“I can strike a match to tinder as well as anyone, my lord. I’ll be fine. You should attend to whatever it is you need to do without any further worry for me,” she offered as reassuringly as possible.
“Then I will leave you to your sewing. I am glad that you will be able to make use of the gowns, Miss Mason. It’s far better than having them moldering in a trunk,” he said.
Mary watched him turn to leave. She wasn’t quite sure what prompted it, but impulsively she blurted out, “Be careful, my lord!”
“Excuse me?”
“I just have a feeling that whatever errand it is that you’re leaving for… well, I fear that it might be dangerous and I—well, I would prefer to have you return in one piece,” she admitted lamely.
He didn’t make a jest at her expense or make light of her concerns. He simply regarded her in that very serious way he had before nodding once. “I shall endeavor to be careful, Miss Mason. And I will see you on the morrow.”
Mary watched him leave and, once more, seated herself on the chair before the fire. After a few moments, Mrs. Epson came in and brought the sewing basket, departing immediately. She didn’t grumble under her breath, but she was certainly no friendlier than she had been before. When the housekeeper had come and gone, Mary took the gown she’d first picked up and set to work. She was no seamstress, but even she could manage to hem a skirt. At the very least, she’d have something to wear the next time she saw him that wasn’t a nightrail. It would put them on slightly more even footing, she hoped, and make her feel like less of a gauche fool.
Chapter Six
Alex kept to the trees. He’d avoided the road altogether and had, instead, taken his mount through the woods. The estate was quiet. Many of the servants were taking advantage of having no master for the interim and had made their way into the village. They were drinking at the inn, leaving the estate largely unmanned. Those few that remained were cozied up with whatever willing partner they could find for the night or had likely made free with Harrelson’s wine cellar and would be of no trouble to him. He’d elected to watch the kitchens as a means of gauging whether or not it was safe to enter. As the last of the lights were extinguished and the house went fully dark, he knew he’d made the right choice.
Moving stealthily along the perimeter of the house, he made his way to the double glass doors on the terrace that would provide entrance to Harrelson’s study. Removing the small leather packet from his pocket, he opened it to reveal the small collection of lock picking tools he’d procured. It wasn’t as easy as his new employee had led him to believe. It took several minutes before the lock finally gave. With a soft snick, it released and door opened inward.
After pausing for a moment to make sure no one sounded the alarm, Alex let himself into the room. It was quiet and dark, the hearth cold and Harrelson’s papers still spread across the desk. No one had touched anything in their employer’s absence. Closing the door behind him, he drew the curtains tight. Using the small throw that had been draped over the chair before the fire, he stuffed it against the door to the hall so that the light wouldn’t be seen. Satisfied that his snooping would be free of discovery and interruption, he lit the taper on the desk and began examining all the paperwork that was readily visible. Bills of sale, bills from his tailor and wine merchant – there was nothing of any significant importance, but it did appear that the man had left in a hurry. The room, aside from the desk, was tidy, but not in the way of having been cleaned by a servant. The brandy decanter was placed neatly on the tray. The small crystal dish with the remnants of a cheroot in it was free from any ash or dust around it. Yet, the bookshelves were slightly dusty, almost as if servants were forbidden free entrance to the room. Why would he limit their access to the room if not to hide whatever misdeeds he was about?
Alex reached for the top desk drawer, but he found it locked. That was promising, he thought. Anything Harrelson needed to keep locked away was likely just was he was in search of. Resorting to his trusty lock picks once more, the drawer lock proved much more stubborn than that of the exterior door. Finally, after numerous attempts and several quiet curses, the lock sprang free. Any keen observer would be able to see that the lock had been tampered with, but he could only hope no one would be examining it too closely. Inside the drawer were bundled letters and several slim, leather-bound volumes. Those he would examine at his leisure after returning home. Each of the subsequent drawers yielded some amount of evidence that would require continued and careful perusal. But in the very bottom drawer, he found something that made his heart race. It was a simple locket that he’d given to Helena on the eve of their wedding. Lifting it out, he examined it closely, including the inscription. With affection, Wolverton, 7th of May, 1818. The bride gift he’d presented her with was inscribed in such an impersonal way it offered proof enough that the marriage had been a disastrous mistake.
