet drapes, polished mahogany tables, Louis XIV settees and Turkish rugs, the room’s rich textures immediately cocooned Rachel against the blustering storm outside.
The earl strode to the marble fireplace and stirred the golden embers that smoldered there, bringing them back to a semblance of life. As he added more kindling and coal from a brass bucket, Rachel struggled to keep her teeth from chattering. What would he ask her? Would he be satisfied with her answers? Would he follow through with his end of the bargain as quickly as he’d indicated?
She pretended to study the high ceilings and paneling of the room while she tried to stop shivering. The hand-carved, arched double doors at the entry were beautiful, as was the detail above the windows. On the ceiling she saw a painting of clouds and angels and harps.
“Your mother has taken a turn for the worse?” Lord Druridge broke the silence as he pulled a chair closer to the fire and motioned her into it.
Eager to bathe in the warmth of the flames that were beginning to lick at their new fodder, Rachel moved forward, surprised when the earl reached out to take her cloak.
“I will keep it, thank you. As soon as we are finished here, I will start out and wait for you at home—”
“What good will it do for you to go ahead of us? Doubtless we would pass you on the road. The doctor will need a moment, so you might as well relax.”
“But I have my neighbor’s donkey—”
“Which we will tie behind.”
The thought of riding in a carriage, protected from the elements, was certainly more inviting than fighting Mrs. Tate’s stubborn ass.…
He reached for her cloak again, and this time Rachel relinquished it into his hands so she wouldn’t continue to drip on the rug.
The rattle of a tea service came from the direction of the door. Mrs. Poulson entered, laden with a silver tray filled with tea, cakes, scones, fresh butter and clotted cream.
Rachel hadn’t realized until that moment how terribly hungry she was. She had been so exhausted when she left the bookshop, and so concerned for her mother, that fatigue had overwhelmed her before she could eat any supper.
The housekeeper seemed to sense her interest in the food. Mrs. Poulson gave her a sidelong, piercing gaze that made it quite apparent she resented having to serve a commoner, someone no better than herself. But when the earl turned, she lowered her eyes to the floor. “Will that be all, my lord?”
“Yes. Please bring me word the moment the doctor is ready.”
She curtsied. “As you say.”
The door thudded shut behind the bony woman, and Rachel swallowed, trying to ease the dryness of her throat.
“Won’t you have something to eat, Miss McTavish?” The earl indicated the food at her elbow. “You look as though you might faint.”
The smell of the freshly heated scones rose to Rachel’s nostrils, causing her mutinous stomach to clamor for sustenance, despite her preoccupation and worry. Careful not to reveal her near starvation by cramming it into her mouth, she took a cranberry scone.
The earl touched nothing on the tray but watched her intently. Rachel couldn’t raise her gaze without encountering his thoughtful golden eyes, eyes that held the promise of the interrogation to come.
A twinge of conscience caused her to push the tray away long before she had satisfied her hunger. Betraying her mother’s most heartfelt wishes, and the memory of her poor dead father, didn’t come easily. Like Persephone, she was making a deal with the devil. She was warming herself at his fire, dining on his food—
He cleared his throat, and she glanced up.
“Who set the fire that killed my wife, Miss McTavish?” On the surface, his voice remained unchanged, dispassionate, but a strong undercurrent revealed his eagerness for her answer.
“If you think I can tell you that, my lord, you are sure to be disappointed.”
“Someone knows what happened that day.” The flames cast moving shadows on the side of his face. “According to my sources, your father received a large sum of money two weeks before the fire. I would like to know where it came from.”
This was the question Rachel had expected, yet defensiveness, in place of honest answers, rose to her lips. “Would it be too difficult to believe he received some sort of inheritance? My grandfather’s patronage is, after all, how my mother came into possession of the bookshop, is it not?”
“Did he?” The earl’s eyes glowed with the same tawny light as the fire.
Rachel wondered if he could see right through her. “Receiving a large sum of money doesn’t necessarily make him guilty of anything.”
“Especially if you can prove its origins.”
The hiss of the fire grew louder. Suddenly, Rachel felt scorched by its heat. Her father had hated the earl as far back as she could remember, even before Tommy’s death.
She hated him, too—or, rather, she didn’t know him well enough to hate him personally, but she hated what he stood for. He was responsible for the miners’ terrible lot. Underpaid and overworked, they suffered too many accidents like the one that had claimed Tommy’s life. The long hours of crouching and crawling in narrow tunnels had stunted the growth of some and distorted their bodies. Others had miner’s lung, the disease that had killed her father. Yet the earl lived in luxury, apparently indifferent to their difficult existence.
“Miss McTavish?” he prompted when she didn’t speak.
“Someone paid my father to fire Blackmoor Hall.” She stated it baldly and then looked away to avoid seeing the satisfaction on his face. “He took the money… but he could not go through with the agreement.” She faced him, hoping to convince him of something she was no longer sure of herself. “He did not set the fire.”
“And how can you be so sure?” The tension in Lord Druridge’s body reminded Rachel of a hound straining at the end of a leash, only he was, at the same time, master, holding himself in check.
“Because he told me so.”
“Would he readily admit to murder, Miss McTavish?”
“Why would he deny it? He knew he wasn’t long for
this earth.”
“To protect you from the taint of his deeds, perhaps?”
“No. He told me about the money so he could die with a clear conscience. Why admit only half the truth? Leave something far worse to harrow up his soul?”
Druridge seemed skeptical, but didn’t press the point. “Who gave him the money?”
“He wouldn’t say, so for all I know”—Rachel clenched her hands in her lap—“the money could have come from you.”
The earl gave an incredulous laugh. “You think I tried to hire your father to fire my home and kill my wife and, when he refused, did it myself?”
Superstitiously fearing the earl’s hypnotic eyes, Rachel once again dropped her gaze to the floor. “That is one possibility.”
He moved toward her, his deliberate steps reminding Rachel that she was completely at his mercy. She doubted whether any of the servants sleeping in the nether regions of the manse would hear her should she cry out. There was only Mrs. Poulson, and she was no ally.
“Except that I did not hire your father,” he breathed, now only inches away. “That much I know, despite my fickle memory. If I tried to pay a man to kill my wife, I would be more prudent than to let him live long enough to die of miner’s lung. Or to tell someone like you, someone who could conceivably prattle the tale about town.”
His words caused the short hairs to rise on Rachel’s nape. Half-expecting him to reach for her, to encircle her neck with his powerful hands, she shrank into the chair as he towered over her.
“Have you no answer to that?” he asked.
She dragged to her lips the words flying around in her head. “Perhaps you thought the money sufficient to buy his silence.”
“So my bothering you is just a way to see if he kept his end of the bargain?”
“I don’t know you, my lord,” she said, scrambling to hide her fear. “I can only judge according to instinct, and my instincts tell me that you are indeed capable of such a thing.”
