by Elisa Braden
So far, he hadn’t asked anything in return.
Hannah’s admonition about accepting help surfaced again. He didn’t want to. Lady Wallingham had told him to be discreet, not to involve her guests overmuch. But he had only a week remaining before she withdrew her offer and called upon Drayton. So, perhaps he could ask. Just this once. Just to see this job through so he could stop picturing Hannah being forced to live in empty, rented rooms with an alley view.
He cleared his throat. “At the moment, a thief is my quarry,” he said as the gentlemen debated the challenge of pheasant over duck. “He’s proving elusive.”
Reaver crossed massive arms. “What do you have so far?”
Jonas outlined his findings, explaining about the missing maid and the slipper in the cave and what the man in Alnwick had told him.
“Any idea what the trunk contains?” asked Atherbourne, dark eyes thoughtful. “It seems that would tell us what the thief is truly after, which might help in identifying him.”
“No,” Jonas answered. “Lady Wallingham refuses to speak about the trunk’s contents, and nobody else seems to know.”
“Have you asked her son?” inquired Reaver. “Wallingham knows the dragon best.”
Jonas nodded. “First thing. He didn’t know about the contents. Only said she’s had problems keeping lady’s maids through the years and wondered if one of them might have stolen the trunk out of spite. I looked into it. Her last three lady’s maids are all happily employed elsewhere.”
“You say she kept the trunk in her dressing room,” said Rutherford. “Rather personal, then. Keeping it close to hand implies either extreme value or extreme sentiment. Perhaps both.” The marquess tilted his head to an assessing angle. “I could make inquiries if you like. Discreetly, of course.”
Jonas bit down on his instinctive resistance and nodded. “I’d appreciate it, my lord.”
Rutherford’s smile turned wry. “Consider it done. And dispense with the ‘my lord.’ Rutherford will do. Or Ben, if you’re feeling cheeky.”
“He must like you, Hawthorn,” commented Atherbourne. “He bristles when I call him Ben, and I’ve known the scoundrel since Eton.”
“I was Chatham then,” Rutherford retorted lazily. “Had to give that title over when Jameson was born. Now, I am Ben to my friends.”
Jonas sensed tension between the two men but couldn’t quite decipher the cause.
“Hmm. You say the man with the maid asked about tides?” Dunston asked.
Jonas nodded. “What are you thinking?”
“Occurs to me the thief has a fondness for caves.”
“Aye. But there aren’t many round here. St. Cuthbert’s is the closest one of any size.”
Dunston’s gaze took on a sharpened gleam. “If you’re inland, perhaps.”
Jonas shook his head as he took his meaning. “In Dorsetshire, I might agree sea caves are logical. But the beaches here are flatter. Fewer cliffs. Fewer caves.”
“They do exist, however.” The cold, flinty voice sounded behind him. Holstoke strode across the lawn, wearing his usual inscrutable expression. “Northeast of Alnwick. Remote. Accessible when the tide is out. Less so when it is high. A good place to avoid being seen by anybody other than the gulls.”
Reaver grunted his agreement. “We need to determine whether the maid was working with the thief or merely his victim. If she’s truly been taken against her will, she’s in danger.”
“Count on the latter,” said Dunston. “She didn’t seem the scheming sort when Hawthorn questioned her. More impressionable, I’d say.”
The giant’s heavy brows drew together. “I’ll find answers. Perhaps a bit of pressure upon the male servants, a bit of coin to those who may know more than they’re sayin’. We don’t want the lass sufferin’ unduly for falling prey to a thief’s charms.”
Atherbourne asked, “You say you have sketches of them?” At Jonas’s nod, he offered, “I could ask Victoria to copy them for you. The hunt might go faster with several sets.”
Jonas pulled the sketches from his pocket and handed them to the viscount. “My thanks.”
“Come, Hawthorn,” said Holstoke. “Wallingham has a map in the library. I’ll show you where the caves are located. I believe they’ve been used for smuggling from time to time.”
