by Brenda Novak
“There used to be so much in this part of the house,” he commented as they walked. “The cradle, from when I was a child—all my childhood belongings, really. Family heirlooms. Gifts and keepsakes from centuries back. Extra furniture.”
“The fire took it.”
A muscle moved in his cheek. “Yes. The wind carried the flames to this wing. It was the one that was most damaged.”
The corridor stretched far beyond the reach of the lamp. She’d never even been asked to clean here. As far as she knew, no one visited this part of the house. “So what are you taking me to see?”
“Do you remember me telling you about the painter Pieter Bruegel?”
Wishing she’d kept her cloak on, she rubbed her arms. “Yes, although I still don’t understand his relevance to the past.”
“I asked you why Cutberth might want to fire Blackmoor Hall.”
“Yes, and I had no answer.”
“This might be the answer,” he said and stopped at a door with a double lock.
Rachel had never seen a Pieter Bruegel painting, so she could shed no new light on the situation. But once Lord Druridge told her about his father’s collection and how it might’ve been stolen—the fire set to hide the theft—she felt new hope. If the earl could prove the paintings hadn’t been destroyed in the fire, he could clear his name and his conscience. And the scenario he presented sounded plausible. The amount of money to be gained from the sale of such rare art would provide Cutberth—or anyone else—with plenty of incentive.
Maybe the union organizer wasn’t the selfless individual he’d always portrayed himself to be. Maybe he’d been hoping to get rich off Truman Stanhope and had carefully planned out the method he would use. It seemed more likely that Cutberth would be responsible than Wythe, since Wythe had saved Truman’s life despite the fact that he had so much to gain from his death.
But when Lord Druridge told her he’d already been looking for several weeks and hadn’t found anything, her hope dwindled again. Without at least one of the paintings, he had nothing solid to rely on, no evidence to protect him should his late wife’s family gain the upper hand—only a vague memory, and even he didn’t seem convinced that memory was reliable.
“So you will marry the duke’s daughter,” she said as matter-of-factly as possible. “If that doesn’t save you from criminal prosecution, it will at least buy more time.”
He stared down at the letter she’d given him in the carriage, what she’d written to Elspeth, pleading on his behalf. “Is that what you want me to do?”
It was the last thing she wanted. But what else could she say? She would never encourage him to risk the noose. Besides, as much as she preferred to ignore it, the odd feeling from the carriage persisted, despite what she’d read in his letter. “I understand the plight of my class; you understand the plight of yours.”
“Meaning… ?”
“I have worked to create a union among the miners, something that is in the best interest of who I am and who I know and love. You will marry strategically, for the same reasons. We were born into separate worlds, you and I.”
“But do we have to remain in those worlds?” He put down the lamp and the letter and gripped her shoulders as if he’d shake the answer he wanted out of her. But she wasn’t even sure what that answer would be. What if she were to tell him she’d fallen in love with him? That she thought of him constantly?
“Is there no place to meet in the middle?” he asked. “The colliery doesn’t mean everything to me. Must that stand between us?”
When his gaze dipped to her mouth, Rachel’s pulse spiked. Would he kiss her? She wanted him to. But there was too much at stake. If she really cared about him, she would insist he do what was best and safest. “Not without a great deal of sacrifice, my lord. And I fear it would be your sacrifice far more than it would be mine.”
His jaw hardened. “Only because you have already paid the price.”
“We have nothing to mourn. A person in your position and a person in mine… we wouldn’t have a chance, regardless.” Forcing herself to step away, Rachel took another look at Peasant Wedding Feast. “I hope you can find what’s missing.”
When she glanced back at him, a sad smile curved his lips. “I fear, if I lose you, I never will.”
Chapter 15
Once he saw Rachel to her room, Truman went to his study, where he sat at his desk and attempted to pen a letter. The account books she’d given him sat at his elbow. He planned to go through them and see what he could find. But he’d had a meeting earlier in the evening, at a tavern outside of Newcastle, where the duke’s solicitor had given him an ultimatum. He needed to respond to that first.
But what would he say? He’d been mulling that over almost the whole ride back to Blackmoor Hall and still he had no answer.
“M’lord?”
Startled by the intrusion, he glanced up. With his head in his hands, he’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t heard the door. “Linley. I thought you’d gone to bed. What are you doing?”
“I couldn’t rest until I’d had the chance to speak to you.”
Truman rubbed his face. “Of course. I should’ve realized you’d be worried.”
Once the workday was through, Linley had taken to using a cane. An old wound, from when he’d been thrown from a horse as a child, kept acting up. Leaning more heavily on it than usual, he came farther inside and closed the door. “Did you meet him?”
“I did.”
“What did he say?”
The terseness of the letter that’d arrived two days ago, requesting the meeting, had prepared Truman. His time with the duke’s man of business hadn’t lasted long, but it had been every bit as tense as Truman had anticipated. “It was as we thought.”
“His Grace has heard about Rachel.”
