The Governess of Penwythe Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  The pace was frustratingly slow. Simon was in no hurry to get wherever he was going. As the distance continued to increase, Jac’s suspicions grew. From what he could glimpse of Simon’s mount, there was no pack with supplies. If this was the direction Simon had come from, he’d traveled quite a distance to retrieve that portfolio—and had made a great effort to speak only with Mrs. Greythorne.

  As the second hour of riding passed, Jac considered turning back. He’d given little thought to what he would do if he was discovered, nor what he would do if he found out where Simon ended up. Just as he was about to turn around, Simon urged his horse into a canter. A signpost at the forked road pointed toward the village of Morrisea.

  Morrisea.

  That was the name of the town Thomas Greythorne had mentioned.

  Simon headed that direction.

  Jac stopped his horse near the forest’s edge where he could observe unseen. Simon turned off the road at a building with a sign reading Hawk’s Eye Inn, where he dismounted and handed the reins to a stableboy. They laughed about something, and Simon tipped his hat to a man in the square. Clearly they knew each other.

  With Mr. Simon safely ensconced in the establishment, Jac turned his horse back toward Penwythe. Maybe he’d wasted an entire morning. Maybe not. But at least he knew that Simon was lying about something. At least Jac could be prepared.

  Chapter 30

  By the time Jac returned to Penwythe Hall, the morning was gone. He’d stopped at an obliging traveling inn on the way back to eat and to water and rest his horse, and it had taken more time than he’d anticipated. Now his horse was tired, and Jac was filthy from the dust and bits of mud that had been kicked up during his strange, unanticipated ride.

  He urged his horse through Penwythe’s main gate and down the side yard along the bowling green to the north courtyard behind the house. As he rounded the corner, a dusty black carriage came into view. Two black horses were still harnessed, and the door bore a simple, unrecognizable crest.

  As he slid off his horse, he tossed the reins to a stable boy. “Who’s here?”

  The boy shrugged. “Two men went inside about an hour ago, and they ain’t come out since.”

  Jac nodded his gratitude to the boy and then moved toward the heavy door to the entrance hall. Once inside, he was surprised to see Johnny leaning against the paneled wall. After Johnny saw him, the youth pushed away from the wall and ran toward him. His wide blue eyes held a mixture of impatience and pride, and his words spilled forth. “Where have you been today, Uncle Jac?”

  Jac smiled as he removed his brimmed hat and set it on a side table just inside the door. He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Even though interactions with Mrs. Greythorne had been tense, his relationship with the children had been growing stronger by the day. “An unexpected errand sent me away for a bit, but from the looks of you, either you’ve had an adventure or you’ve news to tell me.”

  Johnny fell into step next to him, and their footsteps echoed from the passageway’s rounded ceiling. “Mr. Andrews took Liam and me to thin the fruit. I did a whole row by myself. Well, almost by myself, and Mr. Andrews said it was some of the finest work he’d ever seen.”

  “You did?” The pride in the boy’s words heaped more guilt on Jac. The first time the boy showed genuine interest in the orchards, and he was not here to witness it. He looked at Johnny more closely. Evidence of the day’s work had left its mark, from the pink glow of his cheeks to faint traces of dirt marring his face and hands. “And what did you think of it?”

  “Andrews showed me what to do, how to find the fruit clusters and pick all but the strongest, biggest ones.”

  Jac nodded, recognizing the satisfaction in a job well done. “Did he explain why we have to thin them out?”

  “Because the apples need room to grow, and they won’t have enough room if we leave all of the apples in the cluster.”

  Jac nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Can I go with you tomorrow?”

  “If it’s all right with Mrs. Greythorne.” Jac brushed the dirt from his coat. “Thank you for stepping in today while I was gone. It’s nice to know there is another man in the family I can count on.”

  Johnny beamed under the praise before he nodded toward the drawing room. “Who are those men?”

