Love Inspired Historical October 2015 Box Set

by Lacy Williams

  “I have not told her yet, but in spite of her love for the children, she wants to know the truth. I don’t want to go over the same ground covered previously. Do you have any idea where I should look?”

  “None. Every village along the shore was visited and everyone asked about the children. Susanna even took them to one of the mining villages on Lord Warrick’s estate, hoping they might have come from there, because of the message in the note pinned to Joy’s shirt.”

  “Message? What message?”

  “I thought Susanna had showed it to everyone.”

  Arthur grimaced. “If she showed it to me, and she probably did, I have forgotten. What did it say?”

  His brother reached under his coat and pulled out a piece of paper that had been folded and opened dozens of times. “I copied this from the original note, which Susanna has.”

  Taking it, Arthur opened it and read the few words:

  Find loving homes for our children.

  Don’t let them work and die in the mines.

  “That is pretty specific.” He gave the page to his brother. He glanced toward where Miss Oliver danced in a circle with the children. Their light voices lilted through the air, but the distance obscured the words. “But Susanna found nothing at the mines.”

  Raymond slipped the note under his coat. “No one has discovered any clues to what happened before the children were rescued.” He paused, then asked, “Are you listening to me?”

  “Of course! Why would you think otherwise?”

  “I don’t have your complete attention.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I am here.” He tapped his chest. “You seem to be more interested in who is over there.” With a chuckle, Raymond leaned his hand on a nearly empty barrel of nails. “Miss Oliver is extraordinary with the children, isn’t she? Elisabeth never frets when she hands Toby over to her.”

  Arthur knew it would be silly to act as if he did not understand. Even as he debated how to put her out of his mind, he stared at the nurse like a child looking at freshly baked treats.

  “Carrie is pleased she was hired also.”

  “And you?”

  Arthur frowned. “If you and Carrie and Susanna are pleased with Miss Oliver, why would I have any reason not to be?”

  “I did not intend to suggest you were not pleased with her.” His brother rubbed his fingers against his chin as the two of them watched Miss Oliver lift the boys, one at a time, to look at cows at the far end of the field. “I am curious if you are more than pleased with her.”

  “You are being absurd,” he replied automatically, unsettled by his brother’s insight.

  Raymond shrugged. “I don’t believe so. Speaking as your parson, I would caution you to be careful, Arthur, for, though God forgives us as a loving father should, it is not as easy for us earthly creatures to be forgiving when our hearts are involved.”

  “You are wasting your breath. There is nothing to be forgiven for.”

  “Yet.” Any hint of humor vanished from Raymond’s voice. “Speaking as your brother, I wonder if getting to know these children for the sake of Gwendolyn’s is the real reason you continue to spend time with them and their nurse.”

  “I confirmed to Father this morning I plan to ask Gwendolyn to become my wife.”

  “Then let me give you one more piece of advice. This is man to man. Make sure you and everyone else knows that.” He pushed himself away from the barrel. “Give my words some thought, Arthur. If you want to talk, you know where to find me. I need to collect Toby and return him to the parsonage before Elisabeth wonders where we both have gone.” With a wave, he strode toward where Miss Oliver squatted in the grass, holding up her hand while the children peered into it.

  Arthur went to a side door into the house. He thought about what Raymond had said.

  All he had to do was ask Gwendolyn to marry him as soon as they both reached Miller’s house. That gave him the fortnight before the gathering to clear his mind of Miss Oliver. A short time, but he must put it to the best use.

  In the meantime, he needed to continue to search for answers. Who had murdered Cranny? Who had put the children in the boat and pushed it into the sea? Arthur had depleted almost all his venues for information about the first question.

  He planned to check one more tonight when he spoke with a man of the lowest repute, a meeting he had spent a long time arranging.

  As for the questions surrounding the children, he knew where to start.

  With the same man.

  Chapter Eight

  Cold rain pelted Arthur as he drew in his horse in front of the tumbledown building that served as a tavern and carriage stop along the shore road. Swinging down, he ignored the pain searing his ankle. He hoped the trail he was following had not grown cold.

  He turned up the collar of his greatcoat as he walked through puddles to an overhang where his horse could wait out of the storm. Once he was sure his mount was secure with others beneath the roof, he walked to the door.

  Faint light came through filthy windows where streams of mud traced the uneven panes of glass. Opening the heavy plank door, he entered. He shook rain off his coat, but did not remove his hat. The brim dipped down, concealing his face. He hoped nobody recognized him. Otherwise, word would spread rapidly that Lord Trelawney was seen at the tavern called The Spider’s Web.

  The low ceiling threatened to knock his hat off, so Arthur kept his head bowed. The tavern was well named because webs hung, thick with dust, from every beam and in every corner. Men sat at long tables, some with their heads down. When one snored, another slapped his shoulder. The man roused enough to turn the other way before falling back to sleep.

  Crossing the room to where the publican stood behind his bar, Arthur put his hand on the wooden top.

  “Something to drink?” asked the barkeeper.

  “No.” Drawing back his hand slightly, Arthur let the man see the coins beneath his fingers. Gold and silver caught the light from the lantern overhead. “I am here to meet someone. In private.”

