Thomas looked up at her. “Does that sound like your stepfather? To try to do the best for his children, but at the same time to shy from any too-public declaration of distrust of his brother?”
Rose nodded. “Yes, Robert would have thought like that. He was very aware of the family’s honor, so to speak.”
Thomas inclined his head and continued writing, making notes on which to base the letters he would later pen and dispatch. “If someone else has been appointed co-guardian—a secondary guardian, at least—who might it be?”
Rose thought, then grimaced. “The only family member who comes to mind is Robert’s uncle, Marmaduke Percival, but he, as you might imagine, is not young, and he’s never to my knowledge shown any interest in the children. As for others . . . although I don’t know the Percival family connections that well, I met all those who attended Mama and Robert’s wedding, and, of course, all who came to the funeral, but all the others are distant cousins, and most were of the older generation, too. None of them were close.”
Thomas paused in his writing, then looked at Rose. “With your permission, I’m also going to ask if there’s any suggestion as to William’s estate being drawn down.”
She blinked. “Could it be? I assumed it would remain untouched.”
“It should, but . . . a guardian, or in this case, both guardians, could seek to free some of the estate’s income for expenses incurred in administering William’s estate in his absence.” He shrugged. “Something along those lines. It’s easy enough to fabricate an excuse that sounds legitimate, and depending on the solicitor—this Foley, whom you don’t trust—the estate might already be in the process of being carefully drained.”
Rose looked faintly shocked. “I never thought . . .” Her expression firmed. “Can we stop it?”
He met her gaze. “Only by reinstating William.”
Rose held his gaze for an instant, then waved her hand at his notes. “In that case, get writing.”
Thomas grinned faintly, but the expression faded as he looked over what he’d written. Then he reached for a fresh sheet of paper and exchanged his pencil for a pen. “I’m going to write to my business agent and, separately, to my solicitor. Both are sound, and very used to responding to my requests with absolute discretion. They know not to make waves—not even ripples—in pursuing such inquiries.” He glanced at the clock, then at Rose. “I’ll write these now, then after lunch, I’ll take them to Helston and put them on the mail. They’ll reach London tomorrow, and then . . . we’ll see.”
Rose nodded and got to her feet.
She paused, looking down on Thomas’s blond-brown head. The words thank you hovered on her tongue, but . . . gratitude of that sort would set him apart from her and the children, and that wasn’t what she wanted.
They were working together now, and he was part of them.
Feeling more heartened than she had since first hearing of her mother’s and stepfather’s deaths, she turned and left Thomas to his task.
“Well?” Richard Percival demanded.
Calmly, Curtis replied, “We found a few possibles—more than two. We need someone who can identify them—at least her, and, if at all possible, the boy.” He watched eagerness transform his employer’s until now grim expression. “Is there anyone you can send us—remembering that we need someone who will keep all this under his hat?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.” Richard Percival met his eyes. “My brother’s valet. Even though I don’t need his services, I’ve kept the man on. He will know her, definitely, and, despite the years, he should recognize the boy, too—literally on sight.”
“Excellent.” Curtis felt his instincts rise as they always did when he was nearing the end of a hunt. And this hunt had been unexpectedly long and difficult. Their quarry, it transpired, had more brains than they’d expected. He glanced at Percival and decided to break with his habit of never encouraging his clients until he had their quarry bagged; the man had stayed the course long beyond what Curtis had expected of him. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but this tack is starting to feel right. I think we’re nearing the end of the race, that we truly are closing in.”
Richard Percival met his gaze, a powerful mix of emotions in his face. “God, I hope so.” Something close to exhausted desperation colored his tone. “I don’t know for how much longer I can keep the vultures at bay.”
It was ten days before the replies to Thomas’s first round of queries arrived, delivered by the boy he’d hired to bring the mail from Helston each afternoon.
Accepting the missives from the boy at the front door, Thomas handed him his usual coin, then watched him ride off before turning inside. Shutting the door, he saw that Rose had come out of the kitchen; wiping her hands on her apron, she stood at the rear of the hall, watching and waiting.
Thomas glanced at the open door to the dining room; Homer—for safety, Thomas and Rose had agreed William should still use that name—was reading at the dining table.
Waving Rose into the library, Thomas limped down the corridor, followed her inside, and shut the door.
She turned, her gaze going to the letters in his hand. “Replies?”
“I believe so.” He went to the desk, leaned his cane against the front edge, examined the letters, then laid the one from Drayton, his longtime agent, down, and opened the one from Marwell. “This one’s from my solicitor.” Unfolding the sheet, he swiftly scanned it, then handed it on to Rose. While she read, he summarized, “William was reported missing, presumed dead, soon after his disappearance. As far as Marwell could learn, within a month—so yes, Percival wants the inheritance sooner rather than later.”
Rose reached the end of the letter and glanced up. “But he can’t get it until William’s declared dead, and that won’t occur until seven years have passed.” She frowned. “That’s correct, isn’t it? I remembered a case of a soldier who went missing in the war, and his family had to wait seven years.”
