So then. Back to the list of questions.
1. Who is blackmailing my sister?
2. Does Mrs. D know anything about it?
3. If Mrs. D does know something, how am I to get the information from her if she’s determined to dislike me?
4. Does Mary know anything about it?
5. If Mary does know something about it, how am I to get the information from her if I’m beginning to like her?
Hartwell winced, not liking to admit the last point to himself. But if he was to be objective, he had to be honest. He liked Mary, inasmuch as a man could like a woman he’d known for a day. She was blunt, and he liked bluntness.
It suggested openness, honesty, a lack of guile. She had an honest face, the kind that splayed her innermost thoughts and feelings when she thought she had impassive control. All of which suggested she wasn’t the blackmailer and he was free to explore whether these feelings were of friendship or something deeper.
“Are we quiet because we like it, or because we have nothing to say?” Mary asked.
Hartwell coughed, not expecting her to speak while he had been trying to decide if he had romantic feelings toward her. “I was rather enjoying the silence after this morning’s breakfast discussion. And then I thought perhaps you might enjoy the silence after your... discussion in your bedroom,” he said wryly.
Mary stiffened. “My aunt had no right to be so irritated.”
He studied Mary, noting that every time Mrs. Durham had her attention, her face tightened, her hands fidgeted, and her eyes darted about as though calculating every escape route. Mary had no deep love for her aunt, of that Hartwell was certain.
“I’m surprised you accepted my invitation,” Hartwell said, keeping his tone light. “I thought I was interrupting something.”
“You were,” Mary said, “but I welcomed the interruption.”
“Ah.” He followed along as Mary turned the corner of the house. The ground clung to their feet, and he wondered if Mary had put boots on to protect her feet from the cold. But then she was a walker, and most likely wore such boots out of habit rather than necessity. He shook his head slightly. Back on track!
“I was certain you’d deny me the pleasure of your company, as you didn’t seem to enjoy my company at all yesterday.”
Mary looked at him sharply. She relaxed at the sight of his smile and allowed a small one of her own to break through her troubled expression. “I could say the same of you, you know.”
“Quite,” Hartwell said. How to get Mary to speak of blackmail? He was rather appalled by his lack of interrogation skills when outside of the courtroom. But then, he’d never had to interrogate a woman, and certainly not a woman like Mary Trentwood. Dangerous thinking, for if she were a blackmailer and blackmailing his sister besides, he would have to see her in court and mount evidence against her.
Without evidence, he had no case.
What was it about this woman that made Hartwell think in circles? He ought to have stayed in London and learned more about the people living in the manor house. While stuck here, he had no resources, no way to access his solicitor quickly, no way to know if the blackmailer had sent another letter to his sister.
Blast and damn, sometimes I wish I thought things through a bit more before jumping on a train to the middle of nowhere.
Mary placed her hand on his arm. He looked at her with a start before realizing she was gesturing at a rise in the ground that would have made him stumble. She, on the other hand, was watching the house, the windows specifically, it seemed. She knew the grounds of her home so well that she didn’t need to watch her step. She knew them well enough that she could stare at the house solemnly and warn Hartwell of his own misstep without hesitation.
Just how often does she do this? he wondered.
Mary was looking at the bay window belonging to the library, he realized. Hartwell caught his breath at the sight of a shadow lurking behind the murky panes of glass. Was that the mysterious father Pomeroy had warned him about?
No, for there was a dog in its arms. The very same dog that had used his leg as an itching post at breakfast. Very un-ghost-like. So Mrs. Durham watched from afar, did she? Best give her a show.
“So this is the family home, then?”
Mary nodded. “We’ve been here since Compton Beauchamp came into being, since the Tudors, I think.” She sighed at the crumbling stone steps that led from the back of the manor house to the lackluster garden. “It’s a bit worse for wear.”
“It’s charming,” Hartwell lied. The place was a deathtrap if he ever saw one.
“It’s falling apart,” Mary retorted, shifting her shawl around her shoulders with a sniff. “But I’ll not leave it, not while my—” She cut herself off.
