When she heard something coming from a room ahead, Glory was tempted to call Thad, but she knew he had his hands full with Phillida. Again, she cursed her lack of a pistol and wondered whether she ought to step outside and call for help. But who would respond?
It seemed, as always, that the Suttons were on their own. Reaching down to pick up a broken chair leg, Glory held it like a cudgel and inched forwards until she could hear the sound more clearly. Unless someone was tapping on the walls, it was too rhythmic to signal a presence, so she continued on, her makeshift weapon at the ready.
The doors to the rooms stood open and Glory carefully moved towards the one from which the noise emanated. Peeking around the door frame, she slumped against it, for though nobody stood inside, they had left their mark. Cupboards were flung wide, their contents of cups and glasses strewn upon the floor. The chaise where Phillida so often reclined lay upon its side, a curtain flapping against it, caught by the breeze from an open window.
Glory nearly sank to her feet and wept, but she heard a scratching noise and turned, heading into the other room. Although armed with the chair leg, she gripped it, frozen with terror, when she saw a flash of something in the dimness. Her low cry sent it racing past her, and she stepped back, teetering off balance as a cat leapt to the window and bounded away.
Although Glory would have liked to blame the creature, she knew that no animal had been responsible for such destruction. She leaned shakily against the door frame, unable to summon the wits to move, until she saw that the rear entrance was open as well. The door stood askew and a shadow moved across her line of sight.
The thought of the perpetrator standing outside, gloating over his handiwork, spurred Glory’s flagging courage. Lifting her broken piece of wood, she pushed at the door with her foot, ready to bring down her club upon whoever lurked outside. But she only gasped in shock when she saw the figure standing there.
Westfield.
Glory blinked in astonishment, unsure whether to thump the man roundly with her cudgel or drop her weapon and throw herself into his arms. But the latter impulse was so unnerving that she simply stood where she was, gaping at him.
Handsome and elegant, he didn’t seem at all embarrassed to be discovered. He lifted one dark brow as his gaze swept over her. ‘Does everyone receive this kind of greeting, or am I privy to special treatment?’
When Glory didn’t answer, his brows drew together, and his manner changed. ‘What is it?’ he asked, and for a moment, she thought she glimpsed something other than indifference in those dark eyes. The urge to go to him was nearly overpowering and he stepped forwards, as if in response. But a shout from Thad halted him.
‘Glory? What the devil are you doing with the broken furniture?’ Thad asked. He took the chair leg from her numb grasp and would have pulled her back inside, but then he saw Westfield.
‘Your Grace! What the…uh, how do you happen to be here?’ her brother sputtered. Apparently, even Thad was surprised by the duke’s appearance at the scene of the crime, and as Glory’s scattered wits returned, she waited to see just how the nobleman would explain his presence.
‘I was summoned by young Bob here,’ Westfield said. He gestured behind him, and a ginger-haired lad stepped out from behind the trees.
‘Mr Goodger sent me,’ the boy explained. ‘To fetch the magistrate—seeing as how something looked to have gone wrong at the Pump Room.’
‘Mr Pettit, the magistrate, being indisposed, I came in his stead,’ Westfield said. He lifted both brows as though questioning whether the Suttons objected.
Glory might have, but she couldn’t seem to summon the words, and Thad welcomed him heartily. ‘Oh, yes, thank you for coming, your Grace. We’re most grateful to have your help.’
Were they? Glory wondered, for her own feelings were decidedly mixed. The duke had seemed to be against them, which made it hard for her to trust his offer of aid—or trust him at all. But somehow the sight of him acted as a restorative, and Glory’s despair began to give way to a slow, steady resolution that this would not be the end of Queen’s Well. And no one was going to stop her.
Not even Westfield.
Chapter Five
Oberon wasn’t sure what he was expecting, when summoned by the boy, but not Miss Sutton, looking pale and drawn, her green eyes oddly lifeless. She was a formidable woman, always ready with a crushing comment, if not a pistol, and Oberon struggled to hide his reaction as emotions he hadn’t felt in years threatened to burst through his very skin. Had she been assaulted? If so, he would surely do murder.
