Through the Smoke

by Brenda Novak

  “Capable of murder?” He laughed. “Perhaps. But then, under the right circumstances, I think we are all capable of murder.”

  Rachel said nothing. She wanted to leave and never see this man again, but he leaned over, propping his hands on the arms of her chair and pinning her to her seat.

  “Your attitude raises another question,” he said. “Believing, as you do, that I tried to finance the commission of this crime, I cannot help but wonder why you haven’t contacted the authorities. Was it because you were so eager to keep the money? Is that why you closed your eyes to the probable truth? Were you hoping the deed would simply fade into the past? That no one would come looking for the money or for answers?”

  Rachel dared not move lest she come into contact with him. She tilted her head back to look in his face and saw a steely determination that frightened her even more than his words. “My mother insisted we say nothing. We needed the money to stock the shop”—she cringed at the mercenary light in which her words painted Jillian—“and we did not know who to return it to. If you had indeed paid my father to set the fire, we felt safe as long as we said nothing. Our shop serves a great purpose. It is the only outpost for books this far north. Many of the country homes in the surrounding counties rely on us to stock their libraries, seeing that we are much closer than London.”

  “Justification, surely.”

  “Not only that but my mother was trying to protect against—”

  “My turning you out.” His breath, smelling faintly of brandy, fanned her cheeks, and Rachel nodded.

  “Funny how you suffered no qualms about keeping money that was not your own. That was, according to your knowledge, given in trade for a woman’s life. Yet you dare censure me?” His voice sharpened. “You would let the mystery of a murder go unsolved while holding a piece of the puzzle, and for money and security’s sake never come forward? Tell me, have you no respect for truth and honesty?”

  Rachel stiffened at his condescending tone. The question of whether or not it had been honest to keep the money and hold her silence had troubled her from the beginning, but she’d used her belief in her father’s innocence to justify her behavior. In the beginning, no one had connected Jack McTavish with the fire. So why cast any aspersion on his name? Her father hadn’t killed Lady Katherine. Someone else did, and it could have been Lord Druridge as easily as not.

  She summoned the last of her courage. “That’s an easy thing for you to say,” she replied. “Forgive me for not shouting what I know from the rooftops, but I felt the money well spent. It is not as though we have lived like you do.” She waved a contemptuous hand around her. “We used the money to keep the shop open and to buy books—for our wealthy clients, yes, but also so that we could teach the villagers how to read and write. On some level I considered it your contribution to the community, if you will. Besides, what I know would not have helped anyone, you least of all. So forgive me for letting you run the gauntlet alone. You, who are virtually untouchable by the law and, by comparison, have known so little of need or loss or difficulty. Even the fire rid you of a wife you no longer wanted!”

  The muscles of the earl’s face tensed until he looked as though he had been carved and polished out of marble. With a haughty glare, he pushed himself away. “Are you certain my life is so much better?”

  “At least you don’t have to worry about hunger or deprivation.”

  “I didn’t know that affluence, or possessing a title, for that matter, made me any less human, any less capable of feeling than other men.”

  “My lord, if you had a heart beneath that fine dressing gown, you would not have forced me to betray my father’s memory to save my dying mother—” Her voice broke, causing Rachel to draw a shuddering breath that sounded more like a sob. Standing, she shoved past him and headed for the door, eager to make good her escape before she lost any more of her dignity. “I am going back, with or without your precious physician. So if you plan to kill me as you did your wife, you had better do it quickly.”

  Catching her by the elbow, he spun her around before she could reach the door. “Kill you? You little idiot! If I were the monster you accuse me of being, you would have been dead long before now. Instead, you are alive and well enough to make damning judgments on matters you know nothing about. Do you think I felt no betrayal when my wife slept with other men? Do you think it wasn’t painful to be taunted by the knowledge of it? To receive the bland smiles of those I considered my friends, who had taken my wife into their beds? That I could not feel—that I still do not feel—the loss of my son, a life I valued more than my own?” His fingers tightened almost painfully on her arm.