  “Don’t know.” Jac sobered. Unexpected visitors were common at Penwythe, but most visitors had to do with estate business and would be shown in through the study. And if Jac or Andrews was not available, they would be asked either to wait or to return, based on the nature of their business. But these men had been shown to the drawing room.

  Johnny folded his arms across his chest as he spoke, suddenly seeming much older and more mature than his age. “After I got back from the orchards, I heard Mrs. Bishop tell Mrs. Greythorne that the men wanted to speak with Mr. Simon. Why would they want to talk with our tutor? He’s not even here.”

  Jac’s jaw twitched at the mention of the name.

  Would they ever be free from the nuisance of that man?

  “Did they ask to speak with Mrs. Greythorne?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He smiled and clapped his hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Good. Tell your brother and sisters to come to the bowling green in a while. We may be able to get a game of bowling in before night falls.”

  Johnny ran off down the corridor and then Jac turned to the drawing room. Once again, he attempted to brush the stubborn dust from his coat, and he combed his hair with his fingers.

  The long rays of the hot orange sun streamed sideways through the terrace doors. It was warm in here—a room that had been closed all day, trapping the heat filtering through the wall of windows.

  The sober-faced men turned to him as he entered, and Jac took immediate stock of the situation.

  The first man was seated on the settee. A look of pompous annoyance wrote itself on his tight, thin features. He was clad in a close-fitting, high-collared summer coat and a bright-red waistcoat.

  The other man stood next to the windows. He was leaning against the frame with his shoulder, one giant booted foot crossed over the other. Whereas the smaller man was orderly and immaculately dressed, this man’s tousled hair and wrinkled broadcloth coat suggested that these two men were very different sorts.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you gentlemen waiting too long.”

  The man on the settee stood, and the man at the window straightened. “Are you Jac Twethewey?”

  “I am.” He motioned for them to be seated. “I apologize for my appearance. The day turned out to be a rather dusty one.”

  “Your appearance is of little consequence, Twethewey,” the tidy man said sharply, irritation oozing from each syllable. “My name is Donald Clarke. I am a partner with Clarke & Company, the bank in London where your brother kept the trust.”

  Jac had not really thought about the trust since Steerhead had been here to deliver the children all those weeks ago. He’d received the money allotted for the year and did not expect anything else for months. Jac extended his hand and shook Clarke’s.

  Mr. Clarke nodded toward the burly man standing at the window. “This is Lucas Browning.”

  Clarke pulled a box of snuff from his pocket and focused his attention on the painted box. “How well are you acquainted with Edwin Steerhead?”

  Jac jerked his head up. The sickening, sinking sensation that something was gravely amiss tightened in his gut. “I’ve been acquainted with Steerhead for years, but I don’t know him well. He was my brother’s solicitor. And friend. Why?”

  Mr. Clarke pushed his spectacles up higher on the bridge of his nose, ignoring Jac’s question. “And what do you know of your brother’s business dealings?”

  Jac shrugged. “Very little.”

  This line of questioning was beginning to feel like an inquisition, but he did not know what he could possibly be on trial for. Jac narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “As you may or may not know, Mr. Twethew
ey’s business partners have bought out his holdings in the business.”

  Jac stared at him blankly. What did this have to do with him? “Yes. Steerhead told us that he would handle the legalities of that and see that the money was added to the trust.”

  “Yes, that is what was supposed to happen, but I am afraid I have news for you. Unpleasant news.”

  Jac frowned at the matter-of-fact statement, the muscles in his neck twitching. But he remained silent.

  Mr. Clarke cast a glance to the other man before speaking. “Your brother’s trust has been depleted. All of the money in it is gone.”

  “That’s not possible,” Jac retorted, heat rushing to his cheeks.

  “I’m afraid it is.” Clarke’s monotone voice was frustratingly slow. “After completing the sale of the business holdings to the partners, Steerhead invested the money instead of putting it in the trust. We only know this quite by accident. Furthermore, all these weeks Steerhead has been systematically withdrawing money from the trust. Regularly. And often. Now the trust is nearly empty.”

