He lay slumped, relaxed, the only muscles with any tension the ones holding her to him.
She smiled, kissed the hot muscle on which she lay; she was about to let go, let her mind drift into sleep, when he shifted and pressed a kiss to her hair.
“You misunderstood one thing I said. It’s not what you might do that worries me—it’s what I might do under the influence of a power I will never be able to control.”
17
The villain’s next ploy arrived two days later in the guise of Dean Ferris, envoy from the Bishop of Wells.
Recognizing the bishop’s crest on the carriage door, Crisp dispatched a footman to inform Charlie. Sarah was with him in her sitting room; she came hurrying to the door, Charlie striding beside her, as the dean climbed slowly up the front steps.
“Dean Ferris.” Sarah walked out onto the porch. “It’s a plea sure to welcome you to Morwellan Park, sir.”
The dean had known her for years; he smiled and took her hand between his. “My dear, I don’t need to ask if you’re well—God’s sun shines in your eyes.” Then he sobered. “Unfortunately, I’m here on a grave matter, one I fear you’ll find disturbing.”
“Oh?” Eyes widening, Sarah turned to Charlie, who had come to stand by her shoulder. “I’m unsure if you’ve met my husband, Lord Meredith.” To Charlie she said, “As you know, the orphanage operates under the auspices of the Bishop of Wells. Dean Ferris is the bishop’s chief advisor.”
Dean Ferris hadn’t encountered Charlie before; he shook his hand, shrewd blue eyes taking note of his hovering presence and the quick glance he threw her.
“Please join us inside, sir, and you can tell us of this disturbing matter.” Stepping back, Charlie waved the dean and Sarah before him.
Noting his clearly enunciated “us,” she steered the dean to the drawing room, then summoned Crisp and ordered tea. While they waited for it to arrive, the dean revealed that he was on a routine visit to the churches in the district, but “in light of the unexpected information the bishop had received,” had decided to stop by to consult her.
Once the tea arrived and was dispensed, and Crisp had retreated, the dean turned to her. “My dear, as you’ve guessed, my visit concerns the orphanage. A letter was sent to the bishop, anonymous as such letters often are, but in light of the seriousness of the allegations, he determined that we should—indeed, are conscience-bound to—alert you of the matter with all haste.”
She set down her cup. “What matter? What allegations?”
The dean looked uncomfortable. He glanced at Charlie. “The letter claimed that the female staff indulge in certain practices with some of the lads…in short, the allegations were of the most grievous moral turpitude.”
Sarah stared at the dean. “That’s nonsense. You know it is. You’ve met all the staff, and so has the bishop—you know such things couldn’t possibly be true.”
“Indeed.” Dean Ferris nodded, both word and action decisive. “Which is why the bishop and I felt we needed to act.” Leaning forward he took her hand. “My dear, these allegations, given we know them to be untrue, are…well, quite ghastly. The bishop and I believe this to be the work of someone wishful of inflicting serious damage on the orphanage—or on you.” He glanced at Charlie. “That’s why we felt it imperative we bring the matter to your attention without delay.”
Sarah met Charlie’s eyes, knew that he was thinking, as she was, that this was clearly their villain’s next move.
Charlie looked at the dean. “Did you by chance bring this letter with you, sir?”
“Ye-es.” The dean looked sheepish as he reached into his robe. “My dear, I hope you won’t take it amiss if I insist Lord Meredith read this rather than your fair self. I don’t think my conscience will allow me to sully your mind with such things.”
She hesitated, but the dean was clearly in earnest; no sense in upsetting him. She inclined her head and watched as Charlie took the missive, unfolded it and read.
His features hardened as his eyes traveled down the page. By the time he flicked to the second page, his jaw was clenched. Reaching the end of it, he raised his brows. “Good Lord!” An expression of distaste clear on his face, he refolded the sheets. “Do you mind if I retain this, sir? Once we’ve told you what’s behind it, and what in a more general sense is going on, you’ll see why it might prove useful.”
The dean wiped his hands. “Truth to tell, I’m only too happy to see the last of it. Dreadful mind, whoever wrote it.”