‘What happened?’ he asked, too sharply.
‘Someone broke into the Pump Room,’ Thad said.
‘Just now?’ Unable to stop himself, Oberon reached out to grasp Miss Sutton’s arm. ‘Are you all right?’
‘No one’s here now, as far as I can tell, and I checked upstairs,’ Thad said. ‘They must have come during the night when the place was empty.’
Oberon followed the boy’s gaze to where his gloved fingers gripped Miss Sutton, and he dropped his hand. But not yet satisfied, he turned to face her. ‘You are unharmed?’
When she nodded, Oberon felt a measure of relief and flexed his fingers against an urge to touch her again, as if to reassure himself that she was…herself. Without pausing to consider when that had become important to him, Oberon turned away long enough to dismiss the boy named Bob and gather his composure. When he turned back around, his mask was once again firmly in place.
‘Now, let us see what is missing,’ he said, pushing the door aside for Miss Sutton and shutting it behind him. Oberon was not sure what could have occurred in order to so change Miss Sutton, but he had only had to step inside to receive his answer.
‘What the devil?’ Oberon’s aplomb faltered again as he viewed the destruction. He had come out of curiosity more than anything else, wondering what could have been taken from a well, especially since no wealthy patrons were in attendance to lose their jewels or their pocket watches.
But this was no petty theft.
As he walked through the rooms, Oberon felt the kind of anger that he hadn’t known in years. He’d dealt with duplicitous characters and weak men who would sell anything for money, people with no thought of what they had wrought, no honour or loyalty. But this was different. This was personal.
Surveying the damage, Oberon realised that someone had gone to a lot of trouble, but for what purpose? He didn’t want to consider the more unsavoury possibilities, or worse, that his own presence in Philtwell might be responsible. But he could not ignore them.
‘Was anything stolen?’ he asked, turning to eye the Suttons closely.
‘What would they take?’ Miss Sutton countered, with a gesture towards the mess.
Oberon flexed his fingers even as he tried not to be swayed from an impartial investigation. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You tell me.’
At his tone, Miss Sutton lifted her head, a flash of the old spark in her emerald eyes. ‘It’s a Pump Room! What on earth could they want besides the waters?’
Either she was a consummate actress or she was telling the truth, and it was a measure of his own peculiar state that Oberon was simply glad to see her returned to some semblance of her usual self.
‘Maybe they were looking for something?’ Thad suggested.
‘Amongst the drinking glasses?’ Miss Sutton countered.
The boy shrugged.
Why break the glasses and the chairs? Oberon wondered…unless you were enraged or were trying to prove a point. Despite her seeming innocence, Miss Sutton might be involved up to her neck in something dangerous, perhaps without being aware of the fact.
‘Do you have any enemies?’ Oberon asked.
For a moment, she looked at him blankly, then her eyes widened. ‘Doctor Tibold.’
‘That b—bounder,’ Thad said, though Oberon thought he’d intended a more forceful appellation.
The physician might be lunatic enough to wreak this sort of havoc, b
ut why? ‘I thought he was anxious for the waters to be available.’
‘Free of charge,’ Miss Sutton said.
Although Oberon did not see how destroying the Pump Room would bring that about, the good doctor didn’t seem particularly reasonable. Making his way into the main room, Oberon chose his steps carefully, looking for any signs that would confirm the man’s involvement.
‘Oh, your Grace!’ Miss Bamford’s wail led him to where she reclined upon a window seat. ‘Thank heaven you are here to aid us. Do you think the place is cursed?’ She lifted a handkerchief to her face and moaned. ‘Oh, if only we could return to London.’
‘Cursed?’ Oberon echoed.
‘This vicious attack upon the property,’ she said, with wave of her handkerchief. ‘I fear it is a sign that Queen’s Well should remain closed. Oh, I knew we should never have come here!’