Thomas nodded. Easing around, he sat on the edge of the desk. “That’s correct as far as it goes, but that doesn’t mean that Richard Percival doesn’t need to find William and ensure he never resurfaces alive. Indeed, regardless of anything else, Richard has to do that, or, on William’s reappearance, the inheritance would be reversed. It can happen, although, of course, it rarely does.” He paused, then, holding her gaze, went on, “However, more to the point, regardless of the seven-year rule, if Richard Percival is in dire need of the money from the estate, he might well be seeking to ensure that William’s dead body is found as soon as possible, so that he can gain immediate access to the estate’s coffers.”
Rose didn’t wince at his plain-speaking; she didn’t need protecting from reality. She glanced down at the letter. “Your solicitor—Mr. Marwell—writes that Marmaduke Percival is co-guardian with Richard.” She grimaced. “I doubt appealing to Granduncle Marmaduke will be of any use. He’s not what one might call astute, and Richard has a much stronger personality—Marmaduke might bluster, but he could never successfully stand against Richard.”
The last line in the letter made her inwardly sigh. “And Foley is still the estate’s solicitor, which means he’s still in control of my affairs, as well.”
Thomas studied her. “Is there anything specific behind your distrust of Foley, or is it just a feeling?”
She made a moue. “I would have to admit that it’s purely a feeling—I’ve had very little to do with him, after all. But he’s a very rigid, exceedingly conservative stick—and I can readily see him doing everything and more to protect the family name from any scandal, and I can even more easily see Richard being clever enough to twist that sort of unwavering loyalty to suit his own ends.”
Thomas considered her for a moment, then picked up the second letter and broke the seal. After scanning the contents, he reported, “Drayton—my agent—writes that, as far as he’s thus far been able to discover, there’s no evidence or suggestion that the estate’s funds have been raided.”
> Rose nodded. “Presumably having Marmaduke, no matter how ineffectual, as co-guardian has made Richard cautious about depleting the estate.”
Thomas didn’t argue. Instead, retrieving the letter from Rose’s clasp, he stood and rounded the desk. “I’ll write back and”—he glanced at the clock as he sat—“take the letters to Helston tomorrow.” Settling, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper.
Rose sank into the chair before the desk. “What are we going to ask next?”
“First, I’ll instruct Drayton to start investigating Richard Percival’s finances.” Thomas looked up and met Rose’s gaze. “We need some more definite hint of a motive for Richard killing his brother and his brother’s wife—and then coming after William. We need to know, and be able to show, why he needs to inherit the estate.” His eyes locked with hers, he hesitated, then more quietly said, “And I’m also going to ask Marwell to check Foley’s standing.”
Rose arched her brows, but then nodded and stood. “I’ve dinner to organize—I’ll leave you to it.”
Thomas watched her go, then drew Marwell’s letter to him; opening it, he read again the solicitor’s reference to Foley. Rose didn’t trust Foley, but, reading between Marwell’s lines—noting that that excellent solicitor hadn’t sought to warn him in any way about Foley—Thomas suspected that Marwell saw Foley in a different light than Rose did. It was worth confirming which view was correct. As he understood it, Rose had met Foley only a few times, the last occasion being when she was twenty-five, and always in the presence of older males of her family. Foley, if he was indeed as conservative as she’d painted him, would have spoken over her head—or tried to. Which might account for Rose’s negative view of him.
Regardless, as William’s solicitor, Foley was an important player in the drama, and Thomas preferred to have as much knowledge about all players in a scheme before he moved against them.
Picking up his pen, he examined the nib, then, finding it sufficiently sharp, dipped it in his inkwell and started to write.
The next morning, Thomas rode into Helston, the letters containing his second round of queries in his pocket, ready to post. It was close to eleven o’clock when he reached the town; he let Silver carry him up the long slope of Coinagehall Street, then he turned in under the arch of the Angel Hotel’s stable yard. Leaving Silver in the care of the ostlers there, who now viewed him as a regular, Thomas walked out onto the street and turned right for the post office, located a little further along on the opposite side.
A group of men—more inquiry agents—were gathered in a knot outside the post office.
Without breaking his limping stride, Thomas diverted onto the front porch of the Angel Hotel as if that had been his goal all along. Gaining the covered porch, he glanced again at the gathering across the street; at least ten agents were milling about another man, one differently dressed and with a different demeanor. Turning away, Thomas scanned the long porch and spotted two of the older men who habitually sought refuge there to while away their day. The pair was already nursing pint pots, and they, too, were observing the activity across the street.
Leaning on his cane, Thomas made his way toward them.
Both older men recognized him and nodded in greeting; Thomas had made a point of occasionally chatting with the locals whenever he came to the town—an old habit, but one which, now, as previously, stood him in good stead.
Nodding back, he halted in a spot where he didn’t interrupt the men’s view of the gathering along the street; leaning against the porch’s railing, he joined them in silently staring for several moments, then he tipped his head at the agents. “Any idea what that’s about?”
“Seems they’re back to continue their search for some lass and her two children,” one of the men volunteered. “There were a couple as came asking a week or so back, but they left empty-handed. Then this lot arrived just this morning, and according to Fred here, they’ve brought that little bloke with ’em to identify the lady and her boy.”