  “Stop, you’re hurting me,” she said, but he wasn’t hurting her. Not yet. She was just afraid he would. The pressure of his grip eased, but still Rachel could not twist out of his grasp.

  “Not until you answer me. Do only the poor feel pain, Miss McTavish, while the rich know nothing but peace and happiness? By your own admission, you are an educated woman. Please, do not try to sell me that bag of rot.”

  Rachel didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t think when he was so close. She blinked up at him, her heart pounding.

  A slight flaring of his nostrils revealed the degree of his anger. “If you espouse such a philosophy then perhaps I am not the only one walking numbly through life.”

  She didn’t feel numb now. She felt vitally aware of him, more aware of this man than any she’d ever met before, and it came as a total shock that he seemed to be having the same reaction to her.

  His gaze dropped to her lips, which she instinctively parted. But then someone knocked, and he shoved her away.

  The housekeeper entered, stopping midstride to glance curiously at them both. “Doctor Jacobsen is ready.”

  The earl pivoted toward the fire. “Thank you, Mrs. Poulson.” He sounded calm and in control again. And when he finally turned to Rachel, his face was shuttered, revealing none of the heated passion that had played upon it a heartbeat earlier. “I will go change. But first, I have one more question.”

  Rachel scarcely heard his words. The emotional storm that had gripped them both seemed to have passed as quickly as it had broken, but the earl’s touch had left her shaken, burning with a memory she already knew she’d never forget.

  “Can you give me the names of any of those at the colliery who were involved in this with your father?”

  Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “No.”

  “Because you don’t know or because you won’t tell?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sharp movements revealed the fact that he wasn’t as calm as he pretended to be when he retrieved the poker and stabbed the logs of the fire. “Very well, Miss McTavish.” He tossed the implement against its brass stand with a resounding clang. “You shall have your doctor. If you will excuse me, we will soon be on our way.”

  The earl swept past her, leaving Rachel in a tangled web of half-thoughts and sensation. Had he really looked at her as if… as if he might kiss her?

  Mrs. Poulson followed him out. When the door closed behind them, Rachel touched her lips, realizing with a flash of guilty insight that some small part of her had reacted to the passion inside him. Despite his role as a titled gentleman, there seemed to be a facet inside him that society could not tame, something stimulating yet dangerous, like standing at the edge of a cliff and feeling the mysterious, subtle pull to jump.

  Overwhelmed, she dropped her hand. Her mother required a physician. The rest was madness and should be ignored. For better or for worse, she had fulfilled her half of the bargain with Lord Druridge. Now it was time for him to make good.

  Staring into the fire, she waited for the housekeeper or Lord Druridge to return and escort her out. But no one came. The mantel clock ticked loudly above the fire, mocking the passage of time and drawing out Rachel’s nerves until she thought she might scream. When would they leave? Her mother needed he
r!

  Finally, she could take no more. Regardless of the earl, or his doctor, or the storm that raged against the house, she was going home. Grabbing her cloak, she marched across the room, flung open the door, and stalked into the hall.

  But there a sudden jolt knocked her to the floor.

  Chapter 3

  Rachel blinked up at the earl in surprise.

  “Do you always charge from a room with such force?” he asked.

  Having donned a white shirt and stock with his stirrup trousers, as well as a green brocade waistcoat with a knee-length overcoat and top hat, he reached down to help her up. He appeared unruffled and remote, while Rachel felt as though she had just barreled into the stone wall surrounding the manse.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t know you were there,” she muttered as she regained her feet.

  Ignoring her apology, he turned to Mrs. Poulson. “Has Wythe returned?”

  “Aye, m’lord. He is asleep in his chambers.”

  “Tell him I won’t be able to accompany him to the mine in the morning. I will meet him at the offices midafternoon.”

