by Amy Corwin
Struggling with the heavy bucket, his face twisted. The tip of his tongue poked out of the side of his mouth as he heaved his burden onto the table. Then he turned to scowl at the wooden bowl, still two-thirds full of dusty, brown-skinned potatoes.
“She gave me hundreds — no thousands — to peel.” He waved a dirty hand toward the tottering pile of mostly-white vegetables in the center of the table. “I've already done more than an entire army could eat.”
“Excellent.” She restrained herself from ruffling his ragged brown hair. He needed a haircut and oddly enough, that made him all the more endearing. “And rest assured your efforts are much needed, since Ormsby seems to house an entire regiment of servants. They are the 'army' you are feeding.”
Edward snorted and picked up his knife to begin his methodical peeling again, as Helen poured water into the white washbowl. A roll of heavy linen sat on one of the shelves in the room, and Helen took it down. It would serve well as a drying cloth for the lace. She carved a few flakes of soap from the gray cake and swirled them into the water to soften them before she added the lace. Occupied with her task, she frowned as she scrubbed the lace and delicate handkerchiefs, trying not to be too depressed about her failure to find the necklace and escape.
“Is something the matter?”
Helen glanced up, surprised to find Ned studying her, his young face crumpled with concern. “Why, no.”
“You're lying,” Ned said in a smug tone, flicking another glance at her. “I can tell. When you lie, your nose turns pink. Like a rabbit.”
“Charming,” she murmured. “But I assure you, nothing is wrong.”
“Don't you trust me? I won't tell anyone.”
She stared at Ned. His brown eyes were filled with disappointment, and he frowned at her refusal to confide in him. He thought she did not trust him, but she did. Ever since he’d tried to protect her by weaving an utterly preposterous story at the inn where they met, she’d trusted him as she would her own brother. And she knew how it felt when others discounted her. She refused to do the same to him.
“I'm sorry, Ned. One of the reasons I came to Ormsby was to find a necklace I lost the last time I visited — the Peckham necklace. And I did find it. Only Mrs. Adams found me with it, and I had to give it to Miss Leigh. It's silly, but I'm just not sure how to get it back again. And I do not want to be responsible for ruining Mr. Caswell's investigation, although I suppose we cannot keep up this charade forever. It is bound to end sooner or later.”
Ned's expression grew somber. “I don't know why we can't stay like this. And I'll help you get the necklace.”
“Oh, no. Please — I should not have mentioned it.”
“I can help, honestly,” Ned insisted, his face glowing with determination. “You can leave it up to me.”
“Absolutely not.” Helen squeezed the soap out of a length of lace and rinsed it carefully, before spreading it out and pinning it to the linen on the table in front of her. “You are not to go upstairs, as you very well know. And it is my task to get the necklace. It is your task to help your brother.”
“He doesn't want my help either — no one does,” he declared in an angry, ill-used tone.
“That is not true! You are doing a great deal to help everyone.” She smiled and gestured to the growing mound of potatoes. “Just look at that.”
He snorted and began kicking a table leg in frustration. She watched him as she soaked another piece of lace in some blueing to whiten it. “We have Wednesday afternoon off — why don't we go exploring? They say there is the ruin of an old abbey in the grounds. We could go there.”
“Already been there,” he replied truculently. The table shook as he took out his frustration on its heavy oak legs. “Not much to look at. Just a lot of old, gray rocks.”
Even Helen was disappointed to hear that. She actually thought it might be fun to explore a romantic Gothic ruin, and it would take Ned's mind off his chores. Staring at his bowed head, she watched as he continued peeling the potatoes, his face a grim mask of concentration.
“Ned —” She was about to ask him if he was thinking of running away, but stopped when she realized it might put the idea into his head if it wasn’t there already.
As he eyed her expectantly, he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, leaving a gritty smear of dirt. “Oh, all right,” he said. “I'll go with you if you want to see it. But there's nothing there.”
“Thank you. I did not want to go alone, and it might be fun.”
“For you, maybe. There wasn't even a dungeon as far as I could tell.”
“How shocking!” Helen struggled not to laugh. Ned appeared to have odd notions about religious buildings. “What is an abbey without a dungeon?”
“Exactly. I'll bet they tortured the heretics until they begged for mercy.”
Helen wanted to explain that abbeys were generally inhabited by nuns who were more likely to heal sick heretics than apply thumbscrews to them. However, she decided that information could wait. If Ned found out, he would be so disappointed that he would probably never set foot there again.
Spreading out the second bit of lace, she examined it for tears and loose threads. Most of it was still in fairly good condition with only two sections that needed mending.
“I think you should stay here,” Ned announced after several minutes of silence.
She glanced up to find him studying her. “Why?”
“Well, you have to stay somewhere while I'm at sea. I'm going to be a captain, you know. Not right away, of course, but maybe in a year or two.”
