And Mr. Sinclair? I took a deep breath. What was his role in all this? The truth that I was aiding and abetting a fugitive didn’t sit well.
8
Mr. Sinclair declared we must eat before he escorted me from town. I was quickly learning that whatever Mr. Sinclair wanted, Mr. Sinclair got. He didn’t look famished, as he claimed, but I imagine he had my comfort in mind when he suggested it. Any other time I would have protested, but I had to admit, he was right—I was starving. Either way, he led me to the Rose Inn on the other side of the square, suggesting that John would be pleased enough to wait for us in the taproom.
The galleried inn had a smiling look to it, fronted by a red door and two shuttered windows with a stone walkway rounding the front. The wooden sign above the door tipped and squeaked in the breeze.
We paused a moment in the front room where a servant scattered to find us the best seat. I eyed Mr. Sinclair, whose very presence seemed to ensure us the finest of everything. How different from the last time I’d stopped at an inn.
This place was managed by a Mr. Cunning and his plump daughter, Rose, who had obviously inspired the name. She seemed a hardworking girl with a kind look about her, but I saw tiredness in her eyes. Words were nonexistent with her, which presented an uncomfortable void at the table, leaving Mr. Sinclair and me to an awkward pattern of glancing up at each other every now and then.
A bite to eat and a lemonade in the parlor of the inn—certainly—but when I’d agreed to come, I hadn’t imagined myself alone in a large room with Mr. Sinclair’s indeterminate gaze. A healthy fire snapped at my back as the little window by the table framed a chilly town square. All things considered, it was good of him to allow me to rest my legs and give my toes a chance to thaw. If only my mind weren’t elsewhere.
The scent of onions followed Rose to the table, where she plopped down two plates and wiped her hands on her apron. “Will there be anything else you need, sir?”
Mr. Sinclair shook his head. “No. Thank you.” He cast me a shrewd glance before forking into his plate of cold roast beef.
I took a quick sip of my soup, scalding my tongue, then poked at a pile of hard potatoes.
Mr. Sinclair raised his eyebrows. “A ghastly dinner, is it not?”
I pressed my lips together and nodded. “You better not let Rose hear you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He glanced at the door then smiled, leaning forward. “Though I’m afraid it shall take quite a bit of chewing to get this lump of meat down my throat.”
“Such a thing to say in the presence of a lady.”
I couldn’t help but wince. Who was I to speak so to a gentleman? An orphan girl, hired as a companion under the strangest of circumstances. And Mr. Sinclair? I cast a glance at his face. What could his story be? The staff at the inn seemed to think him the king of England. And who wouldn’t when he so often displayed such an arrogant countenance?
I swallowed another spoonful of thin soup. I had come here for answers, so I’d best get on with it. “What do you make of Mrs. Plume’s maid’s disappearance?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Not much really. The poor thing probably did run away. Her situation could not have been pleasant.” A slight smile creased the corners of his lips. “Although you would think Mrs. Plume would be a bit more accommodating, considering she was once a housekeeper. Or so I heard.”
“Really? A housekeeper?”
“Apparently she met and married a wealthy cit a few years back and enjoys playing the grand lady a bit too much.”
“Ah.” I eased the spoon back into the bowl. “But do you not think it remarkable that her maid left her protection without even her coat or the rest of her belongings?”
“I suppose it does sound odd.” He took a long drink before meeting my gaze. “Do you imagine something more sinister at play?”
My mouth felt dry. What was I suggesting? “I don’t suppose so. It was just that I . . .” I’d meant to tell him about seeing Thompkins at the Towers, but my tongue fixed in place, the danger of my position creeping once again into my mind. Mr. Sinclair was one of the highwaymen after all. The very ones—I took a quick bite of my stiff roll—who might be relieved to learn Thompkins had gone missing. Particularly if she had recognized one of them. My stomach tensed.
He tilted his chin. “You were saying?” A light smile played on his lips, brightening his eyes.