  When Poulson nodded, Lord Druridge shook out a heavy cloak and lifted it to the level of Rachel’s eyes. Obviously, he expected her to turn so he could drape it around her shoulders.

  Rachel clung to her own wet cape, which she’d folded over her arms, even though she knew such obstinacy could offer nothing but extreme discomfort.

  “Miss McTavish?” The earl cocked an impatient eyebrow and, in the interest of time, Rachel turned. The weight of the garment settled around her, its length falling past her feet to drag on the ground.

  Druridge took her cloak and handed it to Poulson. “See that this gets dried.”

  Sandalwood and soap, mixed with a subtle, male scent, rose to Rachel’s nostrils. It identified the cloak he’d provided as one of his own and reminded her of the look on his face when he’d taken hold of her.…

  Shoving that memory out of her head, she fastened the garment at the throat and gathered handfuls of the expensive fabric to hold so she could walk.

  “Shall we go?” Lord Druridge opened the door and motioned her out. “The doctor is waiting in the carriage.”

  With a nod, Rachel grabbed the lantern she’d left on the doorstep and hurried out ahead of him.

  Dr. Jacobsen was an older gentleman with snowy white hair that also covered most of his jaw. Dressed similarly to the earl, in close-fitting stirrup pants and ankle boots, he wore a double-breasted black cloth coat with velvet collar. A frown lingered on his face but, judging from the many lines around his mouth, Rachel guessed it was no more than his customary expression.

  He dipped his head as Lord Druridge handed her into the fancy black coach she had noted so many times on the streets of Creswell—the same conveyance that had so recently waited in front of her own shop.

  When the earl introduced them, Rachel returned the doctor’s greeting and slid across the tan leather bench opposite him.

  Lord Druridge climbed in last, took a seat next to her and they started off.

  “You’re looking fit despite the ungodly hour, my lord.” The doctor had to raise his voice over the storm. Instead of blowing itself out since her arrival at Blackmoor Hall, it had gathered in strength.

  “I fear you’ve got a formidable challenge tonight, my friend,” Lord Druridge responded.

  Rachel’s lantern had gone out, but in the dim light of the coach’s lamps, the doctor’s frown deepened. “Fever, eh? Fevers can be nasty business. I have seen cholera ravage the strongest of men. This recent outbreak has been growing at an unprecedented rate.” He eyed Rachel. “How long has your mother been ill, my dear?”

  “Almost a week.”

  The earl disrupted the conversation long enough to retrieve a fur pelt from beneath the seat, which he settled over Rachel’s lap.

  Already too conscious of the cloak she wore and his large, manly form seated next to her, she accepted the covering with some reluctance.

  Outside, the coachman cracked his whip, drawing Rachel’s attention to the frozen landscape beyond her window. Snowdrifts were piled high on either side of them and more whirling flakes fell to join those on the ground.

  The earl’s driver shouted to the horses, urging them on, but the wind swallowed most of his words.

  Travel proved slow and arduous. Less than a mile from the estate, the carriage ground to a halt and the coachman appeared at the door.

  “Sorry, m’lord,” he shouted above the gale. “The roads are impassable. I am afraid we cannot get through to the village.”

  Rachel’s stomach muscles tightened.

  “We won’t if you leave us sitting here very long,” the earl responded.

  “You want to continue?” His coachman straightened, obviously amazed.

  “Take us as far as you can.”

  “Aye, m’lord.” The door slammed shut, and the carriage swayed as the driver climbed back on top.

  They moved forward, but Rachel could feel a marked difference in their progress as the horses struggled to pull the carriage, seemingly by inches, through the snow. Frightened that they wouldn’t reach her mother after all, she peered at the earl’s face. Would he give up? Turn back?

  He stared out at the black night, his expression grim.

  “What if we can’t get through?” Rachel asked, her nails curling into her palms.

  “Then I will come first thing in the morning,” Dr. Jacobsen replied. “Just as soon as this bloody storm passes.”