His concept of the time it took to develop such a career was somewhat awry, but the details could wait — along with his commission.
“I see. But why must I stay here when you are threatening to abandon me and join the navy?”
His gaze was bright with pride. “Because you have to wait for me, until I come back. I'm going to marry you when I'm a captain.”
“Well, Ned, I'm honored, but you know you have to actually ask a woman, first?”
Ned turned slightly green as he realized his mistake. “But I thought —”
“We will make a gentleman’s agreement.” She stuck out her hand.
“But you’re not a gentleman.”
“No. However, it is a matter of honor, isn’t it?”
He nodded and took her hand.
“Excellent. You can ask me when you are Captain Ned. However, you’ll have to find me at my address in London. Is that acceptable?” The thought of going back to the city lowered her spirits, but she forced a smile.
“Agreed.” He pumped her hand enthusiastically.
Despite everything, she had been happier here than at any time in London. She liked the country, and she liked doing small, unnoticed things for Miss Leigh. Worse, she would miss Ned. She almost reached out to ruffle his wayward curls.
“I'll find you there, then, when I’m a captain,” Ned stated with confidence.
“Do you not think I might be too old? When you return?”
“Old?” A strange, speculative gleam filled his brown eyes. “How old are you?”
Helen laughed. “Never ask a lady her age. In any event, you may find some other lady on your travels. However, rest assured I will ensure you know where to find me. Just in case.”
He nodded, picking at the eye of a potato with the tip of his paring knife before changing the subject abruptly. “The earl is dead, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I heard them talking about it. He drowned,” he said with obvious relish. “And he deserved it, too.”
“Ned! How can you say such a thing?”
“I’ve heard things about him, things you wouldn’t credit.”
“I’m shocked to hear you say such a thing. I’m sure the earl is not dead —”
“He is! They found his brother dead, too, along with the wreckage of their boat. I heard Mr. Symes talking to cook about it. If you ask me, a sea monster attacked them. That’s wh
y the boat was smashed to bits and it probably ate the earl.”
“You must have misunderstood, Ned. You cannot go about spreading such rumors.”
“I never say a word.” He shrugged and peered up at her briefly. “I went to his room, you know.”
“The earl’s room? Ned, how could you? If you get caught you will be punished.”
“Not his room, his brother’s. That’s why Mr. Caswell is here, you know. To investigate. So I was helping him.”
“He told you to go into Mr. Castle’s bedchamber?”
Ned dropped his gaze and dug more energetically at the potato eye. “I’m helping him, and I found a book — one Mr. Castle was writing.”
“You did not take it, did you?” Please don’t let him be found with Mr. Lionel Castle’s diary. They’d all be tossed out on their ears, if not worse.
“I read it.” When he caught her appalled glance, he blushed. “Parts, anyway, and it’s a wonder the earl wasn’t murdered in his bed.”
“Ned! I’m sure it says no such thing!”
“It does too! He said his brother never listened to anyone —”
“He’s an earl! He does not have to listen — others should listen to him.”
“He’s a proper old tartar. He ordered Lionel, his own brother, to join the church or else! Then he was getting ready to throw their aunt to the wolves.” He smacked his lips over the last word. “Probably gave that sea monster a stomach ache.”
Helen stifled a giggle over the last image, inappropriate though it was. “He was not going to throw Miss Leigh to the wolves. That is a gross exaggeration.”
The table shook as he kicked it. “He was throwing her out,” he insisted.
“She was moving to a smaller house,” Helen admitted with a sinking heart. Ned’s accusation was true, if a trifle colorful. The earl had asked his aunt to move to the Dower House, and Helen sensed Miss Leigh did not want to go.
She probably felt she was being tossed to the wolves. Nonetheless, the earl probably had his reasons, arrogant and insufferable though they obviously were.
“And Lionel owed money — pots of it — to some bad men.”
“What do you mean by that?” She gripped his shoulder.
“It’s in that book. He said he owed more than he could pay. He was afraid the earl would find out. The earl would have done something terrible to him, he said.” He looked up at her with a gasp. “That’s it! The earl found out and murdered him!”
“Nonsense. And I want you to hand me that book immediately.” She held out her hand.
“No.” The table shook and moved six inches as he jammed his foot against a leg.
“Ned! Immediately!”
“Can’t. Don’t have it with me.”
“Then promise me you’ll tell Mr. Caswell and give it to him.”
He remained stubbornly silent, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
“Promise, Ned, or I’ll be forced to tell Mrs. Adams.”
“She’ll kick you out, too, if you do that!”
“Perhaps, but really, Ned, you cannot do things like this.” She knelt in front of him and took his hands. “Promise me you will tell Mr. Caswell. It may be critical to his investigation. I didn’t mean to shout at you, but it is very important. You do see that, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Will you promise?”