Oberon frowned. He didn’t believe in signs or curses—unless they were deliberately laid by someone with ill intent, whether Dr Tibold or someone else. ‘Perhaps it is meant to prevent the re-opening,’ he said. Again, he eyed the siblings closely, but he could see only concern in Thad’s open expression and resolve in Miss Sutton’s.
She crossed her arms in front of her in a stubborn stance, and Oberon felt a rush of something indefinable at her apparent recovery. Struggling to ignore it, he turned to scan the room. While the destruction was dismaying, it could be righted without too much trouble. Thankfully, the building itself had not been damaged; the windows and doors and new paint were as pristine as before. A broom and removal of the debris would soon return it to working order, minus the broken furniture.
He swung round to face Miss Sutton. ‘So I suggest you do just that.’
‘What, close it?’ she asked, green eyes flashing.
‘No, open it,’ Oberon said. He inclined his head towards the front entrance. ‘The day looks to be a fine one. So while the interior is cleared, why not move on to the lawn?’
As Glory watched the people milling in the grounds, chatting and drinking the waters of Queen’s Well in borrowed glasses, she loosed a sigh of relief. This morning it had seemed as though the grand re-opening would have to be postponed, but against all odds, the day had been a success—thanks to the most unexpected of heroes.
The man she had thought more adversary than ally had come to her rescue, and Glory found herself glancing his way more often than she should. Although she told herself she only wanted to see what he was doing, her gaze lingered longer than required, more often than not.
‘I see you’re no longer at daggers drawn.’
The sound of Thad’s voice startled Glory from her thoughts, and she turned to find her brother standing beside her, eyeing the duke. ‘You two will have to work together now that he’s acting magistrate,’ he said, turning towards her.
The idea of working with Westfield made Glory’s heart flutter, a helpless reaction that made her frown. ‘We were never at daggers drawn.’
Her brother snorted. ‘You’ve been finding fault with a fat goose ever since you met him.’
Glory shook her head. If she’d been wary of Westfield, she’d had good reason. ‘You have to admit that his behaviour at first was suspicious: sneaking around the empty Pump Room, consorting with Dr Tibold, maligning the spa…’ His whole attitude had been prickly, just as though they were at daggers’ drawn, Glory realised.
But Thad simply snorted again.
‘And what of his skills with his fists and weapons, his eerie composure in the face of anything, his…stealth?’ Glory sought for the words to express her feeling that the duke was, if not suspicious, then certainly unusual. ‘He’s not a typical nobleman.’
‘And how many nobleman do you know?’ Thad asked. ‘He’s bang up to the mark.’
Glory did not argue with Thad’s assessment, especially since her brother recently had been taken with far less suitable characters. She had to admit that Thad could do worse than to admire and emulate the duke, despite his…peculiarities.
‘Maybe you’ve been up in the boughs because you fancy the man,’ Thad said.
‘What?’ Glory flushed to the roots of her hair. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’
‘Very amusing,’ Glory said, refusing to glance at her brother. ‘Though I’m glad that you remember some of your tutor’s assignments.’
While Thad protested that he was well read, even though he rarely opened a book these days, Glory gathered her composure. When she spoke again, it was in a light, but firm tone meant to convey her views without ‘protesting too much’.
‘While you may yet turn out to be a scholar, there is no possibility that a man of Westfield’s standing would be interested in me,’ Glory said. And before Thad could argue, she gave him a serious look. ‘For you know as well as I that, for the sake of his title, a duke must make a good match with a noble young lady whose relations and connections will serve him well.’
Thad frowned. Perhaps he’d had hopes for a closer relationship with the man he thought ‘bang up to the mark’, but Glory had no intention of letting him foster that notion.
‘However, you were right about Westfield,’ she conceded. ‘I vow not to be suspicious of the man any longer.’ No matter what curious skills he might display. ‘And to work with him as magistrate.’