“A dreadful mind, indeed.” Settling back, Charlie explained why some unknown man was fixed on buying the orphanage—on forcing Sarah to sell Quilley Farm by fair means or foul—and how that related to a wider, long-running series of crimes, and the nature of those crimes.
The dean was appalled. “Dear Heaven.”
Charlie nodded. “Luckily, this time, we’re aware of what’s going on, courtesy of Mr. Adair and his links with the new Metropolitan police force. However, while we know why these incidents are occurring, we’ve yet to identify who is behind them—who our villain is.”
“And he’s the same man—or men,” the dean amended, “behind all the other incidents?”
“We believe so. There seems little chance that two in de pen dent groups, or men, would both think of, let alone be able to run, such an outwardly complex yet at the heart of it simple scheme.” Charlie met the dean’s gaze. “Whoever they are, they’re careful and clever.”
“And conscienceless.” The dean nodded to the letter Charlie had laid aside. “To malign innocent women who devote their lives to caring for orphans is the act of a blackguard.”
“A blackguard we have a unique opportunity to catch,” Charlie said. “Which is why I hope you’ll consent to help us.”
The dean eyed him shrewdly. “I’ll do what ever’s in my power to assist.”
“Excellent.” Charlie looked at Sarah, and smiled faintly. “We spent yesterday at the orphanage assessing every possible avenue to improve its defenses without allowing our increased vigilance to show. I think it very likely our man is watching the place—he’ll expect some reaction to that letter. If you, Sarah, and I visit again today, he’ll guess it’s in response to the allegations.”
He looked at the dean. “We need to put on a charade so he believes his letter has achieved his desired result—to create trouble for the orphanage, and for Sarah. If he believes that it has, then he’ll approach us with another offer. That’s what we want—we need to lure him out.”
The dean smiled and set aside his cup. “I haven’t played charades in years.”
The rest of the day passed in a carefully scripted endeavor to pull the wool over their villain’s eyes. They were sober and serious, grave and righteous when they needed to be—when they arrived at the orphange in the bishop’s carriage and went inside, and when they emerged, hours later, after a pleasant and at times hilarious luncheon with the orphans, and a serious but highly motivating talk with the staff.
When they’d left, the female staff had filed out of the orphanage behind them, and lined up outside the door. Katy Carter had looked frightened and had wrung her hands in her apron, Quince had sniffed and hung her head, Jeannie had looked flushed—in truth with indignaton—and somewhat stunned, while Lily had achieved a quite astonishing sulk, sullen and dour. The dean, struggling to keep his expression condemnatory in the face of such excellent histrionic abilities, had paced back and forth, gesticulating and lecturing. In actual fact the words he’d uttered had been a benediction.
Charlie had stood back and, expression impassive, watched the performance. On his arm, Sarah had hung somewhat limply, her expression as blank as she could make it, as if the entire episode had proved simply too much and she couldn’t wait to get away.
Unobtrusively Charlie had scanned their surroundings, but with the Quantocks opposite and the Brendons behind, there were vantage points aplenty from which a man with a spyglass could keep a close watch on the place. Other than ensuring the carri
age had been drawn up out of the way, leaving their scene enacted before the front door in unrestricted view, there was nothing more that could be done.
Eventually, leaving the orphanage staff apparently chastened, they’d climbed into the carriage and rattled back to the Park.
They arrived in time for afternoon tea, and to receive Gabriel, Alathea, and Barnaby, who’d ridden up from Casleigh. Gabriel and Alathea knew the dean; they all settled in the drawing room and Charlie explained the latest development and how they’d dealt with it.
“Dealing with villains should always involve an element of entertainment.” Alathea accepted a cup from Sarah. “It’s the only way to cope with such horrors.”
Smiling, the dean commended her on her wisdom.
Their shared pasts in mind, Gabriel and Charlie surreptitiously rolled their eyes.