  Jac drew a deep breath and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. “So all the children’s money—the dowries, the annuities—it’s all gone?”

  “Yes. Unless Mr. Steerhead magically appears and replenishes the funds, which I would say is unlikely”—Clarke nodded, his voice flat with sarcasm—“it appears your brother’s trust was sorely misplaced.”

  The air thinned. Confusion gave way to anger. Blood pounded in his ears, harder with each heartbeat, and the volume of his voice increased. “And Liam’s property inheritance?”

  “From what I understand, that property comes from his mother’s side of the family and is not part of the trust.”

  Jac balled his fists at his sides as he raced to map the information he’d just received. “So you’ve come all this way to tell me this.”

  “No, I’m here to find Steerhead, actually. There are matters related to the business that he must account for that have nothing to do with the trust. Your brother had many accounts with us, and this is not the only one Steerhead is running into the ground, undoubtedly to his own benefit. It’s just an unfortunate side task to inform you about the lost trust. We believe he was taking money from the trust to cover his other bad business dealings. That is, of course, an assumption. We need to speak with Steerhead to get the full picture.

  “We’ve tracked down Steerhead’s assistant, but he hasn’t heard from him in two weeks. He did say that he helped Steerhead arrange travel out of the country. Do you know where Mr. Simon is or perhaps Mrs. Greythorne? We’d like to ask them a few questions about Mr. Steerhead since they received some of his last-known correspondence.”

  “Mr. Simon has been relieved of his duties and is no longer here, but Mrs. Greythorne is.”

  “I should like to speak with her. I’m not a man to be taken, and I suspect you aren’t either. One way or another, the money will be recouped. I hope I can count on your assistance—for both our sakes.”

  Jac felt as if he was going to be sick. He couldn’t have cared less about the business and Steerhead, but the children and what belonged to them were another matter.

  Such an exorbitant amount of money. Gone.

  The children’s future and his brother’s legacy vanished like a puff of smoke.

  The pressure was immediate. There could be no question now. He was in charge of these young souls. He would provide for them. He’d figure out a way. Somehow.

  “Can you call her, please?” Clarke’s words jolted him from his thoughts. “We’d like to leave within the hour, if possible.”

  Jac stood and rang the bell to call a footman, dreading what could happen next.

  Chapter 31

  Delia paused outside the drawing room and smoothed the muslin of her printed gown with nervous fingers. She drew a deep, cleansing breath, willing her pulse to slow and her nerves to calm.

  Her heart had jumped within her when Mrs. Bishop delivered Mr. Twethewey’s request that she join him in the drawing room. Their argument that morning had left a bitter stamp on her heart, and he’d been gone ever since. She had found herself watching for him as she passed a window or traversed the corridor near his study. He’d obviously been angry with her when he left the garden, evidenced by the sharp draw of his brow and his curt tone.

  It bothered her, more than she would have expected. How had she begun to care so much about this man’s opinion of her?

  She swept her hair from her face and pinched her cheeks for color, hoping the answers to her questions awaited her on the other side of the closed door. She lifted her hand and knocked.

  Within moments Mr. Twethewey was at the door. His eyes met hers, but instead of the peaceful, kind expression she had hoped for, his face boiled with fury. “Come in, Mrs. Greythorne.”

  His countenance frightened her. Wild and windblown, he looked as if he were ready to break something. She pressed her lips together to collect herself as she brushed past him, his scent of horse and outdoors giving some hint as to how he had spent his day. As she stepped in farther, she was surprised to see he was not alone. Her gaze shifted from one man to the other.

  Mr. Twethewey swept his hand toward the men. “Mrs. Greythorne, this is Mr. Clarke from Clarke & Company, and this is Mr. Browning, his associate.”

  She’d never met Mr. Clarke, but she knew the bank’s name. And the tall man in the corner, with his hard eyes and massive shoulders, was nothing less than terrifying. She managed to remember to curtsy and resisted the urge to step closer to Mr. Twethewey.

  “These men want to speak with you.” He ushered her toward a wingback chair. “Please, be seated.”