As he thanked the gentlemen and followed his brother-in-law back into the castle, Jonas fought the urge to rush back and tell them he’d handle the investigation on his own. Letting other men do his job made his skin writhe. The feeling reminded him of the time when he was a boy and a group of lads had torn open the door to the privy while he was relieving himself—just as a group of girls had wandered by.
He supposed this was better, but he still felt like he had his breeches down around his knees.
The feeling didn’t ease when he entered the library, noting the grandeur of the twenty-foot ceiling and dark, towering shelves. He could never give Hannah something like this.
He watched Holstoke pull a large, leather-bound book from one of the lower shelves and lay it out on an ornate table.
He’d be asking his wife to leave a castle as grand as this one, to forgo enormous libraries and elaborate gardens. Even if he collected his reward from Lady Wallingham, they would always live within lesser means than she’d enjoyed as Holstoke’s sister.
Nevertheless, if he wanted to provide an acceptable home for his wife—a home with servants and fine horses and a pianoforte and velvet upholstery—then he must find the bloody trunk.
“Here we are,” Holstoke murmured, smoothing a page with his palm and tapping it with his finger. “Caves do exist along the water round Lindisfarne, as well. But given the man you mentioned was spotted in Alnwick, I’d wager these are more likely.”
Jonas wandered closer. Eyed the location. Committed the map to memory. “More than one in the same area, then?”
“Indeed. But this one seems the likeliest.” He tapped the smaller of two coves. “Deeper than the rest. I studied the area’s geology before Eugenia and I ventured to a nearby beach.” The earl’s black brows drew together. “She’d been disappointed by the shortage of intact seashells round Grimsgate. She likes to collect them for decoration.”
Jonas grinned. He’d long found Holstoke’s relationship with his petite, plainspoken wife amusing. From the beginning, Eugenia had appeared to enrapture the chilly, inscrutable lord against his will. Evidently, Holstoke continued to be both fascinated and occasionally bewildered by his charmingly impertinent wife.
An odd tickle of familiarity danced along his skin. His smile faded.
Holstoke raised his head. Pale eyes assessed him. “Hannah appears quite content. I am gratified to see it.” He paused, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “For seven years, it has been my sacred duty to protect her from all harm. However, I may have carried my duty too far by warning you away from her. At least, that is what Eugenia tells me.” Holstoke’s mouth quirked. “She does not mince words.” He cleared his throat and elevated his chin to an angle Jonas recognized—it was a mirror of Hannah’s. “I do trust you’ll take excellent care of my sister, Hawthorn.”
Jonas acknowledged the peace offering with a nod. “You may be assured of it.”
Straightening, Holstoke clasped his hands at his back. “We never discussed her dowry.”
Cold seeped into his skin, writhed like worms. In his mind, flashes emerged of a beautiful woman’s gray eyes going from dancing to dull to vacant to gone. Visions of her gowns turning into haggard rags, her laughter to hopelessness, taunted him.
“A dowry isn’t necessary,” he said finally.
Holstoke frowned. “I am happy to offer it. I wish her to be well provided for.”
“She will be.” His voice was harsh. Cold. “I am her husband, and I shall provide.”
“And if something should happen to you? What then? A dowry offers a widow security.”
“I will take care of my wife, Holstoke.” He didn’t know why it mattered that he
win this argument. Pride, he supposed. Before Hannah, he hadn’t given a damn what anyone thought of him. In fact, he’d enjoyed being underestimated. He was tempted to tell Holstoke the truth. But he wanted to finish this damned job first.
Holstoke shook his head, a puzzled frown forming. “Very well. I suppose a dowry is a bit unnecessary, given the size of her fortune.”
Jonas frowned. Fortune?
