by Darcy Burke
Sophie heard the rain before she felt it, rustling and vast. The light dimmed, shifted in hue from gold to gray, and then the first cold drop landed on her nose. She ducked her chin and hunched her shoulders. Icy water trailed down her neck and frigid mud chilled her feet through the thin soles of her boots. Her skirt dragged heavily behind her.
“Here.” Julian unbuttoned his greatcoat, slid it down his arms, and held it overhead like a tent, with enough space underneath for two.
Sophie sidled away.
“You’re soaked through,” he said, still leaving room for her. “Don’t make yourself sick to spite me.”
Sophie hesitated, then ducked under the upraised arch of his arm. It was better. Not dry, not perfect, but better.
They forged ahead in silence. Sophie trembled, from cold and frustration, and she would have abandoned the shelter Julian offered if he’d made a single untoward move: a sweet word that she didn’t want to hear, a touch that might not be accidental.
But he kept quiet. He didn’t even bother her with his breath, keeping his head ever so slightly turned away from her, until she hated him for his consideration, too.
They paused beneath the inadequate shade of a plum tree, in the small orchard behind Broadstone Cottage, to wait for Peter and Honoria. Julian kept the cloak overhead, but they were both soaked—the rain had darkened his hair to bronze and molded his waistcoat to the flat plane of his chest.
“Whatever that scar is,” Julian said quietly, “I didn’t do it.”
Sophie kept her mouth shut. She would have shut her ears, too, if she could.
“I would never hurt you,” he insisted.
Sophie gritted her teeth, hunched her shoulders against the rain, and waited. It had been ten years. Of course she doubted herself now, when he pressed her. But when the wound had been fresh enough for her tears to make it sting, she’d been certain. That would be enough. It had to be.
“I think you know it.”
Lies. He lied. She did know what had happened. She’d written it down.
Peter and Honoria finally arrived, just as sodden and bedraggled as Julian and herself, but bright-eyed and laughing.
“Well,” said Lady Honoria cheerily, through chattering teeth. “What a refreshing excursion.”
“Invigorating,” agreed Peter.
“Wonderful panoramic views on the way up, too,” added Julian.
The three of them looked at Sophie expectantly. She didn’t have the heart to pluck the stars from their eyes. Let them be in love. It was so nice, while it lasted.
“This is just a sprinkle, really.”
“Just so,” agreed Peter. “Now, shall we make a run for it?”
They all looked at one another, and, at some silent signal that Sophie couldn’t have identified but understood perfectly, paired off again and ran headlong into the house.
Julian stayed with her aunt and uncle, drinking tea splashed with a bit of medicinal brandy for added warmth while Sophie helped Lady Honoria to change into a fresh set of clothes. Once she’d shepherded the younger girl out of her room, she guiltlessly crawled into her bed—to get warm, she said, but really to avoid Julian.
She knew what came of loving him: pain and betrayal. And she’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.
Chapter 6
Here was a surprise: the succession of five men to the title of Duke of Clive in the space of twenty years had left the duchy significantly worse for wear. Clive the Ninth’s eight-year tenure had been exemplary: he’d stewarded the properties responsibly, folded profits from mines and smelting works into factories and funds, spent only the interest from important accounts and left capital untouched.
Perfect stewardship… until he’d died. His will had siphoned as much wealth as possible to his wife and daughter and a handful of eccentric, personal causes like Sophie’s outrageous bequest.
Being a duke really wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Julian was grateful for the interruption when his valet staggered into the study, carrying a stack of thick, leather-bound books in his arms.
“What’s this?”
“The previous duke’s schedule. His secretary, Mr. Vasari Jones, still resides on the premises. He is, in fact, now your secretary, as there have been no changes to the staff since the last duke died.”
“Is that so?” Julian slid the top volume off the pile onto his blotter. “Send him to me, would you?”