Barnaby had headed south yesterday morning to call on the three solicitors in Taunton and see what information he could wring from them. He’d stopped at Casleigh on the way, intending to recruit Gabriel, and had found himself with both Gabriel’s and Alathea’s support.
“I was stunned,” Barnaby reported. “All three consented to talk.”
“Of course they did.” Alathea selected a biscuit from the tray. “They practice locally. Losing the goodwill of both the Cynsters and the Morwellans would be akin to cutting their throats.” Alathea looked at Charlie. “I used the title quite shamelessly.” She grinned. “You were quite effective even in absentia.”
Gabriel and Charlie exchanged another glance.
Barnaby, however, remained impressed. “Although we told them nothing of the details, all three volunteered what information they had on the client on whose behalf they’d tried to buy the orphanage.” Glancing at Charlie, he grimaced. “As you predicted, the ‘clients’ were all land companies, all with addresses in London.”
“All three addresses look suspiciously like solicitors,” Gabriel put in. “All close to the Inns of Court.”
Charlie sighed. “Given the way our villain has things organized, I suggest we resist the temptation to chase after those addresses.”
Gabriel seconded that. “Either they’ll be fictitious, companies that aren’t real, or we’ll run into solicitors who aren’t amenable to persuasion.”
Barnaby nodded. “Especially as communications between the solicitors and the companies did not go via those addresses.”
When Charlie frowned at him, Barnaby grinned. “Believe it or not, our villain uses an agent. A flesh-and-blood man—to wit a man of average height, with brown hair, thinning on top, round face, regular features, plain and unremarkable, very neatly and correctly dressed in business-agent style, somewhere in his thirties, careful with words and manners yet definitely not a gentleman born.”
Barnaby paused, savoring the minor triumph. “All three solicitors gave the same description. In each case, our man presented his credentials as the appointed agent of the relevant land company. He discussed the details of the offer, and the solicitor agreed to make said offer and was given a part payment as retainer. Subsequently, after the offer had been refused, the solicitors had expected to inform the land company via the address given, but in all three instances, the agent had dropped in—or in one case fallen in with the solicitor as he was riding back to Taunton subsequent to making the offer—and so the solicitors passed their sad tidings directly back to the agent.”
“An interesting aside,” Gabriel said. “Our three solicitors half expected not to receive the rest of their agreed fee, but were surprised when the agent, on being informed of their failure, promptly paid over the remainder of the sum.”
Gabriel caught Charlie’s eyes. “Whoever’s behind this isn’t the usual run of blackguard. He doesn’t try to steal wherever he can—he concentrates on his aim, and otherwise behaves with complete integrity.”
Charlie remembered other blackguards they’d met. He nodded. “He’s not going to be easy to identify. Nothing else will give him away.”
“Which leaves us much where we were before,” Barnaby said. “The only path that might lead us to this man goes via the Quilley Farm orphanage.”
Fifteen minutes later, Charlie, Sarah, and Barnaby stood on the front steps and waved Gabriel and Alathea off. They were riding home; as Charlie turned to follow Sarah inside, he inwardly smiled at the look he’d seen flash between Alathea and Gabriel, and the laugh that had followed it in the instant before they’d given their horses their heads and raced off.
He glanced at Sarah, then turned as Barnaby made his excuses and retired to repair the depredations two days’ riding had made on his normally immaculate person.
“And now I must take my leave.” Waiting for them in the foyer, the dean smiled; taking Sarah’s hand, he patted it. “I’m relieved, my dear, to be able to leave you and the orphanage with such solid supporters gathered around. I’ll inform the bishop of the true nature of events here. Our prayers will be with you.” He inclined his head to Charlie. “And you, Lord Meredith. This blackguard must be found and stopped.”
Charlie nodded. “We’ll do our very best to catch him.”
The rattle of carriage wheels in the drive heralded the arrival of the bishop’s carriage. With Sarah, Charlie walked the dean out, saw him settled, then retreated to the porch and waved as the carriage rolled away.
A horse man was trotting up the drive; he drew to the side and, noting the carriage’s insignia, bowed respectfully as it rolled past. Then with a twitch of his reins, he came on.