  The earl glanced at him. “Morning might be too late,” he said. “We will get through.”

  The stubborn set of his jaw brought Rachel a degree of comfort. At least the earl was a man of his word. At least he meant to uphold his end of the bargain despite the difficulty of doing so.

  Hold on, Mum. We’re coming. We’re coming.…

  Twice the carriage became stuck, and Lord Druridge climbed out to help free the wheels. The third time, he told his driver to unharness the horses.

  “Are ye certain, m’lord?” Rachel heard the man say from her seat inside the carriage.

  “We will take the horses and go on. You take the donkey tethered behind and go back.”

  “But m’lord, ye ’aven’t the tack. An’ ye know these ’orses are rarely ridden in such a manner.”

  “I believe I can handle my own animals, Timothy. It won’t be the first time I have managed without a saddle.”

  Rachel looked out as the liveried servant nodded dumbly.

  The doctor, still seated across from her beneath a lap blanket of his own, gaped in surprise. “See here, my lord,” he said as soon as Druridge appeared at the door. “You say we are going on? We will never make it in this—”

  “A woman is ill,” the earl interrupted. “And you are a physician. You tell me, where does your duty lie?”

  The doctor mumbled something about Lord Druridge being too young and reckless for his own good, but he complied by heaving his considerable bulk out into the storm and trudging through the snow to help the driver free the horses. Rachel followed.

  “Let’s go before the drifts are up to our necks,” Jacobsen grumbled, taking hold of the reins of one horse and stepping into the driver’s laced fingertips to climb up.

  Rachel’s dress became sodden and heavy in the few minutes it took for the earl to untie Mrs. Tate’s beast and exchange him for the horse the driver held. She felt the weighty fabric pulling her back, making her movements awkward as she hurried to help.

  Lord Druridge jumped astride the second animal, a chestnut-colored gelding. The horse snorted and tossed its head, its huge body steaming from the exertion of having pulled the carriage. Obviously, it wasn’t happy about this latest change, but Druridge brought the animal under control and turned it so he could say farewell to his coachman. “Safe journey, Timothy.”

  The donkey brayed pitiably and Timothy sent them a forlorn glance. “Aye, m’lord. The same to you.”

  Rachel wondered how she would
travel. She was perfectly willing to ride Mrs. Tate’s donkey, but the earl had just given Gilly to the coachman.

  “Are you coming?” Lord Druridge asked.

  She blinked against the snow clinging to her eyelashes as he extended his hand to her. She hesitated, but she seemed to have little choice in traveling companions—unless she wanted to ride with the corpulent doctor, who was having a devil of a time controlling his mount.

  Raising a tentative hand, she allowed the earl to pull her up in front of him.

  “Don’t worry about Timothy,” he said, following her backward glance. “He’ll manage.”

  “I am more worried about us,” she admitted and leaned to one side to stare at the ground, which seemed too far away for comfort. “I have never ridden such a large horse and certainly not one that is more accustomed to pulling a carriage than bearing riders.”

  The earl’s voice came as a low rumble in her ear. “It is far more comfortable than riding astride a donkey. You have nothing to fear.”

  Except, possibly, the man behind me.

  Rachel tucked her face into the thickness of her borrowed cloak as they started out. Progress was slow even without the carriage. In places, they had to plow through drifts up to their thighs, and although the earl’s horses were fine animals, they had minds of their own. The stable was the other way, and well they knew it.

  Fortunately, Druridge wasn’t a man to have his actions dictated to him by man or beast. Rachel could feel the muscles of his thighs bunch as he squeezed the gelding’s heaving sides and spoke to it in a low but firm voice.

  The doctor didn’t fare quite as well. Jacobsen followed in their wake, his journey a bit less difficult because of the path they forged, except that his own mount tried to bolt several times.

  “Damn this animal!” he cursed when it lowered its head as though it would buck.

  The earl turned back and shouted out instructions to the doctor on how to control his mount. Then they had only the storm to delay them.