Julian had only to glance at Vasari Jones’s schedule to dislike the man. While the secretary painstakingly drafted grids within which to record Clive’s monthly and daily appointments, Mr. Jones had spoiled these initial efforts by defaulting to brief, inadequate entries—”Musicale at Tidmarsh Manor”—surrounded by a wealth of doodles.
On the positive side, he’d inserted copies of all Clive’s correspondence between the pages, along with invitations and calling cards.
The current volume remained mostly blank, Clive having died in February. Vasari’s notes on Clive’s last day revealed that Nine had eaten eggs and bacon on toast for breakfast (meals, oddly enough, often merited such elaborate detail—social events, almost never), attended an event marked “altar linens” that lasted through the morning, followed by a private luncheon with Malcolm Roe, with nothing further noted until, in a shaky hand, the secretary had added 4:15 as Clive’s time of death.
“Your Grace?”
Julian glanced up. A lanky ginger stood at the door, wearing a forest green morning suit with—Julian squinted—a miniature spoon pinned to his lapel? And his high-collared shirt and cravat both appeared to be shades of yellow.
“That’s right,” Julian affirmed.
“Your valet, Mr. Barrett, sent me.” The man advanced into the room. “I am Vasari Jones, Your Grace.”
“Was your father an architect?” Julian asked politely.
“An archeologist, actually.” Jones sat without waiting to be asked. “Not practicing, unfortunately, though he was quite convinced he’d be marvelous at it.”
“Then your mother must have had an artistic bent.”
“She wouldn’t know Vasari from Vesuvius.” Jones flashed a smile, eyes twinkling. “Though I’m told I was conceived in Italy. What can I do for you?”
“Well.” Julian blinked and sat down. “I’ve been attempting to decipher your schedules, Mr. Jones.”
“They’re a gift to posterity.” Jones propped one foot on the opposite thigh and slung both arms around his raised knee. “Hundreds of years from now, some family historian will sit down with the records I’ve left and they’ll say, ‘Bless you, Vasari Jones, and all your descendants, for this labor of love.’”
“Er… yes. A gift.” Julian made a mental note to count up the eccentrics on High Bend’s staff. He suspected he preferred a more modest quota than his predecessor. “I see that the previous duke attended a charitable event held here at High Bend on the day of his death, and I’m interested in obtaining a guest list. You would know best where to look—perhaps the Dowager Duchess’s personal staff, or a guestbook of some kind?”
“Oh, I copied out the guest list. Do you have the page open?”
Julian gestured to the open schedule on the blotter.
“See these symbols?” Vasari Jones stood and leaned across the desk so he could point. “Those are all the guests. This particular occasion celebrated the donation of a new set of altar linens to Wirksworth Church, and all the families whose members contributed to the efforts were invited: the Roe family, the Allsop family, the Keeling family and the Tidmarsh family. Along with the vicar and the dean, both of whom attended, do you see? And these symbols here tell you which members of the family—male, female, parent, child. It’s my own notation system.”
“Who taught you this technique?”
“Nobody.”
Well, now. That was… rather impressive.
Julian turned the schedule book and blotter around, then shifted the pen tray to Jones’s end of the table. “Make a complete lis
t, if you please.”
Jones picked up the pen—made entirely of gold, from nib to tip, Julian noted, and suspected Sophie’s influence—and began writing.
“Do you remember anything else about the day my predecessor died?”
“His Grace drank rather more than usual,” answered Jones, not looking up from the paper.
“Was he in the habit of drinking early in the day?”
“Not generally, no.” Jones said, glancing only between the symbols on his schedule and the paper upon which he wrote. “But I wouldn’t say it was out of character for him either, if you take my meaning? Moody fellow, our Clive.”
“Moody?” Julian remembered Clive the Ninth as even tempered, perhaps a bit fussy and anxious. “That doesn’t sound like the man I knew.”
Not that he’d known the last Clive well. He’d preferred to spend his time in Derbyshire, while Julian had preferred to avoid it.