Charlie glanced at Sarah, hesitating beside him. “It’s Sinclair.” He grimaced. “No doubt he’s safe enough, but the fewer who know of our plan the better. Do you feel up to more acting? You’ll need to appear as if the dean put the orphanage staff through the wringer and made dire threats to close the orphanage.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Exhausted, upset, and not wanting to talk about the subject at all.” Leaning on his arm, she looked up at him. “I’ll stay long enough to greet Mr. Sinclair—it would look odd if I didn’t—then I’ll retire to nurse a headache.”
His gaze on her face, Charlie hesitated, then murmured, “I’m going to act irritated and annoyed—I’ll say we’ll speak about it later. Once you’re gone I’ll explain about the dean’s visit and the orphanage. If we believed those allegations, I’d be insisting you sell the place—it’s what our villain will expect to hear. Malcolm’s starting to become known in the neighborhood. While I don’t like to deceive and use him, he could be a good conduit to get our reaction to this latest gambit into the local gossip mill. If any hear an observation from him, they won’t imagine he’s made it up.”
Sarah nodded, facing the forecourt as Malcolm trotted up. “Yes. Let’s do that.”
They did, and even though she said it herself, they gave an excellent performance.
When Sinclair approached she plastered a patently false smile on her lips—one that neither reached her eyes nor erased the vertical line between her brows—and gave him her hand. “Mr. Sinclair.”
“Countess.” He bowed, concern in his eyes. “I trust I find you well?”
Sarah pressed her lips tight, then acknowledged, “I’m afraid I’ve had some…rather distressing news.” She shot a sideways glance at the rigid male looming beside her; his face wore its usual impassive mask, yet disapproval and irritation radiated from him. “I…ah.” Raising a hand, she rubbed at that line between her brows. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll lie down for a while. I’m sure his lordship”—another swift glance at the censorious presence beside her—“will appreciate your company.”
“Indeed, my dear.” Steel flashed beneath Charlie’s clipped tone. “I know how much the recent news has upset you. We’ll discuss the matter later.”
An ominous promise infused his last sentence. Sarah nodded to Sinclair, then, lips tight, her head rising, her body tense, walked to the stairs.
Watching her go, Charlie quashed an impulse to applaud; she’d conveyed “fragile overset female
” perfectly. One glance at the frown in Sinclair’s hazel eyes confirmed he’d been convinced. Charlie waved toward the library.
Sinclair paced beside him. “An ecclesiastical visit…surely the bishop isn’t the cause of the countess’s malaise?”
Charlie recognized the question as not quite correct—not a question a gentleman should ask in the circumstances. Yet although mildly irritated that Malcolm harbored sufficient interest in Sarah to inquire into what was clearly a private matter, he pounced on the opening the question afforded. Reaching for the library door, allowing a definite frown to show, he glanced along the corridor as if confirming there was no one about to eavesdrop, then waved Malcolm in, followed, and shut the door.
He led the way to his desk. “I’m afraid the countess has un wittingly become involved in a rather”—compressing his lips, he dropped into his chair—“unsavory situation at the orphanage. By involved I mean through her association with the place, not that she personally is implicated in any wrongdoing.”
“Of course not.” Malcolm sank into the chair before the desk.
His accents harsh, Charlie continued, “The bishop’s advisor came to inform us of the problem, which had come to the bishop’s ear. Steps have been taken to deal with the staff involved.” Picking up a pen, he tapped it on the blotter. “It will, of course, be necessary for the countess to distance herself from the place—a point she will no doubt appreciate once she has rested and regained her equilibrium.”
Malcolm frowned. He hesitated, then diffidently said, “I understood her association with the orphanage is both long-standing and in the nature of a legacy.”
Charlie nodded curtly. “However, under the circumstances she’ll no doubt find some other charity to fill her time, and her godmother is dead, after all.” Pointedly he fixed his gaze on the folded sheet Malcolm had drawn from his pocket. “Is that the report on the Newcastle-Carlisle syndicate?”
The Taste of Innocence Page 33