“I . . .” I managed to shake my head. Goodness, I was allowing my imagination full rein. If I had been in Thompkins’s situation, I might very well have run off too. Besides, I had more pressing concerns to discuss, considering I might not be alone with Mr. Sinclair again—and he could do little to me at a public inn. I decided to risk it. “I, um, heard Mrs. Plume mention Lord Stanton in our conversation in the square. Do you know him?”
Mr. Sinclair’s fork froze in midair. “Do I know him?”
“Right. Obviously you do if you are waiting for his letter. Only, I saw a painting of him at the Towers, and it made me curious as to who he is and, I don’t know . . . other things. Like how he is related to the family.” I could hear myself rambling and it made me nervous, which in turn caused me to ramble all the more. “Mr. Cantrell said he’d been married to Mrs. Chalcroft’s daughter, only I suppose since her death, well, Miss Ellis said he was quite the bachelor in London. She seemed to have a bit of a fancy for him, but that’s not what I meant to ask, only, I . . .”
Mr. Sinclair waited for me to find some semblance of a stopping point. He kept his face impassive, but I noticed the merest bend to his right eyebrow. His voice took on the placating tone I’d heard him use with Miss Ellis. “Miss Delafield, you did say you lived in London, did you not? And your family? I only ask because I have a hard time believing you ignorant of my situation.”
“Your situation?” I paused for a moment, wondering where this could possibly be leading. “I am sorry. I do suppose I spoke out of turn. I haven’t any family; I . . .” I’d forgotten what I was saying. Heavens, I’d admitted to being an orphan of indeterminate birth numerous times before. Why did my stomach roll at the thought now?
He leaned back in his chair, that gaze of his never leaving my face. “Perhaps I am the one who spoke out of turn.” He crossed his arms. “I was laboring under the impression you were an educated lady of good standing, possibly come down in the world as to need a position with my godmother.”
No wonder he had been so kind as to escort me to town and to pledge to find me a position as a governess. How wrong he had been. I shrugged my shoulders. “I am none of those things. I have no standing in society, no parents. I was fortunate to receive a surprising charity from a stranger to attend a school in London usually reserved for the upper class. I am sorry that it gave you the wrong impression.”
So there. I had shocked him. Of course, I’d left out the part of my wonderful teacher whom I loved like a mother and all my happy years with the other girls. My past was not something I was ashamed of. My future, well, that might be a different story.
Slowly, he leaned forward. “Miss Delafield, please accept my apology for my insensitive comments. It was never my intention to cause you discomfort, which I fear has happened on more than one occasion.” A slight smile emerged. “I haven’t forgotten what I owe you. Nor will I.” He didn’t move. “Perhaps it would help if I told you my own sad story.”
I blinked and bit my lip. Naturally, that was just what I was eager to know, but I politely shook my head. “Please, Mr. Sinclair, don’t feel the need—”
He held up his hand, halting my words. “If I may . . .” He took a large sip from his glass. “You sit across from the second child of eight of the late Charles and Mary Sinclair, the only son, and somehow, the heir apparent to my distant cousin, the infamous Lord Stanton. His title, estates, and living are entailed upon the male line—in effect, me.”
I nearly spit out my lemonade. “So you’re to be the next earl. Dreadful indeed.” No wonder Mrs. Plume had hung on his every word. She
probably had a daughter or niece she hoped to pawn off on him at some local assembly.
“It is dreadful—to a man who doesn’t wish for a meaningless title or encumbered estates.”
“Pardon me if I find that hard to believe.”
He ran his finger along the edge of his glass. “I suppose it is in a way. But let me assure you, my expectations are abysmal. I shall inherit nothing but debt. And as long as Lord Stanton lives, I am but a pawn for the devil to play with. Now, does that sound more appealing to you?”
“But with the title, surely you can marry well and remedy such a turn of luck.”
“A happy union indeed.” He held up his glass as if in a toast. “Call me a romantic, but I’d hoped for more.”
I thought of the figure he posed galloping the countryside as a highwayman. Some hapless girl would be all atwitter at the thought of marrying such a man. But not me. I’d seen the other side of his pistol and his lies. Such a man would never be applauded by me.