The presence of the locket implicated Harrelson as nothing else could. To that end, Alex carefully replaced it in the small wooden box it had been stored in. It would remain there and if he had a remarkable turn of luck, there it would stay until he could use the remainder of the evidence gathered to convince the Lord High Steward to consider his appeal.
Using the same tools as before, he relocked the drawer and had just gathered up his finds when he heard a noise outside the door. Cursing, he extinguished the taper, stuffed the lot of it inside his coat and then quickly exited through the terrace doors he’d used to gain entrance. He would have to wait until he could get back to the safety and relative seclusion of Wolfhaven Hall before he could inspect any of it.
Outside, he pressed himself flat against the building and waited. It didn’t take long. A footman opened the terrace doors, peered outside and, seeing no one, stepped back inside, locking the door tightly behind him. When he heard the door close softly and the lock click into place, he breathed a heartfelt sigh at having not been discovered. After a heartbeat had passed, and he could be sure that he wasn’t being observed, Alex dashed for the trees and his waiting mount.
Through the woods, from Harrelson’s manor house to his own, was only a five mile ride. Making that ride while constantly waiting for the hounds to be released by Harrelson’s lackeys to fall in behind him in full pursuit made it seem infinitely longer. When he’d finally reached the shelter of Wolfhaven, only then did Alex begin to relax. By nature, he was not a rule breaker, nor one given to bouts of criminal activity. He hadn’t the heart or the stomach for it, he feared.
Entering the house, it was quiet. Mrs. Epson would long be abed and he could only hope for the sake of what little of his sanity remained that Miss Mason would be abed as well. Another charged encounter with her, and he was not entirely certain he could maintain what little claim he had to the title of gentleman. He’d come perilously close to breaking his own rules that afternoon. Finding her in his dressing room, pilfering through his belongings, hadn’t angered him. Rather, he’d been impressed by her resourcefulness, by her determination to take control in her current weakened state, instead of simply trusting that total strangers had her best interests at heart. Her sense of self-preservation and her will were both formidable and quite awe inspiring. Life had become of very little value to him and he realized it was in large part because he hadn’t been focused on living it. Instead, he’d become mired in the misery of his situation and the driving need to right the wrongs visited upon him. It had robbed him of enjoyment of even the most simple of pleasures.
In short, Miss Mason was a distraction and try as he might, he was having a very difficult time bringing himself to mind. It was a very dangerous thing to find himself longing for her company, wondering what she might have to say on any given topic or, in general, feeling compelled to simply look upon her remarkably lovely countenance.
She would be well enough soon to lead him to where she had been held, if she could locate it. Then he would see her returned to her brother and put her from his mind forever. If he should find himself missing her
or longing for her company, he need only remind himself of how disastrous any connection to him would be for a respectable or gently-bred young woman.
Forcing himself to attend to his present task and push any thoughts of Miss Mason aside, he lit several tapers on his desk and then stoked the banked fire in the hearth. Once the blaze had roared to life once more, he retreated to his desk and began examining the items he’d managed to abscond with. The small packet of letters he set aside. Those, he’d pore through carefully and one at a time. It was the small, leather-bound volumes that intrigued him. They had the look of ledgers: whether they tracked the illegal activities themselves, or simply the ensuing income from them, remained to be seen.
Opening the first, he found a series of columns. There were dates, abbreviations and numbers as well as locations, typically by city, but sometimes by neighborhood or street. Next to each one was a sum of money. He was pages deep in the journal before a single notation made him stop, aghast at what he read. The line, scrawled carelessly in the margin, stated, The youngest and only boy died of fever. The receiving family thusly paid half.