“Not while your dear retiring aunt is in such dire need of your tender care,” Hartwell finished for her, his tone the very definition of admiration and understanding, with the requisite undertones of sarcasm and amusement.
Mary choked on a giggle that turned into an amused snicker.
“Has she always lived with you?”
“No,” Mary said quickly. She stopped walking.
“Well, that sounds like a story begging to be told,” he said, rounding on her with a grin. He saw Mary glance at his expression and turn from it. He dropped his grin as if it burned his already scarred face, realizing she turned from him whenever he smiled.
Just like everyone else.
“A story for a story,” Mary said, her hazel eyes bright and her cheeks a bit flushed as she turned to face him.
No, not just like everyone else, he thought, as the wind ruffled his hair. Others looked away in disgust, fear, ashamed curiosity; they never looked away with blushing embarrassment. Good heavens, not only was Mary Trentwood not afraid of him, was it possible she actually found him attractive? Poor girl, she obviously needed a quizzing glass. Or two. Or three.
“A story for a story?” Hartwell said slowly.
“Indeed.” She smiled, warming to the subject. “I tell you a little about myself, and you tell me why you’re really here.”
His brows rose and his mouth took a mulish turn. “Meaning you don’t think I’m here at my sister’s bidding?”
Mary opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off before the words left her mouth.
“It just so happens I’m not here at her bidding, so good for you for sensing it. But I am here because of her, if you’ll acknowledge the difference.” Hartwell clamped his mouth shut before it decided, quite of its own accord, to blurt anything else. Just what had gotten into him? He was supposed to be gleaning information about Mary and Mrs. Durham, not volunteering his own.
“I do see the difference,” she mused, “and wonder at it.”
He waved a finger at her. “I’ve told you something; now you must tell me something.”
“No, my aunt hasn’t always lived here,” she offered.
After waiting a moment or two, Hartwell exclaimed, “But I already knew that bit, you can’t count that. Tell me something new.” Oh, how his peers in London would be roiling with laughter at the sight of him now, stumbling over the basest game of sharing information. And what was Mary doing? Was she—oh yes, she was!—she was laughing.
That laugh settled into every corner of his mind and warmed him. Hartwell didn’t care if he had to volunteer everything he knew, as long as he could make her laugh again.
“Fine,” Hartwell said, fascinated by the way Mary’s eyes sparkled in the sunlight, and how strands of hair had blown free of her chignon to be held captive between her still trembling lips. He watched her inhale quickly, and he knew she knew he was staring boldly at her mouth. He dragged his eyes back to hers. “This is a very odd game, Mary Trentwood.”
“My mother and I used to play one very like it,” Mary said, resuming their walk to dissipate the charged awkwardness that had sprung between them. Or so Hartwell assumed. She clasped her hands behind her back as she walked, a very mannish thing to do, yet she so
mehow made it look very feminine, very natural, very her. “We would each volunteer a sentence to a story, and we came up with the most ridiculous tales.”
“I assume a princess was involved.”
“Oh, yes,” Mary said. “Someone had to save the prince.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, it’s just that in our stories, the prince was always marrying the wrong woman.” She frowned, and he heard her toe tapping against a rock. “I can’t remember why, for the life of me. But he was marrying the wrong woman and didn’t know he was a prince, and the princess had to show him the errors of his ways.”
Hartwell snorted. “Don’t you think if the princess had to show the would-be prince the error of his ways, perhaps she ought to have waited for a prince who knew he was a prince and knew the princess was right for him?”
Mary’s expression darkened and she continued walking, briskly this time. Hartwell dashed to catch up to her.
“How often have your friends married their match, Mr. Hartwell?” she snapped. “How often have they had the foresight to marry a woman who could give them a proper home, a proper marriage, a proper partnership?”
Hartwell licked his lips. His sister, he knew, had thought she had married her match. He didn’t know what she thought now. And his peers in London? They made sport of their wives in a very unsportsmanlike manner, quelling the youth within Hartwell who had spent his childhood reading tales where the prince did save his princess and cherished her.