Fred grunted. “Must’ve stolen something right valuable to have some lordling pay for all o’ that lot.”
“Aye,” the other man said. “And whoever the owner is, seems he’s determined to get whatever it is back. Almost enough men for a hue and cry, there.”
Truer words . . . and at the mention of “lordling,” Thomas realized who the “little bloke” must be. He focused on the man, so quiet and reserved, neat and precise, committing his description to memory so he could later confirm the man’s identity with Rose.
The agents appeared to be getting ready to depart, but their attention seemed to be directed to the east, away from Breage.
“Any notion of where they’re heading?” Thomas glanced at Fred.
Still watching the agents, Fred lightly shrugged. “Heard them mention the Lizard. Seems there’s some women with children they want to check down that way, and then they’ll be back here—they’ve taken rooms in the hotel for tonight—and plan to head off west tomorrow, searching as they go.”
Thomas debated continuing with his errand. He couldn’t see the agents who had come to the manor among the group in the street, but for all he knew the pair might be inside the post office; he didn’t need them recognizing him and remembering that his housekeeper and children matched the description of those they sought, except for Thomas’s assurance that the family were locals, born and bred.
He could post the letters later.
Stirring, he gripped his cane and straightened. “Interesting times.” With a nod to his two informants, which they returned, he walked back along the porch, then turned into the hotel and made his way through the bar and the snug to the door that gave onto the stable yard.
Thomas reached the manor in time to sit down at the kitchen table and share luncheon with Rose and the children.
He said nothing of his disturbing discoveries at Helston, allowed nothing of the resulting tension to seep into his face or his movements.
When the meal ended, he left Rose clearing the table and accompanied Homer back to the dining room. He spent some minutes devising a set of simple Latin translations; once Homer was absorbed, Thomas returned to the kitchen.
Rose was standing before the sink, watching Pippin play with her dolls in the rear garden. Drawing nearer, Thomas looked over Rose’s shoulder; Pippin was sitting with two dolls facing her and was passing around small bowls . . . dishes of tea?
Absentmindedly, he set his hand to the small of Rose’s back.
For a moment, she leaned back into the touch, then she sighed, straightened, and turned to face him. She met his gaze, her own steady. “What did you learn in Helston that you haven’t yet told me?”
He hadn’t thought he was that transparent . . . looking into her eyes, he hesitated, then said, “Another band of inquiry agents have arrived. A good dozen or so, this time. They were setting out to sweep the Lizard Peninsula today, checking on various potential women with two children.” He held her gaze. “They had another man, a valet by his appearance, with them.” Swiftly, succinctly, he described the man.
Rose ruthlessly quashed the impulse to panic; neither she nor the children could afford that, and, this time, they had Thomas on their side. Reaching out, she drew a chair from the table and slowly sank into it. “That sounds like Robert’s valet.”
Drawing out another chair, Thomas sat facing her, setting his cane between his legs. “So he would recognize you?”
Rose nodded. “Definitely. And, almost certainly, William, too.” After a moment, she glanced at Thomas. “You said that today they were searching on the peninsula. After that?”
“They’re returning to Helston tonight, and, assuming they haven’t located their quarry, and we know they won’t, they intend sweeping west tomorrow.”
Despite her intentions, panic clutched her chest. Quelling an impulse to leap to her feet, she drew in a breath and stated, “So we need to leave immediately.”
She looked at Thomas. Sober and serious, he met her gaze and n
odded. “Yes, we do. We need to go to London and get this matter resolved.”
She blinked. We? But she wasn’t going to argue with that. On the other hand . . . “London?”
He nodded. Sure, certain—resolute. “You and the children can’t go on trying to run from this. While you were without help, without support and resources of the sort I can command, your original strategy was sound—keep William out of Richard Percival’s orbit for as long as you could, until William was at least of an age he might speak for himself, with a chance of being listened to. Given the original circumstances, that was the best you could do, but the circumstances have changed. Now I’m involved, and I am much more able to bring the right sort of resources to bear on Richard Percival and his scheme—to expose it, including his murder of your mother and stepfather, thus removing him as a threat to William once and for all.”
Rose studied Thomas’s eyes and saw nothing but certainty in the hazel depths. “You seem very sure.”
“I am.” He paused, then added, “I don’t imagine it’ll be easy, but exposing Richard and freeing William is achievable. But to manage it, we need to go to London.”
Given all he’d told her of his previous life, Rose saw no reason to doubt his assessment. Yet still she hesitated, still she wondered . . . “I’m sure you realize what exposing Richard might involve.” Drawing in a breath, she forced herself to ask, “Are you sure?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Yes, I’m sure. And if you didn’t want me in your life—if you had wanted to keep me apart from this—you shouldn’t have come to my bed that night.”
Or on all the nights since. Rose didn’t need any further explanation of exactly what he meant; his emotions—all of them, all he now felt for her and the children—stared at her from his eyes.
She felt both humbled and awed.
She had to accept that he knew what the dangers were, probably significantly better than she did, but he’d made his decision and was committed to his course. To their cause.
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 15