  She quickly searched his eyes for some hint as to what was transpiring, but his mannerisms were devoid of any feeling. Delia swallowed and sat on the chair’s edge, turning her full attention to Mr. Clarke.

  The thin man cleared his throat. “You’re aware that Mr. Randall Twethewey’s financial assets were with our institution and that Mr. Steerhead had been named the executor of the trust, yes?”

  Delia tipped her head in a slow nod, not sure what she had to do with any of this.

  “You will be surprised, I’m sure, to know that the money left in care of the trustee has been liquidated.”

  The words were foreign to her. “I—I don’t understand.”

  Mr. Twethewey stepped forward. “It means the trust that was meant to support the children is no more. The money is all gone.”

  “Gone?” She winced. Mr. Twethewey was a wealthy man. This made no sense. “Where did it go?”

  The gravity of the situation took hold as she listened to Mr. Clarke explain loans and money, of trusts and wills, and her heart sank. The children she adored were now destitute.

  “Since you are paid from the trust,” continued Mr. Clarke, “your compensation cannot be guaranteed.”

  She looked up to Mr. Twethewey. His lips were pressed into a fine line. His arms were folded across his chest. His expression gave nothing away.

  Mr. Clark’s words jerked her back from her thoughts. “The trust is gone, and there is nothing to be done about that, unless Steerhead returns it, of course, but I must speak with Steerhead on matters regarding other business. When was the last time you heard from him?”

  She tried to push what she had just heard to the side so she could focus on the question at hand. “I believe it has been nearly a month since I received my wages. I wrote to him after Mr. Simon was discharged, but I never heard a response. I did think that odd, but he is a busy man, and I—”

  “But he was in communication with Mr. Simon?” Mr. Clarke interrupted.

  She cast yet another glance toward Mr. Twethewey. His eyes were fixed unwaveringly on her. “I believe so.”

  She’d barely had time to finish her sentence before Mr. Clarke’s next question rushed her. “Do you know where Mr. Simon is?”

  “He—he said he was staying in Wentin Bay.”

  “Actually, that’s not true.” Mr
. Twethewey stepped closer, his posture tall and confident. “I thought something seemed off earlier, so I followed him after he left this morning to the village of Morrisea and an establishment called the Hawk’s Eye Inn.”

  Delia started.

  The mention of the Hawk’s Eye Inn unleashed a wave of unpleasant memories.

  It was Robert’s inn.

  The Greythornes’ inn.

  The inn through which contraband would pass in the dark of night.

  What on earth would Mr. Simon be doing at the Hawk’s Eye Inn?

  Mr. Twethewey turned back to the men. “I fear he misled Mrs. Greythorne.”

  Delia winced at his accusation, feeling it was meant to drive home a point with her.

  The silence was heavy, thick with unsaid words and suspicions. Mr. Clarke exchanged glances with the other man and then stood. “I think we have what we need.”

  “What are you going to do?” Mr. Twethewey asked.

  “Well, if you are certain you saw Mr. Simon at the inn, then we will visit him there. Time is of the essence, and we are talking about a great deal of money owed to us. We’re on the hunt and will not rest until he answers for his actions.”

  Delia did not move from her chair. In fact, she did not move a muscle until Mrs. Bishop came to escort the men to their carriage and she did not say a word until she and Mr. Twethewey were alone in the drawing room.

  The weight of the words spoken earlier that day hung over them, and finally Delia pushed through the awkwardness. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you say the Hawk’s Eye Inn?”

  “I did.”

  Another sickening wave washed over her. The inn was a harsh place, desolate and isolated. She was never allowed to go there, but she knew the type of men who did. And if Mr. Simon had gone there, perhaps what Mr. Twethewey had tried to tell her about Mr. Simon was true.

  Her pride was difficult to swallow. Would she never be free of the past? Of the fear?

  The force of the memory emboldened her. She needed to make him understand. “I know the Hawk’s Eye Inn. You shouldn’t go there.”