“Eugenia would also likely take me to task for insufficiently crediting Hannah’s business acumen.” Holstoke smiled. “She really is quite remarkable, you know.” His gaze turned thoughtful. “My mother wanted her dead. Hunted her for years, all for a doll my father had given his daughter. I doubt he even knew what it was. He was quite ill by then. As we later discovered, the doll had once belonged to my mother. It concealed a fortune in jewels. I asked Hannah what she would like to do, and she decided to sell them. Over the past five years, she took that fortune and doubled it. Investments, primarily. She has a talent for speculation. Treats the whole thing as a game of chess.” He smiled again, his love for his sister glowing brightly. “She used her fortune to establish schools for girls, two outside London and one near Bath. They are orphanages, really, though she has no liking for the term. She prefers to call them sanctuaries for girls who have no family, no way to care for themselves. Each school trains the girls in a craft they may use to gain employment when they are of age. She also pays the tuition for girls of insufficient means to attend Lord and Lady Colin’s school in Devonshire. Her friend, Biddy, is one. Hannah never told her.” Holstoke closed the cover on the book of maps. “Extraordinary.”
Yes. She was. And nothing Holstoke had described came as a surprise to Jonas. The intelligence, the generosity, the courage. Courage most of all. “She is the most beautiful thing on this earth,” he murmured, his voice tight.
Holstoke’s gaze sharpened upon him. Examined him like a new breed of plant. Tilting his head, the earl nodded as though confirming a suspicion. “You will tell me if you ever need anything.”
Jonas frowned.
“I am confident in your ability to care for her. That is not in question.” Holstoke’s shoulders squared. “But you are now a member of my family, Hawthorn. Family helps family. That is what Eugenia says, at any rate.” A small smile tugged. “She also insists I should like you.”
Chuckling, Jonas replied, “Good God, man. Let us not get carried away.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“This is not to imply your stores of cleverness are but dust-ridden shelves. No, surely not. However, in perilous circumstances, one benefits from an overflowing larder. You would be well served to have a woman of my resources at your side.”
—Dorothea Bainbridge, The Marchioness of Wallingham, to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, the Marquess of Wallingham, in a letter arguing the benefits of a resourceful wife in one’s parliamentary battles.
Jonas hadn’t said a word in four miles. But, then, she’d followed him against his express wishes and multiple attempts at husbandly commands.
As Hannah had informed him of her intention to accompany him to the caves Phineas had pointed out on Lord Wallingham’s map, he’d interrupted her with numerous denials. While her arguments had been sound, his had been marked by obstinacy and increasing signs of frustration.
“I shall bring a pistol,” she’d assured him. “I am an excellent shot.”
“Likely you’d end up shooting me. Just stay here.” He’d been growly and fierce—more than usual.
“There is nothing for me to do here except play garden chess with Mr. Farrington. I wish to be helpful, and I cannot do that unless—”
“Farrington?”
“Yes. Lady Rutherford’s cousin. You haven’t met him yet. An exuberant player. Boyish, really. Splendidly good-humored.”
Jonas had turned his back and paced away. “Played with him before, have you?”
“Indeed, a day or two before our wedding. He is the most charming fellow. Charlotte did warn me, but I must say, I found him far more delightful than expect—”
“Stay. Here.” The order had been explicit, growled in a menacing tone he rarely used with her.
That tone had resumed when she’d caught up with him on the road to Alnwick.
“Bloody hell, woman. Go back,” he’d barked. “Go! Or I’ll put you over my horse and haul you back myself.”
“I shall only follow you again.”
“Not if I enlist your brother to keep you where you belong.”
“Phineas already tried. And I am here.” She’d raised a brow to imply the conclusion was obvious. “Think of the hours wasted retracing our steps. The tides are sensitive to timing, are they not?”
He’d ground his teeth. Speared her with a glare. Then continued south.
His mood hadn’t improved over the past hour. In fact, it had grown gradually stormier, descending into resentful, manly silence.
Now, as she enjoyed the steady gait of her mare and the expansive beauty of Northumberland’s coastline, she eyed her husband with puzzlement. “What is your plan, if we should find the thief hiding in one of these caves?”
“Take him down. Retrieve the trunk.” His eyes remained fixed upon the road ahead.
