Through the Smoke

by Brenda Novak

  Mrs. Tate’s voice rose in the darkness, from where she was sleeping in the other bed. Apparently she’d been tossing too much and had given away her inability to sleep. “When ye came, I thought… I thought ’e was done with ye. But it didn’t sound that way when ’is butler showed up. Why’d ye leave?”

  “I didn’t want to lose sight of who I really am,” she said.

  “Won’t you miss Geordie?”

  She already did. Those few minutes she’d spent saying good-bye had been so difficult. But she wouldn’t drag her brother away, not into such uncertainty. “Sometimes those we love are better off without us.”

  That was absolutely the case for Truman.

  “I thought it would be more discreet to send you, but I should’ve gone myself.” Truman stood in the parlor where he’d first received Rachel when she appeared the night her mother was dying.

  Linley hobbled closer, once again using his cane. “Maybe she has a point, my lord.”

  He tossed the brass poker he’d just used to stir up the fire against its holder, but in his frustration he missed, and it knocked over a table. “And what point is that, Linley?”

  Surprised by this uncharacteristic display of temper, his butler remained silent.

  Mrs. Poulson ducked her head in to see what had caused the racket. Truman shooed her out by saying it was a clumsy mistake and she could right things later.

  “You have no answer?” he demanded of Linley once Poulson was gone.

  “Not one that will please you, my lord.”

  Pressing on his temples to ease the headache that had started earlier, he strode to the fireplace and gazed into the flames. “What will become of her?”

  “She will stay with her neighbor until I can find her a position in London.”

  “Will she be safe there? I don’t want her mistreated.”

  “I believe she’s in good hands. And having her out of the house is far better for you, given that His Grace and Lady Penelope will be here any day. Miss McTavish has done you a great favor.”

  He clenched his jaw at the thought that she wouldn’t be with him tonight. It had taken him so long to find the contentment he felt in her arms. “I didn’t ask for this favor.”

  “Which is why I am so impressed.”

  “I’m glad someone’s happy.” He was weary of the mystery he’d lived with for two years. Weary of Katherine and the toll she continued to take. Weary of the constant battle. He just wanted to be left alone to rebuild his life. And he wanted Rachel to be part of it. If only he had a better option than the one he felt forced to take—but he wouldn’t have a better option unless he could find at least one of those damn paintings.

  “If you were Mr. Cutberth, and you’d stolen a Bruegel or two, where would you hide them?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  Linley puffed out his cheeks as he considered his answer, seemingly glad they could get back to business as usual. “Somewhere safe, of course. Somewhere I could get to them when I was ready. And somewhere they wouldn’t be connected to me, if they were discovered in the interim.”

  “So not at your house.”

  “I would think not, my lord.”

  “I agree. But what other safe place would a man like Cutberth have?”

  “The colliery. Possibly.”

  “My colliery?”

  “Parts of it have been closed off. There are so many tunnels—it’s a maze. And those who work there know its intricacies far better than you.”

  “Perhaps I’ll ask Cutberth’s wife about his activities.”

  “I can’t imagine he told her he was going to steal your paintings.”

  “He might have. They could be in it together. And if not, who would be more likely to notice something odd about his behavior?”

  “There is that, I guess. And considering what Mr. Tyndale told you, she might be eager for revenge.”

  “Such betrayal isn’t easily forgiven.” He would know, wouldn’t he? Of course, he might’ve had a chance at forgiveness if Katherine had been the least bit penitent. Her affairs had had nothing to do with love—only torment.

  “If we go to Cutberth’s wife, she might tell him. And if he realizes you suspect him he could take evasive action,” Linley said.

  “I’m counting on the fact that she will tell him. And I’m hoping the knowledge that I suspect him will frighten him into making a mistake.”

  “What if he panics and destroys the paintings?”

  Whether it would be wiser to wait or not, Truman was running out of patience. “It’s a gamble, but I have to make my move sometime.”

  Linley shuffled closer. “Is this about Rachel, my lord?”

  “It’s about freedom,” he said. “At last.”

  “Back already?”

  Startled, Rachel dropped the broom she’d been using. She’d come to the bookshop to pack up what was left of her family’s belongings and clean the building so the earl could lease it after she was gone. But first she’d boarded up the window that’d been broken and locked the doors. She hadn’t expected—or wanted—to be interrupted.

  “How did you get in here?” she asked.

  Jonas Cutberth dangled a key in front of her face.

  “Who gave you that?”

  “Let’s not worry about such details. I’m here now. That’s what matters.”

  “Then my question is why—why are you here? Don’t you have to be at the mine?”

  “I’m on my way there.”

  “You’re late for work, by my guess.”

  “This shouldn’t take long. I just want to know how much you told Lord Druridge before he tossed you aside. Because he did toss you aside, didn’t he? I can’t imagine you’d be standing here in your old rags if he was still anxious to dip his wick.” He tsk-ed at her “fallen” state and then laughed. “At least you got to pretend to be important for a few weeks. I just hope that fleeting moment was worth losing all your friends and your dignity.”