It seemed he’d misinterpreted my silence, because he pinched the bridge of his nose like Mrs. Smith did when the young children had gotten out of hand. “My wretched cousin, if I dare call him that, usually corresponds quite regularly from wherever he is. But his letter, as well as my pittance of an allowance, is . . .” He paused. “Overdue. Mrs. Chalcroft has been kind to assist me with funds from time to time, as well as allowing me to stay when needed at Croft Towers to avoid rent on a room in London. She knows I have three sisters still at home and wholly dependent on me, but it cannot go on much longer.”
I took a deep breath. Perhaps unknowingly Mr. Sinclair had revealed a possible motive for the robbery. And could I blame him? Many would do far more to feed their family.
The theory felt right as I considered him from across the table. He was not as I had first thought—a rogue or a cad. Granted, if it was money he needed, he wouldn’t have returned the necklace, would he?
I cleared my throat. “And Lord Stanton has nothing to say to you accepting charity from Mrs. Chalcroft?”
He laughed. “I’m sure he would if he knew of it, but he’ll not give me a farthing. Naturally, there’s still time for him to father a child and relieve me of such a delightful title.”
“And what then? You’d have no expectations. Believe me, being homeless in this world is not a thing to envy. Of course, it would be different for you. You’re a man; you have options.”
“I won’t disagree that a woman’s opportunities are limited. But mine at present are nonexistent.”
“Yet you seem to ride the countryside at will.”
He stiffened. “Only because I cannot serve my country abroad as I’d always intended to do. I’ll have you know, I bought my colors to join the horse guards before Lord Stanton put a stop to it. As heir, I may do nothing of the sort. Lord Stanton would never approve. If my sisters have any chance of a suitable marriage, I must play by all his rules. Outrageous or not.”
He seemed lost in thought before looking up. “You’ll have to excuse my loose tongue, Miss Delafield. I had no intention of boring you with such details about my life—certainly not when we’ve only just met.” He tapped his fingers on the table first one direction then the next. “In fact, I’m not sure why I said anything at all. Your time would be well spent to forget it.”
He breathed out a quick laugh, a line forming across his forehead. Then he lowered his voice, a mischievous look settling across his face. “Perhaps over the course of the day, I’ve come to think of you as a partner, so to speak.”
“A partner?”
“Or comrade, if you like.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You do see that, now that you’ve agreed to keep my secret, you’ve thrown your lot in with us highwaymen.” He grinned.
Loud voices sounded from somewhere beyond the parlor. Mr. Sinclair held my gaze as the door burst open and a group of soldiers plodded over to a nearby table. I hoped they couldn’t hear the hammering in my chest or read the fright in my eyes.
Mr. Sinclair was right. I was one of them now—an accomplice. I’d traded my dignity for peace at the Towers. I bit the inside of my cheek. What else would I be forced to give up?
“Captain Rossiter.” Mr. Sinclair’s voice broke the muffled silence of my thoughts.
I looked up to see the officer I met the day I arrived in Plattsdale. He wore the same blue coat, but his expression was bleak. “Sinclair. So the Colonel was right. You’ve come back. I’d just informed him of your return to London.”
“I didn’t know my whereabouts were a concern of the Colonel’s. But it is no matter. Naturally, it was my intention to return to London as I told you that day on the road, but I received word Mrs. Chalcroft had taken a bad turn. I was forced to come back.”
I watched Mr. Sinclair’s lips move so easily, so smoothly, as he spoke to the officer. But could anything he say possibly be true? I looked for a telltale twitch of his right eyebrow, but Mr. Sinclair was far too well trained to betray even the hint of a lie.
The officer gave me a cursory glance before turning back to Mr. Sinclair. “Interesting. When did you arrive?”
“Two days ago. Miss Delafield here can attest to my whereabouts.”
I felt a boot at my shin. “Yes.” I nearly coughed out the word. “I-I met Mr. Sinclair in Mrs. Chalcroft’s drawing room when I arrived.”
The hooknose officer squinted then took a step back. “Very well, but you should know we’ll be in the area for some time. It may become necessary to post patrols and search some of the houses.”