Alex read it again, several times, just to be certain he had not misinterpreted it. Someone had paid for children. To what end, he did not know, but that much was irrefutable. Flipping through page after page with growing horror, Alex figured they numbered well into the hundreds if not the thousands. Did each of those notations represent someone to whom Harrelson had plied his trade? Had each of those transactions recorded in that book represented the sale of one human being to another?
Based on that single notation, he could only believe it did. It was the only indication in the entire book of what the source of the payments was. Given what he’d seen of Mary Mason, and what his employee had discovered in Bath about missing girls, it wasn’t simply unwanted children being sold to families. It appeared Harrelson had made a fortune for himself or, based on the numbers he’d seen, several fortunes, by fulfilling whatever desires people had. If they wanted children to complete their family, he provided them. If they wanted young women, or even young boys and girls to do with as they pleased, that was provided as well.
Sickened, filled with a kind of dread that he hadn’t felt since the day he’d discovered Helena, Alex closed the book. Even expecting to find such crimes had not prepared him for the scale of them. The sheer quantity of people that Harrelson had enslaved and bartered was mind-boggling. And there, but for the grace of God and her own remarkable ingenuity, Mary Mason would have been counted amongst their number. She had managed to escape when hundreds of others had not. If that was not a testament to just how unique and industrious she was, nothing else could be.
With what he considered to be irrefutable proof of Harrelson’s crimes, there were three burning questions left to answer. Was Hamilton involved? What had Helena discovered or done that had prompted them to end her so brutally? Had she been involved? It wasn’t out of the question, he thought. The very coldness of her nature had often left him confused and uncomfortable in her presence. He simply didn’t know how to speak to her when she was demanding that he raise rents on tenants who were barely able to feed and clothe their children. Self-serving and without any compassion for others, if it had benefited Helena in some way, she would not have balked at it. Alex leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his hands over his face. What on earth had his late wife gotten herself involved in?
*
It was restlessness, and if she were entirely honest, there was also a healthy dose of insatiable curiosity that had prompted her to leave the relative safety of the chamber she’d been given. She wanted to see the rest of the house, or as much of it as was open. There was a part of her that hoped seeing it would provide more insight into the very enigmatic man who had rescued her. But as Mary crept silently down the stairs, she realized she’d greatly overestimated the degree of her recovery. Every step was a misery. Her poor feet were beyond abused. Even bandaged as they were, the hard stone beneath them seemed to inflame every scrape, cut and bruise she’d amassed during her escape. She was too far from her chamber to turn back. Unaided, she would likely wind up in a crying heap on the floor of the hall, if she even managed to get that far. The ground floor and the promise of a chair or settee she might rest her poor feet upon were too great to ignore. Besides, the indignity of plopping her bottom on the stairs and waiting to be rescued, yet again, was mortifying.
Clinging to the banister, she limped the last few steps down and whimpered as her feet touched the colder marble of the foyer floor. There were no chairs to be had in the foyer but, earlier, Mrs. Epson had indicated that the library was still a room in use. And if Lord Wolverton was still out for whatever late night assignation it was that had taken him from the safety of his home, perhaps she could regroup in there enough that she might, once more, be able to face traversing the stairs. She might very well have to crawl back to her chamber. His chamber.
Easing her way across the hall, in a pathetic shuffling sort of limp, she managed to open the door. With several pained steps, she entered the room and closed the door behind her. Leaning heavily against it, she took a fortifying breath and closed her eyes as she considered what to do next.
“It’s a bit late for an evening stroll, Miss Mason… and you’re hardly in any condition for it.”
She squeaked more than screamed at the gently-voiced admonishment. Clutching her throat, her eyes traveled the room until they came to rest upon him. He was seated in a chair near the hearth, half-hidden from view. She glared at the half of his face that was visible to her. His profile was too perfect, too appealing, and it only intensified her dislike of him in that moment. The man had the ability to discomfit her in so many ways, she didn’t know if she was coming or going.