  Rachel couldn’t help but wince at the image he painted of her. She wanted to tell him the situation hadn’t been as he represented it. She’d only gone to Lord Druridge’s bed because she loved him. She hadn’t even taken the dresses he’d given her when she left.

  But why bother? She’d only look more foolish for allowing herself to fall in love with a man who was as far above her as the moon and the stars.

  “I told him everything,” she admitted and was actually relieved to say it. She’d hated feeling as if she were breaking a confidence, if only because of the respect she used to have for Cutberth.

  His taunting smile disappeared as quickly as if she’d wiped it away with a rag. “I hope to God you’re just trying to make me angry.”

  A chill went through her. This was a side of him she’d only begun to see since her mother died. But she couldn’t lie. For her own dignity—and for the sake of those miners who were simply looking to improve their terrible lot by banding together—she felt she had to tell the truth. Maybe it was time everyone did. “The earl knows about the union, Mr. Cutberth, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Does he know I’m behind it?”

  “Ouch!” She tried to wiggle away, but his fingers dug in deeper.

  “Does he?” he demanded, giving her a shake.

  “Yes!” she cried. “Let go of—”

  Rachel didn’t have time to finish her sentence, didn’t even have a chance to brace for the slap that left her ears ringing. She stood, stunned and even slightly disoriented after he hit her, while he continued to rail. “You little bitch! Do you know what you’ve done? Do you know what a disappointment you would be to your dear mother, if she were here to see how far you’ve fallen?”

  Strengthened by her own anger, Rachel jerked away. “How dare you bring my mother into this! You have no right to even mention her name!”

  “That shows how much you know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Forget it. If you’ve cost me my j
ob, you’ll be sorry. Do you hear? I won’t allow some stupid whore to destroy what I’ve worked so hard to accomplish.”

  Rachel wished Mrs. Tate or someone else would interrupt. Her cheek was stinging, her stomach was upset—and she feared Cutberth wasn’t finished with her yet. “And what is it, exactly, that you’ve worked so hard to accomplish? Is it what you’ve always told me you wanted? Better conditions and better pay for the miners? Or a way to make yourself rich?”

  This seemed to take him aback. “What are you talking about?”

  She wanted to mention the paintings but dared not give away the fact that the earl had found a thread he could possibly use to unravel the whole mystery, in case Cutberth could somehow counter him. “What were you looking for when you broke in here? What were you looking for when you broke into my home?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  She arched her eyebrows. “Was it the ledgers?”

  He froze. “Where are they?”

  “Where did the money come from, Mr. Cutberth?”

  He tried to grab her again, but she managed to put a table between them.

  “Give them to me before I wring your neck!” he said.

  “Threatening me won’t do you any good. I couldn’t turn them over even if I wanted to. I left them at Blackmoor Hall.”

  Putting a hand to his chest, he briefly closed his eyes and shook his head. “You have no idea of the damage you’re doing.”

  “Feel free to explain so that I will understand.”

  “Why would I bother? After the past several months, you’re the last person I trust,” he said and stormed out.

  Once she felt confident that he wasn’t coming back, Rachel stumbled over to a chair so she could sit down. Her cheek hurt from when he’d hit her, and her legs felt like rubber, but she was more excited than upset. He’d all but admitted to breaking into her house and the shop, admitted that he’d been searching for the ledger books. That meant he knew something about the money.

  She had to get word to Lord Druridge. But how? After what’d just happened, she dared not traverse the five miles to Blackmoor Hall. She’d be far too vulnerable. For all she knew, Cutberth would follow her and toss her over the cliff.

  Truman passed a long, miserable night. He tried to convince himself not to let Rachel’s absence bother him, but it was no good. Blackmoor Hall had never seemed so empty.

  He walked around in her room, even felt the fabric of the dresses she’d left behind, and wished she’d waited. His guests hadn’t arrived and could still be another day or two.

  Grateful when the sun finally rose, he dressed with the intention of visiting Mrs. Cutberth at her home. By the time he arrived, her husband would be at work, giving him an opportunity to speak to her without him. But Wythe showed up, catching him before he could go anywhere.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  “You’re not supposed to even be here.”

  “This is important.”

  Wythe had been upset ever since Truman insisted he move to Cosgrove House. They’d barely spoken since, which made Truman feel conflicted. His mother’s dying wish was that he be good to his cousin. And this was the same cousin who’d subsequently rescued him from certain death—all the more reason to honor those wishes. But he wasn’t ready to let Wythe back into his good graces. Although he’d spent years trying to take the high road where his cousin was concerned, he was consistently disappointed in Wythe. How he’d treated Rachel was just one reason. Truman wasn’t ready to have his cousin return to Blackmoor Hall. He didn’t want to be apologizing for Wythe’s drinking and inelegant behavior when the duke and Lady Penelope were here.

  So if Wythe had come to plead his case, Truman was hardly eager to listen. He’d heard it all before. How Wythe hadn’t known what he was saying when he threatened Rachel. How he never would have entered her room if he’d had his wits about him. How he wouldn’t have really hurt her, regardless. But Wythe started up the stairs toward the study, presumably because he wanted to speak in private, before Truman could demand he leave.