Slightly mollified, Thad nodded. He might have said more, but he was hailed by one of the local young people and soon disappeared into the crowd. Glory loosed her breath, relieved that the conversation was over, yet her brother’s words lingered.
Was he right? If Westfield wasn’t dangerous, then why did her pulse pick up its pace whenever he was near? Glory frowned, for she was too old to become breathless at the sight of a pair of broad shoulders and dark eyes. But maybe now that Thad was grown up and no longer needed her attention, she had succumbed belatedly to the girlish nonsense she had not known when younger.
However unpalatable the thought, Glory told herself that any handsome man would then have the same effect upon her. She just hadn’t seen any others in Philtwell—or at least any to rival Westfield. But who could? Glory swallowed a snort of her own. Even disregarding his looks, his presence, his power, what he had done today was enough to gain any woman’s attention.
Glory liked to think that, after recovering from her initial shock at the condition of the Pump Room, she would have come up with the same idea as Westfield. But the duke had reacted swiftly and surely. He had sent to Sutton House for glasses and directed the arriving servants to clear a path to the waters, so they could serve patrons outside. The duchess brought additional servants, and others, hearing of their troubles, loaned items and helping hands.
In fact, Glory had been astonished at the outpouring of kindness. Before, she had heard only rumblings of displeasure from the villagers. Now, she realised that many of the area residents were welcoming. When the boy, Bob, returned with Mr Goodger, he was heartily thanked. And the owner of the bake shop set up a stand and sold biscuits and sweets.
Yet, even as Glory mulled over her good fortune, a cloud passed over the sun as if acting as a portent to darken the day. And whether it was coincidence or because she had been too distracted to notice before, Glory felt the familiar sensation of eyes upon her. Glancing around the group milling around the lawn, she could find no one staring her way, but it was too strong to dismiss.
With a shiver, Glory realised that among the people she had thought so welcoming stood someone who was not. And whoever had vandalised the Pump Room could not be pleased by the success of the opening. In fact, Glory felt their enmity, like an eerie presence, dark and dangerous. Fighting against the panic that threatened, Glory slowly began to turn, as though to divine the source through sensation alone.
And then she saw Tibold.
He was not looking in her direction. In fact, his back was turned, but there was no mistaking that frock-coat, and Glory heard him loudly order waters for two fat, wheezy fellows he claime
d were his patients. Although they were paying customers, Glory was tempted to have them barred from the property. Eyes narrowing, she studied the strangers and wondered whether they were responsible for breaking into her business.
Westfield must have wondered the same, for he soon approached the men, and Glory inched towards them to listen. ‘I told you to stay away from Miss Sutton,’ the duke said to the doctor. Although he spoke in his usual smooth tone, there was no denying the underlying threat, and Glory felt suffused with a certain warmth at Westfield’s implied protection.
‘I am allowed to partake of the waters, the same as anyone else,’ Tibold argued, ‘as are my patients.’
‘Only when she’s not nearby,’ Westfield said. ‘But since you’re here, I’d like to talk to you.’ He manoeuvred Tibold away from the others, so Glory could not hear what was said, but the physician did not look happy. In fact, the normally red-faced charlatan turned as pale as a ghost.
Westfield’s back was to her, but Glory knew he needed no rock-filled reticule or pistol to intimidate. And the physician who had so often shouted at her kept quiet, shaking his head and muttering. Finally, after bowing several times, he slunk away like a whipped dog.
But such animals had a habit of returning, and Glory looked towards Westfield in question. Trying to ignore the sudden leap of her pulse as he turned towards her, she assumed an expectant expression until he reached her side. After all, she was only curious as to the exchange between the two men.
‘Miss Sutton,’ the duke said, acknowledging her with a slight nod, and Glory realised he still was dangerous, only in a different way. For the girlish nonsense that she had always dismissed took hold of her, making her not only enamoured of his handsome face, but of the man himself. She swallowed.
‘Thad tells me you’ve had a change of heart.’
Glory and the Rake Page 7