  The barkeeper made the coins vanish before he motioned with his head for Arthur to follow him. No one glanced at them while the publican shouldered aside a ragged cloth and opened a door behind it. He stepped aside to let Arthur enter.

  Nodding his thanks, Arthur went into a chamber even more dimly lit than the outer room. There was enough light, however, for him to see a lone man sitting at a small table. In front of him were the remnants of what looked to be a generous meal, if Arthur judged by the platters and bowls.

  “Ye be late,” the heavily bearded man said. Gray twisted through his ginger hair and drew two parallel lines down his beard on either side of his mouth.

  “I am here at exactly the agreed upon time. You are early.” He drew off his gloves as he crossed the narrow space between the door and the table. Not waiting for the man to offer, he pulled out a chair and sat. “That is, you are early if you are Mick Higbie.”

  “Aye, that be me.” He eyed Arthur coolly. “And I know who ye are, my—”

  “No need for formalities.” He took off his hat and set it on his lap. “I have been told you are the man to talk to if one wants to know about the activities of the knights of the pad in this area.” He refrained from using the term highwaymen. He had been warned that the criminals who sought their victims along the shore did not call themselves by the name the law had given them.

  “Ye were told right. Were ye told as well such knowledge can cost dear?”

  “What I need to know should not come dear because it involves nothing more than a dead man.” His stomach clenched at his own indifferent tone, but he must not allow Higbie to guess how desperate he was for information about the night of Cranny’s death.

  “As my mamm-wynn was fond of sayin’, ‘dead men tell no tales,’ but that does not mean that information comes cheap.”

  “My grandmother,” Arthur said with a cool smile to let the highwayman know he spoke Cornish as well as English, “was fo
nd of saying only fools buy a pig in a poke.”

  The man stared at him for a long minute, then another. Finally Higbie chuckled. “Tell me what ye need t’know, and I will tell ye how much it will cost ye.”

  Arthur outlined what he knew about the night Cranny died. The man across from him held up a hand to halt him.

  “I remember.” He spat on the floor. “One of m’boys was questioned about it.” With a snort, he said, “Ye be askin’ the wrong man. None of us play the sports ye Smarts do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If we have a matter t’settle, we do it with our fivers.” He held up his fists. “That is how poor men fight. We don’t face each other over pistols.”

  Cranny was killed in a duel? Arthur asked himself why he had not considered that possibility. His friend was hotheaded, even though Cranny complained about Gwendolyn having the worst temper in their household.

  If it had been a duel, who else was there? Such a secret could not be kept forever, even if the other participants swore to say nothing. A guilty man with a secret usually had a tough time hiding it.

  “But ye are interested in more than a beefhead gettin’ himself killed in a duel. I hear ye be asking about some children.”

  “Ye were told right,” he said, as Higbie had.

  The highwayman’s smile appeared amidst his bushy beard, then he leaned forward. “If ye want m’advice, m’lord, ye need look no farther than yer own cove.”

  “Are you saying someone in Porthlowen put those children in a boat and set them adrift?”

  “I am sayin’ nothing. Just repeatin’ what I heard.”

  “Where?”

  “Can’t say. Might’ve been here. Might’ve been there.” He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. “Take the free information for what it be worth.”

  Arthur was not deceived by the highwayman’s pose. “Why are you forthcoming?”

  “No one should leave babies in a boat that be ready to sink.” Higbie sat up again, his boots striking the floor. “I once had a woman and a child. If someone had put m’child in a boat, I would ne’er rest till I made that person pay.”

  Arthur nodded even as he wondered what had happened to Mick Higbie’s wife and child. Were they the reason he had turned to robbery? Or had he begun that life after they were gone? No matter. Higbie would not want his sympathy. Yet he had to respect the highwayman who cared about children. Pulling out a few more coins, he dropped them into one of the bowls.

  Higbie glanced at them, but did not grab them as the barkeeper had. He said nothing as Arthur stood and turned toward the door. When Arthur put his hand on the latch, the highwayman said, “I wish ye good huntin’, m’lord.”

  “Thank you.” He walked out, crossing the main room without looking either right or left.

  He paid no attention to the rain that was threaded with sleet as he rode to Cothaire. The ice scoured his face, but Higbie’s words echoed in his head.

  If ye want m’advice, m’lord, ye need look no farther than yer own cove.

  Questions had been asked in the village and in the great house, and everyone denied knowing anything about the children.

  Someone was lying.

  But who?

  *

  “Am I intruding?”

  Maris looked up from the thick history book she was reading in the day nursery. Until the book on the ancient foundations had arrived, she had not guessed how much she missed the chance to lose herself in a story. She once had been an eager reader, but since the violent encounter with Lord Litchfield in the book room, she had not turned a page other than while reading to the children.

  “Lord Trelawney, what are you doing here at this hour?” She put her hand up to her hair, which she had unbound before going to bed. She had come downstairs to read so the light creeping out beneath her door would not wake the children. Glancing at her legs drawn up on the window bench, she made sure her dressing gown covered them completely. Only then did she say, “Forgive me. I should not have asked such a question.”