She tried again. “Phineas offered to come along. Don’t you think it might have been wise to—”
“I don’t need his help. I don’t need yours, either.”
Releasing an exasperated breath, she took another tack. “In Dorsetshire, caves such as these are commonplace. They were used often for smuggling, and—”
“I know about Dorsetshire.”
She blinked. “Oh? I recall your stay there being rather short-lived. You departed with some haste, if I remember correctly.”
“I left because you wouldn’t bloody well look at me. Or speak to me. Or acknowledge my existence.”
“I wanted you to stay.”
“You never said so. Just treated me like I wasn’t there.”
“I was frightened. What lies between us is … very strong.”
His jaw flexed. He went silent.
After another mile, she asked, “How do you know about the caves in Dorsetshire?”
At first, she thought he might not answer. Then, in a low, grudging voice, he said, “I spent a couple of years in Poole. Worked the docks.”
Frowning, she examined her husband. “Why did you never say?”
He shrugged. “Left when I was sixteen.”
“And before that?”
Finally, he glanced at her. His gaze was wary. “London.”
“Did you work the docks there, too?”
His shoulders rolled. “Aye. A bit.”
“And before that?”
A long pause. “Norwich.”
“Is that where you were born?”
“Thereabouts.”
“Jonas. I am asking where you were born.”
He gritted his teeth. Glared straight ahead. “North of Sandringham. Round the Wash.”
She tried to remember that this was about gaining his trust. Thus far, she had been abysmally unsuccessful. But, as in chess, neither victory nor defeat could be declared until the game had been played through. “I’ve told you all the worst things about me, you know.”
He ran a hand down his face. “Hannah …”
“I am only asking for information. A simple thing to grant your wife, I daresay.”
After another half-mile, he finally relented. “I was born on a rich man’s land. My father was his gamekeeper.”
“And your mother?”
He rubbed his nape. “She taught me to draw. Taught me to look for beauty. To see it, no matter where I was.”
“She sounds lovely.”
“She was.”
“What was her name?”
His eyes softened. Saddened. “Grace.”
“And your father?”
The hardness returned. He looked away. “Jacob.”
“He was a gamekeeper.”
“Aye.�
��
“And you were born on the land that he managed?”
“A cottage, there.”
“What happened?”
He sighed. “Hannah, must we discuss this now—”
“We have another half-hour of riding ahead of us, by my count. Seems an ideal time to me.”
His jaw flexed. “Very well. My father was a gamekeeper for a baron. Lord Hibbard. Bingham Park was his hunting property. When I was seven, Hibbard invited his nob friends to a hunt. One of them discovered my mother tending her garden. Tried to have his way with her. I was there. Had a knife, as I was cleaning up after breakfast. I threatened to stab him with it if he didn’t leave. He laughed. Just bloody laughed.” He ran a hand over his face again. “My father returned and saw what the man was trying. Struck him. Told him he’d kill him if he saw him again.” He went quiet for a time then continued, “Later that evening, Lord Hibbard dismissed my father without a reference. We were tossed out of the cottage, forced from our home in the middle of the night.”
Hannah didn’t know what to say. How frightened he must have been. Seven years old, valiantly protecting his mother. She could picture it. Understood how it felt to be ripped from everything familiar all at once.
“We made our way to Norwich. My father found work there. Without a reference, it was trying, but we managed. I worked some. Then, my mother fell ill. She went quickly. Matter of days.”
Her heart hurt for him. She, too, had lost her mother. “I am sorry, Jonas.”
He nodded. “My father was … inconsolable. Her death changed him. He became …” He sighed. “I don’t know. Fanciful. Unreliable. He drifted about. Dragged me with him. Told me wild tales about how I would be a grand man one day. Spent every farthing we had collecting books from the circulating library. Made me read them. Every one. We were bloody starving, and all he could think about was how his boy would be a grand man one day. Educated and wealthy. Absolute rot. He’d gone mad.” His face hardened. “Death was a mercy, by the end.”
“How did you survive?”
“I worked. That is how it’s done, princess.”