“None,” he admitted gruffly.
“It’s your turn. You must tell me why you’re here.”
He touched her arm and she stopped. She would not look at him, and he suspected there were tears under her cold tone. She wouldn’t cry, heavens no, she was too proud for that. But that didn’t prevent the emotion from being there anyway.
“I didn’t mean to tease about your mother. I’m terribly sorry, that was awful of me.”
“Yes, it was.”
“My mother always said my mouth would get me into trouble.”
“It has.”
Hartwell scowled. “I’m trying to apologize, Mary, will you kindly let me?”
She tried to suppress a smile but failed. “Very well.”
Thank heavens for that. He was certain he had insulted her deeply, but there was a smile lurking. For all that Mary said she wasn’t one to laugh or joke, she was certainly in fine form at the moment. Best take advantage of it while he could.
Really, all Hartwell had to do was wait until the solicitor came with the Trentwood papers. He would know, then, if she had been accepting funds from his sister. He could even ask the solicitor, on the sly, about Mrs. Durham’s finances. Hartwell was well known in London for his fairness and diligence. The solicitor would trust him, surely.
Hartwell swooped to kiss Mary on the cheek. “My sincerest apologies. My mother would be absolutely mortified by my behavior.” He grinned at the sight of a pretty pink hue washing over her face. “And I’m here because my sister tells me your aunt, of anyone she knows, would know who is blackmailing her.”
And there was pale, scared Mary again, staring at him, stricken. Hartwell could have kicked himself.
“What?” Mary breathed.
“My sister. Someone is blackmailing her, and she swears your aunt knows who would do such a thing.” Hartwell shrugged. He turned, noticing a carriage ambling up the gravel lane to the house. “I don’t know if I can believe her. My sister often goes into flights of fancy, shall we say. But it’s all I’ve got, and I’ll not let my sister be threatened if I can do anything about it. Say, were you expecting the solicitor so soon?”
But Mary didn’t reply, not verbally, at least. She took a step forward, stopped, took another step forward, and frowned.
“Mary?” Hartwell said.
A man stepped from the carriage, slapped his hat against his legs to dislodge the dust from travel, and looked up. He was a tawny sort, well built and quite assured of himself. He was unforgivably attractive, even Hartwell could see that. And he was staring at them just as they stared at him.
“Steele,” Mary breathed.
***
THIRTEEN
Mary rubbed her eyes. After a year of imagining his fine carriage rolling up the gravel drive to her front door, stepping down and slapping his hat against his legs, she was certain she had finally, most definitely, lost her mind.
“Is there a man, a blond man, standing at the front door beside a carriage?” she murmured. When Hartwell didn’t respond, she looked at him to find a puzzled, almost hurt, expression before it was masked by a pathetic attempt at calm indifference. “Humor me, Alex, I am often questioning what I see these days.”
There, that ought to spark a response from him; she knew Pomeroy must have told Hartwell about her supposed ghost—not supposed but real. And indeed, Hartwell worked his jaw a bit as he pondered a reply.
“There is a man, yes. What did you call him?”
Mary stepped away from Hartwell. “Steele.” She hugged her shawl tight around her as she moved toward this stranger, this so very welcome stranger, who watched as if she was a ghost.
“Miss Trentwood,” Steele said as soon as she was within hearing, and he rushed forward to clasp her hands in his. “Miss Trentwood I’d no idea about your father. I’m terribly sorry.”
Mary smiled. She smiled and smiled and looked down at her hands and up at Steele and smiled. You came back for me.
Of course, the phrasing was a bit off, as Steele had never actually been to the manor house, but that was a triviality. He had come back to her. That was the important thing. He had come back, and he was holding her hands, and though she was being an absolute ninny about such a small act of friendship, of compassion, of tender feeling, she delighted in it.
“I’d no idea when Mr. Fredricks sent me out here that I would be tending to your business, of all persons,” Steele said. “He gave me strict instructions not to touch anything or look at any of the papers until within the sight of the departed’s family.”