“I thought you’d gone out,” she finally managed.
“Did you feel the need to snoop through my desk as well as my dressing chamber?” he demanded, though there was more amusement than censure in his tone.
Mary blushed and prayed the room was dim enough to camouflage it. “I only wanted to move about. I’ve been cramped in the same room for days and thought I might take a bit of air… I hadn’t realized how much my feet would hurt from such a short distance. I came in here to rest before attempting the trek back to my—to your—to the bedchamber,” she finished lamely. It seemed imprudent to continuously remind either of them that she was currently occupying his bed, regardless of the innocuous circumstances for it.
He said nothing for the longest time, but she felt his very serious regard of her. The weight of his gaze upon her was an almost tangible thing. The silence stretched between them, taut but not uncomfortable. Expectant might have been a better description, she thought. Every moment she spent in his presence made her feel as if something unknown and foreign were about to happen, as if, perhaps, it should. Perhaps, it was only wishful thinking on her part, the belief that there was more to their interactions, some deeper meaning in the long looks that passed between them.
Abruptly, he rose from the chair and approached her. Mary didn’t shrink back. She had no fear of him. Despite her earlier misgivings and doubts, and even what she’d read in the letter from Lord Ambrose and in his journal, when she was in his presence, it was impossible to believe that he was capable of what he’d been accused of. Whatever he was about, she had absolutely no question that she was in no danger from him. Regardless of her suspicion during their strange meeting in the woods, she felt very certain that Lord Wolverton meant her no harm whatsoever.
Mary hadn’t expected that he would simply sweep one arm behind her shoulders and the other beneath her knees and lift her to him. Cradled against his chest, her lips parted on a sharp exhale of shock. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “You must put me down, Lord Wolverton!”
“I fully intend to, Miss Mason,” he replied, his tone reasonable and even somewhat amused at her scandalized tone. “On that settee… right over there. You should not have walked so far. No doubt, some of the more serious cut
s have reopened and will require further bandaging. I’ll see to it before carrying you back to your bedchamber.”
A blush stained her cheeks and she was thankful for the dim lighting of the room that would, hopefully, conceal it. For that flush could not be laid at the door of embarrassment. Rather, it was her awareness of him, of how firm his chest felt against her, how very strong his arms were as he carried her, of how tenderly he held her. Would every touch from him be as tender? It was wicked of her, but there was a part of her, the same part that had stayed awake until all hours of the night consuming every novel by Mrs. Radcliffe, that hoped he would simply ravish her. She wanted him to kiss her as if he had no control over himself, as if he were starved for it. Rather than implore him to do just that, Mary lowered her gaze from the hard, firm line of his jaw and confessed something far more innocent, “I am sorry to be such a burden, Lord Wolverton. I truly did not think my feet were so gravely injured still after so many days.”
“They were terribly bruised,” he said. “And bleeding. I don’t know how you ran as far and as fast as you did that night. I am rather in awe of you, Miss Mason. You have no idea how remarkable you truly are.”
“Do not be awed by me, my lord. Fear is a great motivator.”
He placed her gently on the settee in a reclining position. Then he knelt beside it to examine her bandages. “Tell me what you feared, Miss Mason. What did you know or, at the very least, suspect, about the fate that awaited you at the hands of your captors.”
It was a test. She was certain of it. Looking down, noting how the firelight danced over the planes and angles of his handsome face, she could see from his expression that he was gauging her response, but for what reason she did not know. “I may be innocent, Lord Wolverton—and whatever you may think of me, I am—my brother has moved heaven and earth to protect me in a world where innocence is all too often sacrificed… but I am not naïve. I know those men intended to sell me. Likely to a man who had paid them to procure someone who met specific standards. If not that, then to an abbess.”
The Mystery of Miss Mason (The Lost Lords Book 5) Page 8