Vasari Jones looked up with an expression of great earnestness. “I wouldn’t tell just anyone this, Your Grace,” he began, which Julian took to mean that Jones oughtn’t but absolutely would tell just anyone, “but I’ve never known a gentleman to cry with such frequency.”
“Cry out, you mean? He had a bad temper?”
“Cry tears.” Jones ran a finger from the corner of his eye down his cheek.
“When he drank?”
“On my word.”
Julian let that sink in while Jones returned to his list.
“And he imbibed—when, exactly?” Julian asked. “With the dean and the vicar?”
“And afterward,” Jones set the pen into its tray and pushed the schedule and blotter back to Julian. “With Mr. Roe.”
Julian scanned the list. Twenty people, including Sophie. “Do you have any record of when the guests departed?”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I don’t.”
Julian screwed up a fist and rubbed his eyes with it. He wasn’t an investigator. He’d spent most of his career with the Foreign Office behind a desk in London, reading reports from men who worked in the field. His particular circumstances—well connected but nearly penniless—had made him an ideal domestic go-between, a negotiator rather than a spy.
But he’d handled reports and debriefed operatives. He had a rough idea of what to do. High Bend had one entrance, one approach. Nobody could enter or leave unobserved. Clive’s killer had to be among the guests or the equally large household staff. A small army of suspects, but he could name and number them all.
“And Clive was alone in the study for… nearly three hours between his luncheon and his death?”
“To the best of my knowledge,” answered the secretary. “But I couldn’t testify to it, if that’s what you mean. I was in the small library, sorting the family records. I learned about his death like the rest of us—when I heard screams up and down the corridors.”
“Thank you, Jones.” Julian glanced at the schedule, amazed by the wealth of information the young man had crammed into his notation system. “I appreciate your help.”
“At your service, Your Grace.” Jones bowed with a flourish and began to withdraw.
“Wait.” Julian motioned him back to the desk. “I have a task for you. Perform it well, and you can guarantee your continued employment here at High Bend. Perform it poorly—in this case, when I say poorly I mean indiscreetly—and I’ll turn you out without a reference.”
“I perform every task superbly,” replied Jones, completely unfazed.
Despite himself, Julian smiled. “Do you know Miss Sophia Roe by sight?”
“Naturally. We’re well acquainted.”
“I’d like you to keep an eye on her. Follow when you can. And let me know if you hear any unusual gossip circulating about her.”
“Unusual gossip being different from the usual?”
“What’s the usual gossip?”
“Since the bequest? I’m sure you can guess: people think she must have been his mistress. He left her quite a bit of money.”
“Would you happen to have any special insight on the subject?”
“His Grace loved his daughter more than anything. Lady Honoria was the light of his life and, not coincidentally, the spitting image of her mother, may she rest in peace.” Jones twirled the gold pen. “The only other person who figured in his thoughts at all was Miss Roe.”
“Is that so?”
“Just my observation.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know when he added that bequest to his will, would you?”
“Of course I do. I was his witness.” Jones grabbed the scheduling book at the top of the pile—the previous year’s volume—and flipped to a spot about two-thirds of the way through.
“The first of September.” Jones tapped at the spot. Julian leaned forward to read. He saw the name of the solicitor’s office at which Clive himself had once worked; apparently he’d thought well enough of the firm to keep his business there after leaving. “One of the last appointments he made in London before moving the whole household north to Derbyshire.”
“He certainly relied on you,” Julian observed, a little uneasy.
“As will you.” Jones bowed again with the same flourish. “Your Grace.”
Chapter 7
On one of those rare spring days so bright and vibrant that the cold and ice only added shine to the promise of warmth to come, Sophie locked up the shop at midday.
She stopped first at The Raddle Pit, Padley’s sole inn and tavern. This time of year, the taproom always smelled of sodden wool and warm bodies, roasting meat and spiced wine. Coal smoke clotted the air, overwarm and stale.
“Mr. Allen,” she called out. “Have you any pasties?”