“Yes. The gossips wasted no time.”
“We knew they wouldn’t. They never do.” Linley’s cane hit the hardwood floor until the rug swallowed the sound.
“He finds it an embarrassment, of course.”
“That comes as no surprise, but”—Linley’s expression grew pained—“is it enough of an embarrassment that he has rescinded his offer?”
“Not yet. He has given me a choice.”
“Find another situation for Rachel or forget about marrying Lady Penelope.”
“Yes.” Truman pushed away from his desk so he could stretch his legs.
The pitch of his butler’s voice shifted to one of entreaty. “My lord, I realize you have endured a great deal—”
Truman lifted a hand to silence him. “Don’t patronize me, Linley. I can’t bear it, least of all from you.”
“Then I shall speak bluntly.”
“Why not? You usually do.”
They both chuckled.
“Your welfare means a great deal to me,” Linley admitted. “In my old age, it is almost all I care about.”
“Then say what’s on your mind, old friend.”
“Don’t do anything to risk the wedding. Think of all you stand to lose if the duke withdraws his patronage.”
It wasn’t what he stood to lose that bothered Truman. It was the thought of disappointing his parents, as well as all the other Stanhopes who’d come before him. It was failing. Somehow, that was worse than death. “I will take your advice into consideration.”
“You can’t hope to arrange a more favorable match, my lord. No one else—at least no one who holds such power—would even consider…”
When his words fell off, Truman finished for him. “Marrying his daughter off to a man suspected of murdering his first wife?”
“That’s stating it even more bluntly than I would have, but… yes.”
Truman trimmed the lamp on his desk. “The duke’s man of business stated it similarly.”
“Did he? And what did you say in response?”
“I held my temper, in case you’re wondering.” Even though it galled him to have anyone, even a duke, attempt to tell him what to d
o. He had more land and other holdings than the Duke of Pembroke, had never had to worry about anyone’s “patronage” before. Were it not for Katherine, he could take his pick of brides.
“A wise decision.”
“His man is awaiting my response at the tavern right now.”
“He will carry it back?”
“Yes.”
Linley indicated the blank sheet of paper on his blotter. “What will you tell the duke, then?”
Truman knew what he had to say but couldn’t seem to make the commitment, couldn’t bring himself to send Rachel elsewhere. “It’s not that I find Lady Penelope too objectionable.”
Linley propped his hands on his cane. “She’s nothing like Lady Katherine. A small consolation, perhaps, but there is that.”
“Yes, there is that.” Penelope didn’t come off as spoiled and vindictive. But she didn’t possess Rachel’s keen mind, strong values, or fighting spirit, either. “She almost has the opposite problem,” Truman grumbled, stretching the muscles in his back. “She’s so blasé I wonder if she isn’t a bit daft.”
Linley didn’t like that statement, probably because he didn’t want to acknowledge the truth of it. “I wouldn’t go quite so far, my lord.”
Truman rolled his eyes. “Of course not. You want me to make the match. But something has to be wrong with her. Otherwise, His Grace would have promised her to someone else, someone who isn’t in the midst of such scandal.”
“Maybe not. His Grace was a good friend of your father’s. He has always been partial to you.”
Which is why Truman felt an added obligation. He wanted to remain true to his legacy. To do as his parents would wish. To fulfill what he’d always perceived as his destiny.
He’d just never expected his heart to put up such a fight. “I know.”
“At least you like Penelope’s family.”
“There’s little question I prefer them to the Abbotts.” Truman studied Katherine’s portrait. “Linley?”
His butler followed his gaze. “Yes?”
“Could you imagine Jonas Cutberth having anything to do with the fire?”
“Jonas? I hope not. I’ve always held him in high regard. He’s been the clerk for Stanhope & Co. for… more than a decade.”
“And, according to my steward, he’s very efficient.”
“Not that the same could be said for your steward.”
Truman allowed himself a wry smile. Linley rarely spoke ill of anyone, but he had little good to say about Wythe. “Which is why I appointed him steward over the mine instead of any of my other holdings. At least having him close means I can keep an eye on him.”
“A wise choice on your part, I must say.”
“But be that as it may… could you see either man being tempted into a plot to steal rare paintings?”
“You’re asking about Wythe, too?”
Until now, Truman had been careful not to mention his doubts about his cousin to anybody, including his beloved butler. He had no proof to back up his suspicion, no reason to cause Linley to dislike Wythe any more than he already did. But he needed to voice his concerns to someone, needed to hear whether he was losing his mind. “Yes.”
“Cutberth has the brains to be able to mastermind such an elaborate plan, but I can’t imagine he has the heart for it.”
“And Wythe?”
He sighed. “I would say the opposite is true for Wythe, my lord.”
This time, Truman laughed out loud. “We seem to be of the same mind.”
Linley used his cane to help heave the bulk of his weight forward. “Why do you ask? Has someone suggested that either man might be responsible for Katherine’s death?”