  Truman cursed the delay this would cause—but he followed. He figured he might as well listen before His Grace and Lady Penelope arrived.

  “What is it?” he asked as he closed the door.

  Wythe turned to face him. “There’s something happening at the mine.”

  This sounded ominous. Wythe usually pretended to have the colliery well in hand. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “It feels serious.”

  Truman swallowed a sigh. Didn’t he have enough problems for one winter? “I’m listening.”

  Wythe’s eyes were red-rimmed and his face pale but at least he was sober. “There’s been a shift in sentiment among the workers. It was subtle at first, but Cutberth tells me—”

  “Cutberth,” Truman broke in.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where you’re getting your information?”

  Wythe spread out his hands. “Why not? He’s always been reliable in the past.”

  “Tyndale’s the Fore-Overman. Why aren’t you listening to him?”

  “Cutberth seems closer to the men.”

  Thanks to Rachel, Truman now knew why that might be the case. “When did you last speak to him?”

  “I just came from the offices.”

  Rachel had mentioned that Wythe and Cutberth were being secretive, but Truman wasn’t sure how much importance to attach to that. Because of their work at the mine, they had a lot of things to talk about that they may not want the miners to overhear. It could be nothing more than that. “Go on…”

  “He claims that many of the miners are upset with you over Ra-Miss McTavish. They’re talking about doing something to defend her honor.”

  “Defend her honor!” Truman couldn’t believe it. “I was the one who had to defend her from them. They didn’t care a fig about her honor, or even her safety, when they were trying to drag her to the ground so they could throw up her skirts.”

  “That was four men, Truman. Not all of them. And you’re the only one who’s actually bedded her. Hence the problem. I wish you would have left her to me instead of bringing her here. I could’ve used her as a sorter at the mine until they would accept her again.”

  “You could have made her a sorter to begin with and didn’t.”

  “I regret that. I truly do.”

  If only Truman could believe him.… “You have never had any love for Rachel.”

  “I don’t like her arrogance. She thinks she’s smarter than everyone else.”

  “Because she is,” he said.

  A muscle moved in Wythe’s cheek. “Be that as it may, now that you’re involved with her, they’re complaining about it. They’re saying it’s not enough that you can have every woman in your own class? You have to ruin Rachel?”

  “I hope I don’t need to remind you that Rachel would never have been ruined if you hadn’t—”

  He held up a hand. “I realize that. It was a mistake, one I’m not likely to forget since you publicly embarrassed me by banishing me from the house.”

  “You earned that and more.”

  “I may not be thrilled that you’ve taken up with a-a”—he seemed to note the warning look Truman gave him because he made an effort to curtail his comments—“woman so far beneath you, but I am still your cousin.”

  “Then prove you have my best interests at heart.”

  His eyes flashed with anger. “What do you think I’m doing here? I’m trying to warn you that this thing with Rachel is getting out of hand—in more ways than one. From what I can tell, you’ve grown besotted with her. You’ve certainly put her interests above mine. And now the villagers feel as if they have to defend one of their own. They’re saying you drove her father to the grave, then you took advantage of his pretty, defenseless daughter.”

  Truman moved to his desk and picked up a paperweight, which he tossed from hand to hand. “And what do you think they’re going to do abo
ut it?”

  “Who knows? Maybe they’ll set another fire, and maybe next time I won’t be around to drag you out.”

  “I see.” The irony of Wythe being his savior never ceased to amaze Truman. “And did Cutberth tell you why he would be privy to the sentiment of the miners?”

  Wythe remained agitated but stopped pacing. “What did you say?”

  “Did he tell you that, as our loyal employee, he has secretly been working to start up a union?”

  His cousin’s jaw dropped. “What? No! You can’t be serious.”

  “I assure you I am. As steward, you didn’t notice anything?”

  “Nothing, I swear it!”

  Of course he’d be oblivious. He had his head in a bottle most of the time. And Truman had been just as preoccupied since the fire. The miners could have held union meetings on his own property at the beginning of each shift for all he knew.

  “Now that you are aware, has Cutberth ever acted… oddly, in your opinion?”

  “Never.” Wythe scowled. “Are you sure you have your facts straight?”

  Truman put down the paperweight. “I doubt Rachel would lie about something like that.”

  “How would she know what Cutberth is doing, Truman? Maybe she’s just trying to cast suspicion on anyone except her own family—”

  “Even if her father set the fire, someone else paid him,” Truman said. “I don’t know a lot, but I know that the McTavishes came into some money after the fire. And they’ve been receiving additional payments ever since.”

  “From whom?”

  “Cutberth, for all we know. Maybe he even embezzled that money from Stanhope & Co.”

  “Cutberth can’t be involved. What reason would he have to murder Katherine? Whoever killed her had to have come from London. It was probably someone she played false, maybe even the father of her unborn babe.”

  Truman no longer believed her killer had come all the way from London—not since he’d learned about the money Jack McTavish had received to fire the manse. “No, the killer is here in Creswell.”

  “It’s not Cutberth,” Wythe responded. “Cutberth wouldn’t hurt anyone—wouldn’t risk his job, his family.”