“Leek. Fresh from the garden,” replied the barkeep.
“I’ll take two.” She extracted a small, lidded crock from the basket she carried. “And a bit of small beer.”
“Two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Miss Roe,” said Allen, carrying the pitcher over to his tap.
While Mr. Allen prepared her lunch, Sophie took a seat across from one of the regulars, Farmer Eames. “Have you opened your paint mines for the season yet?”
Farmer Eames raised sheep most of the year, but in the warmer months he worked a pair of mines on his property: an iron mine, which produced but poorly, and a paint mine, full of rich ochres.
“Just two weeks back, Miss Roe,” answered Eames.
“Can I send Mr. Dawe by to pick up a few dishes of good yellow foxearth?” Sophie asked, using the local name. “Or have the paint manufacturers cleared you out?”
“I always save a share for you, Miss Roe,” the man replied, a little shyly. “Got some liver stone, too, if you want it. Not enough to interest the factories.”
“I’ll take all of it.” Hematite, for red ink. Only useful as a pigment—it wouldn’t bond to the paper like gall inks—but better than berries, anyhow. Sophie saw Mr. Allen signaling her from behind the bar and she waved back. “Expect to see Mr. Dawe next week, and good luck to you, Mr. Eames.”
She left The Raddle Pit with a full basket, picking her way via side streets to a quiet bend in the river. Young men in the neighborhood made a game of building little seats and table arrangements from the river rocks. By the end of summer, they grew to be quite elaborate.
Greenery had begun to push up through the cold earth, drooping snowdrops and early bluebells peeking through the new grass. Trees hung their branches over the rushing water, the banks still rimed with ice. Just swishing her fingers through the cold current made her bones ache.
Sophie set her basket down and uncovered the bounty within: flaky, golden-brown pockets of dough filled with leeks, good English cheddar and chunks of salted ham, all washed down with gulps of bitter beer. Food to warm a belly on a cold day. When she finished, Sophie reached into the pocket of her apron for the letter she’d written the previous morning.
She pretended, as she always did, that it was a letter from her father, only just arrived, rather than a forgery she’d made he
rself. With her miserable memory, leaving even a day’s gap between the writing and reading of her little forgeries bolstered the illusion considerably.
My Dearest Daughter,
The needs of a family are always different from the needs of the individuals that form its constituent parts. In a family, we often express our love by submitting to compromises.
Remember, daughter, the difference between compromise and capitulation. While the former is good for the soul, a sign of healthy empathy, the latter leaves a psychic wound that, repeated often enough, is fatal.
When my brother makes demands of you, offer him the respect you would show me. Then answer him by your own lights. If you believe that you serve yourself and your family best as a woman of business, then so you must remain.
All my love,
Harold Roe
She knelt, ready to give the letter up to the water, but a hand reached out and plucked it from her fingers before she could cast it away. Sophie whirled around, so startled she almost toppled over into the freezing stream.
Julian held her note pinched between two fingers. He’d raised his arm high overhead, laughably beyond her reach. The high, blunt planes of his cheeks were wind-chapped, his lips flushed dark, his eyes as blue as if they’d been washed clean by the rain.
“That’s not yours,” Sophie warned.
“No. But I need the truth.” He lowered the letter enough to read it, his jaw clenched, brows thickly ridged and fierce. Anger suited him—she knew him to be a petty bully, but he looked like an avenging angel. “And I’ll take it, if I have to.”
Sophie folded her arms underneath her breasts and glared balefully up at the mountains. They were rough and ragged, just as forbidding as they seemed. “Well?” she asked. “Are you reveling in your sense of accomplishment?”
“Not yet.”
Julian squatted next to the stream and trailed the bottom of her letter in the clear water. The indigo ink rose up from the paper, thin bright threads of color spreading in elegant spiderwebs across the page before the running current swept it clean. It didn’t take long for the ink to bleed away entirely, leaving the wet portion of the page as blank and white as if it were new.