Mary’s smile began to waver. What?
“But how very glad I am it is you that I’m to help!” Steele squeezed her hands.
A jolt of fever blasted from her hands, up her arms, nestled in her breast, and set her cheeks aflame. Really, Mary Ryan Trentwood, you’re almost twenty-eight years old. There is no call for such dramatics.
“I’d ask how you’ve been this past year, but I can see it hasn’t been easy for you,” Steele continued.
He was everything Mary had remembered him to be. Tall, broad-shouldered, easy manners and all smiles beneath that tawny mustache of his. He held her hands sweetly, confidently, eagerly. He leaned toward her when he spoke, as if he couldn’t get close enough but knew he had no right to come closer.
Mary stepped closer to him. Steele had come to her, it was the least she could do. She willed him to see how she had waited for him. She waited for him to acknowledge the plea in her eyes. She wished him the courage to kiss her as she had dreamed it.
Steele’s smile grew to the point of splitting his face in two, and Mary had never seen anything lovelier. He smelled of the city, or what she assumed was the city, as Hartwell had similar lingering scents upon his arrival: coal, sweat, exhaustion.
“You must come inside,” she said.
Steele nodded, and then caught sight of Hartwell behind her. He raised his brows. “Who is your friend, Miss Trentwood?”
Hartwell came to Mary’s side, his brows also raised. “Indeed, Mary, who is your friend?”
Mary looked from one to the other, not liking how Hartwell had mimicked Steele’s tone, or how Steele had bristled at the sound of Hartwell using her given name. Steele dropped her hands and looked Hartwell over. And heaven help her, Hartwell was looking Steele over. Really, they were being quite silly.
“Jasper,” Mary said, “this is Alexander Hartwell, brother to my aunt’s friend. And Alex, this is Jasper Steele, my...”
Oh dear. What could
she say? This is my long-lost love come back to me. No, that spoke of dramatics she could never sustain. What about, this is my Jasper? No, the words had never been spoken between them.
“I’m her solicitor,” Steele offered, prioritizing his right to be at the manor house over Hartwell’s.
“You are?” Hartwell said, sounding at the same time delighted and disheartened.
“You are?” Mary said, all former feelings of warmth deflating in the face of such stark truth.
Steele hadn’t come for her.
The sun broke through the clouds just then and shone in full force on Hartwell, Mary, and Steele. Hartwell had his hat in his hands, as did Steele, and they continued to measure one another in the increasingly awkward silence. Hartwell remained cool, disinterested.
It was a mask Mary was beginning to recognize. As she looked at Steele and saw his revulsion at the sight of Hartwell’s face, and saw Hartwell’s responding apathy, she knew one expression didn’t exist without the other.
Or rather, she was beginning to suspect, perhaps, that Hartwell’s lighthearted manner around her could very well be because she did not mind his scar so very much. In fact, she hardly even thought about it, except when seeing someone else react to it.
Why, Steele even looked green at the sight of Hartwell! How could he begrudge a man his ugliness, when it was so very obvious Hartwell didn’t begrudge him his beauty?
Mary felt her arms go limp to the sides of her body, feeling the weight of her chilled hands and the loss of Steele’s warmth.
He isn’t here to see me, she reminded herself. He’s here because he’s paid to be here.
She missed her initial exhilaration already. It was a cold place to be without her resurfaced hopes, and she shivered. Mary looked at Hartwell and shared a grim expression with him. She wasn’t sure why he looked grim; surely he faced strangers every day who reacted to his warped eye, but she appreciated the company.
“It’s a bit biting out here,” Steele said, shifting his weight. His mustache danced as he chewed his lip.
“Yes,” Mary said, flailing her arm at the front door. “You must come inside and warm yourself after your journey.” She wanted to sound warm, caring, excited that Steele had come to see her, but she knew her voice sounded flat, perhaps even a bit peevish.
Haunting Miss Trentwood Page 8