  “Of course you should.” He remained in the shadows by the doorway. “My being here is unexpected. May I come in?”

  “Certainly.” She stood and put the book on the cushion. Again she brushed hair from her face, wishing it did not curl wildly when she released it from its proper bun.

  She forgot about her appearance when Lord Trelawney stepped into the light and she saw him. From the top of his head, where he was taking off his tall hat, to the tips of his boots, he was drenched. Water dripped off his dark hair and the hem of his greatcoat. Mud splattered his dark breeches.

  But it was his face that caught her eyes and held them. For once, he wore his emotions openly. Grief, pain, anger, disbelief. They battled for precedence as if he had seen something so terrible no words could describe it.

  Her first instinct was to hold out her arms and draw him into an embrace. She could offer the children such comfort, but not Cothaire’s heir, most especially when she was in deshabille. All she could do was step away from the window bench so he might sit there.

  He shrugged off his greatcoat, looked at it, grimaced and then carried it into the hallway. He dropped it and his hat on the floor. The coat he wore beneath his greatcoat was damp, but clung to his wide shoulders.

  Maris got a towel from the pile she kept to clean the children. Handing it to him, she stepped back as he rubbed his hair. He lowered the towel, and she could not keep from smiling. His hair stood on end, pointing in every direction.

  “Pardon my appearance,” he said. “I am afraid the storm left me worse for wear.”

  “If you will pardon mine.”

  “Yours? You look beautiful.” He picked up a tress from her shoulder. “You should not hide this spun-gold silk as you do.” He dropped her hair and draped the towel over his head again. To dry his hair more or to cover his embarrassment at his untoward words?

  Pleasure at his compliment warred with her good sense telling her to put a quick end to the conversation. No one had told her she was beautiful since before her father died, and his comments were usually self-satisfied ones of how her appearance might obtain her a titled husband to raise the status of their family.

  “Please sit,” Lord Trelawney said as he continued to run the towel through his hair.

  She did, but flinched when the wind banged against the window behind her. Rain clattered on the glass, and she guessed it was turning to sleet or snow.

  When the viscount picked up the book and sat beside her, Maris resisted the warning alarms sounding inside her. Nobody was nearby except the sleeping children, and she had vowed she never would be alone with another man. But she could not flee up the stairs to her room without him asking why. She locked her fingers together in her lap and pressed her feet to the floor, ready to rush away.

  “Let me begin by saying I am sorry I interrupted your reading.” He looked at the book’s spine. “Are you enjoying this?”

  “I have only begun reading it.”

  “The children keep you busy, I know.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence fell, smothering and uncomfortable. Rain struck the window again, driven by the frantic wind. Maris waited for him to speak, unsure why he had come to the nursery. Was it connected to where he had gone? Her breath caught. Had he discovered the truth about the children? If so, he might ask her help in telling his sister.

  “I apologize again for intruding,” Lord Trelawney said with a sigh. “The truth is I needed to talk to someone. My father would listen, but telling him of my actions tonight could anger him. With his fragile health, I want to avoid adding any stress to what he bears.” He looked at her directly. “I have heard you are an excellent listener.”

  “I try.”

  “That is all I ask. That you listen.”

  “I know how difficult it can be when you feel as if there is no one who will listen.” She reached up and smoothed a spike of his hair. Jerking her hand back, she looked away from the astonishment on h
is face.

  He caught her wrist. Not like a manacle as Lord Litchfield had, but gently, as if her arm were a fragile bird. As he slowly lowered her hand, she held her breath. It burst out of her when he released his hold and set himself on his feet. He began to pace the long room. No, not pacing. Prowling, like the bear Bertie believed him to be.

  “What I am about to tell you,” he said, his back to her, “no one else knows. You must promise me you will keep this secret.”

  “Yes.”

  He looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrow slits. “Promise me you will keep this a secret. Say the words.”

  She wondered who had betrayed him by leaking a secret. “I promise I will keep this a secret as long as doing so will not harm the children.”

  “I would never do anything that would cause them harm.” He faced her. “I thought you knew me well enough to know that.”

  I don’t know you at all, and you know even less of me. She kept those words unspoken.

  He prowled like a bear on the hunt, intent and unstoppable. “We have spoken of Lady Gwendolyn Cranford, but what I am about to say has to do with her late husband, Louis Cranford.”

  Maris listened in shocked silence as Lord Trelawney spoke of Mr. Cranford’s death and his own suspicions. No wonder he had looked sad when she first found Bertie in his rooms. He was carrying a burden he had not shared with anyone.

  “I have been searching for answers for more than a year,” he said, “and I may have found something tonight.”

  “That is wonderful!” She put her fingers to her lips. “I am sorry. You asked me to listen, and I should listen without comment, Lord Trelawney.”

  Again he paused and faced her. “I think that is no longer appropriate.”

  “That I should listen about Mr. Cranford?” She came to her feet. “As you wish, my lord.”

  He held up his hands in astonishment. “Must you always obey the canons of Society?”

  “I don’t understand.”