“Rachel did.” And Truman thought there might be something in the account books to support it.
He pursed his lips. “So she knows details of the fire, after all.”
“Largely that Cutberth is no friend to me. He’s secretly been trying to form a union at the mine.”
Linley rocked back. “Not Cutberth. He makes a fine living. Why would he sow seeds of contention?”
“Empathy would probably be the noblest of the reasons I could name. Gaining power and influence among his peers would be the least.”
“But you can’t discount the possibility.”
“No.”
He managed, with some difficulty, to get to his feet. “How does Rachel know his business?”
She’d supported him, worked with him and admitted as much. But Truman was too protective of her to mention it. “He’s been to her house.”
“On union business?”
“Yes. I’m sure her father was more than willing to join his efforts.”
“That hardly seems loyal of Mr. Cutberth, my lord.” Linley came forward. “What are you going to do?”
“What I’ve been planning to do for some time. I’ll increase wages across the board—for everyone except Cutberth. I can’t bring myself to reward his duplicity, not when I already pay him more than he’d be making anywhere else.”
“Are you sure you want to give in that easily? Won’t that set a bad precedent?”
“It’s a bad precedent that I want to be fair? I don’t see how. The price of coal is up. I was already thinking about instituting a profit-sharing program. I talked to Wythe about it months ago.”
Linley grimaced. “I can guess what he had to say. He told you that you don’t know the character of the men. That if you give them more money, they’ll just spend it on drink. Am I right?”
“He didn’t like the idea, but I will make sure he understands I am no longer leaving the matter in his hands.”
Linley adjusted his jacket. “One thing… what happens when the price of coal goes down? How do you take that money away once you’ve given it?”
“It won’t be a decision I make. There will simply be less profit to share, and Cutberth’s own records will attest to that. I don’t run the market.”
“More’s the pity.” He nodded in satisfaction. “I doubt anyone could quarrel with such an offer. There will be no reason to fight for what they’re already getting. And they’ll continue to produce or there will be no extra income for anyone.”
“That’s the way I see it.”
“It’s brilliant. A model I hope others will copy.” He cleared his throat. “But if you will allow me to return to what you told me a moment ago.”
Truman dipped his head.
“What was it that made Rachel connect Cutberth to what happened here two years ago?”
Truman showed him the ledgers and explained what Rachel had told him, including what she’d said about Elspeth.
“Good luck getting anything out of her,” Linley said.
“Maybe Wythe can do it.”
“If only we could trust Wythe.”
“If only we could find one of those damn paintings!”
Linley tapped the desk. “We’ll have plenty of time to look once you write that letter. I wouldn’t want the duke’s emissary to leave without it.”
“You want me to marry another woman I don’t love.”
“You have to marry someone, my lord, someone with a proper lineage and connections. You need an heir.”
But no matter whom he married, he’d never be able to forget the bookseller’s daughter. No woman had ever stirred his blood the way she did. He wished she was waiting in his bed right now. “And Rachel? Would you have me send her to a city where she knows no one?”
“I like her, my lord. I do. But she would be as out of place in your world as you would be in hers.”
Truman groaned in frustration. “This bit about worlds again.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind. Just make some inquiries, Linley. Help me find the perfect place for her.”
“I will.”
“Thank you.”
His butler hesitated at the door. “You could always subsidize her income, you know—if it would make you feel better.”
Truman pictured Rachel’s face, the
intensity of her expression when she told him he would have to sacrifice too much to be with her. “I will happily provide for her—if only she will allow it.”
“She wouldn’t have to know it was coming from you.”
“Rachel is not so easily fooled.” He smiled at how handily she could beat him at chess and how clever she was generally.
“What kind of position should I seek for her?” Linley asked, his hand on the knob.
“One where it appears as if she’s earning as much as she makes.”
“So you’ve made your decision.”
What good would it do anyone if he died in ignominy?
“I have an entire dynasty to protect. Did I ever really have a choice?” he replied and dipped his pen in ink.
Rachel could sense the earl’s presence. He was in her room, over near the window, where he’d been the night Wythe paid her a visit.
Pushing her heavy eyelids up, she searched that corner, trying to make out his general shape, but there was no moon tonight. She could see nothing.
“My lord?” she whispered.
“I’ve disturbed you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Now that she was awake, she could smell a hint of the tobacco he smoked in his pipe. That must’ve been what gave his presence away, because he’d made no sound. “Is something wrong?”
“No, go back to sleep.” He started to leave as if he regretted ever coming in, but she called him back.
“Wait.”
He turned. “Yes?”
“Something’s changed. I can tell. What is it?”
“I searched the ledgers, Rachel. There is nothing in there that will benefit me, just the tantalizing clue of that extra payment.”
“At least we have proof of that.” She hesitated. “Is that all?”
“No. I just wrote a letter to the Duke of Pembroke.”
“Making the commitment?”
“Yes.”
There was conviction in his voice she hadn’t heard there before.