Mr. Sinclair rose to his feet, dwarfing the officer. “I’m happy to hear we shall be so well protected at the Towers.” He held out his hand to me. “But, if you will excuse us, Miss Delafield and I must be getting back.”
Without thinking, I stood and allowed Mr. Sinclair to lead me from the room. Only I wished I hadn’t glanced back—that I hadn’t seen the look of suspicion on the captain’s face.
When I returned to the Towers, I went at once to Mrs. Chalcroft’s bedchamber. Surely getting the milliner’s message off my mind would be the best medicine to calm my increasing anxiety.
The hall sat quiet for the early afternoon, none of the family or servants about. Just dark walls that seemed to breathe as I passed by. At Mrs. Chalcroft’s door I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. Dust covered my habit and a good portion of my hair had escaped down my neck. It was presumptuous of me not to change, but I knocked on her door nonetheless.
No answer.
I waited a moment then knocked a second time, a bit louder. The pounding echoed in my chest, and I shrank back. Had Mrs. Chalcroft fallen asleep early for her afternoon nap? I crept back a step, wishing I hadn’t been so foolish, when I heard a sound from inside the room.
“Mrs. Chalcroft?”
Nothing but silence answered. I bit my lip. The bedchamber door looked to be made of mahogany, so I leaned forward to be sure there was no response. A faint, high-pitched squeal reached me, so soft I pressed my ear to the door to make it out.
An animal’s cry? I knew at once I had to be mistaken, but a cry was the closest thing I could imagine the sound to be. Either way, I didn’t like it. Not at all.
I tried the latch and the door clicked open, a puff of air wafting over me.
“Mrs. Chalcroft?”
Again, no answer, only the distant wail. Was something inside hurt? I had to be sure. I glanced behind me before pushing through the door, unconsciously closing it behind me. “Mrs. Chalcroft?”
A solitary ray of sunshine beamed through a small opening between the curtains and spread its long finger across the rug. I hunched my shoulders and tiptoed over to the bed, the quiet of the room pressing against my ears. The covers were strewn about but empty, though the room had a distinct feeling of movement. A faint breeze slid in through a crack in the window, joined by Mrs. Chalcroft’s heavy rose scent.
I checked the dressing room and found it as tidy as I’d seen it before. Mrs. Chalcroft hadn’t left her room since the first
night I arrived. I wondered where she could have gone. All at once a strong gust of wind surged against the windowpane, and I heard the high-pitched howl, just like a cry. I’d discovered my hurt animal and took a breath of relief.
It had been the wind, nothing more. I turned to leave, eager to change out of my dirty riding habit, but paused. Was this not the perfect opportunity to look about the room? Mrs. Chalcroft might not leave her bedchamber again for some time.
I peeked into the wardrobe and through the odds and ends of her bedside table’s drawers, unsure what it was I hunted. Someone in this house must know something of my past. Yet I found nothing remarkable. Not in her many drawers, nor on her escritoire.
Another loud burst of wind fought its way through the crack in the window, flinging a stack of papers from the fireplace mantel to the floor. Quickly, I tiptoed over the mess and closed the window before shuffling through the pages.
Above the fireplace hung two thick crimson drapes that came to rest on the mantel, a gold cord dangling at each side. Having found nothing of interest in the papers, I paused for a moment before I returned the stack to its resting place. This particular wall, beyond the drapes, was the same interior one that sided my room. So there could be no window . . .
I lifted the drape’s corner with my index finger. Wood—a frame? The farther I drew back the curtain, the more a painting became visible until I could see the work of art in its entirety.
It was a woman, one I didn’t know. She had golden hair and green eyes and was painted so well she appeared almost alive. I gasped. I’d seen many grim-faced paintings before, but this one was different. This one framed what no one wished to see—sadness and pain.
I took a step closer, rising up to my toes to get a better look in the dim light. The lady could be no more than five and twenty. She wore a beautiful gown of pink crape over satin, and a large gold ring graced her right hand. Could it be Mrs. Chalcroft as a young woman? Although I did see a resemblance, I was certain the lady in the picture was not my employer. She was exquisitely beautiful, and I found it hard to look away.
In the Shadow of Croft Towers Page 8