“Oh, all right. I’ll give the book to Mr. Caswell.”
“Thank you, Ned.” She stood and picked up another strip of lace. “Now, you had better get back to those potatoes. Cook's pot will be boiled dry before you finish.”
“Good,” Ned said with relish. “Because I'm sick of potatoes.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“ … every man’s station is honourable or otherwise, as his own conduct makes it.” —The Complete Servant
After due consideration, Hugh sent a message to his lawyer, Mr. Petre, and Mr. Gaunt. It was time for Mr. Gaunt to break the news of Lionel's death to those at Ormsby. The last time he had been there, Miss Leigh had only seemed concerned about Lionel, not the earl. Strange, but her fears had proved well-founded. Hugh had survived. Her favorite, Lionel, had not.
Hugh left orders with the footman, Frank, to show Mr. Gaunt into the tiny office off the library allotted to the steward. When Gaunt arrived, the two men shook hands before Hugh waved him to sit in the honey maple chair tucked into the corner next to the desk.
“Any news?” Hugh sat as well, resting an elbow on the scarred surface of the desk. “Have you found the man with the blue jacket?”
“Not yet. No one seems to have recognized him, although everyone agrees he was thin. Like a scarecrow.”
“Then we have nothing.” Hugh stared out of the window and ran his hand over the rough hair of his beard. The urge to leave — take to the seas and never return — struck him. He almost laughed, thinking of Ned's desire to run away to the sea.
What was it about the ocean that made men view it as an escape?
“I have a number of lines of inquiry yet to follow.”
“Ned Brown found my brother’s diary.” He hesitated and then pulled it out of his pocket to hand to Gaunt. “I read a few pages.”
A few sections had been enough for him to discover his brother had resented him and had viewed him as uncaring and obtuse. Lionel, apparently, was not looking forward to life in the church, and instead of applying himself to his studies, he had spent his days and most nights lost in drink and gambling. But the distractions had not helped and his frustration with Hugh had grown.
Why had he not said something? Hugh didn’t care what his brother did, as long as it was something he wanted to do, something he felt passionate about. Unlike Hugh, Lionel had a choice.
Hugh had only had the Twilight. His stomach churned.
“Was there anything you felt would be useful?” Gaunt took the book gingerly, as if he was not sure he wanted it.
“He … gambled. I doubt you will find anything useful, but we need to be sure.”
“Did you refuse to pay his debts?”
Hugh stared at him in surprise. “Never. Why would I do such a thing? He was my brother. I gave him an allowance.”
“Did you ever argue over the money? Did he fear you would not lend him the amount he owed?”
“No, I never even knew he gambled. He never asked for more money.” But Lionel’s journal indicated he had felt Hugh would admonish him if he had known how much his brother had lost. Pride had kept him from asking for more.
Had pride killed him?
“Does he mention who held his debts?”
Hugh shook his head. “Not by name. Honestly, I cannot see that this is relevant, but ….” He waved a hand. If they were to find the truth, they needed to collect all the facts, no matter how irrelevant they may seem.
“I understand. It does seem unlikely. If he owed a large debt, it would be assumed that you might feel obligated to pay it for your brother. Why kill you without even asking for the money first?”
“That’s it, then. I wasn’t unpopular, I had no active enemies that anyone could identify. But obviously there was something.”
“We will discover it, never fear. I have sent a man to France to question Miss Peyton and her lover on the off chance they know something. In the meantime, we will announce your brother’s passing.”
“I hope it shakes something loose. I cannot remain in this role indefinitely.”
“I agree. In fact, it would be far safer if you would leave until I can complete the investigation. Go back to London —”
“No!” Hugh hit the desk with his fist, making it rattle. “I have things to do here and questions of my own to ask. We will continue. If you are worried, then consider that an incentive to find the answers more expeditiously. Now, unfortunately, it is time to let Miss Leigh know about Lionel.”
“And you, my lord?”
“My body has not been found yet, has it? It is enough that the Twilight wreckage and Lionel's body were discovere
d. He must be buried. Let the mystery concerning my whereabouts continue.”
“They will think you are dead.” It’s cruel. Gaunt did not say it, but the words hung in the air all the same.
“All the better.” No more cruel than murder.
“How far should we allow this charade to continue? It would be natural for the will to be read and your heir notified.”
“Petre can delay. I have no objections to the will being read. It is not as if the heir to my title can immediately assume the responsibilities. That will take a few months. You will have answers before then.” He eyed Gaunt's lean, intelligent face with a certain amount of cynicism. While Second Sons had an excellent reputation, that did not guarantee a successful result.
In fact, it was a failure that had ultimately made Hugh pick Mr. Gaunt's agency. Gaunt had failed to restore Lady Beckworth's highly-treasured cook to her, claiming he could not find her. Since it was Hugh who had hired the Beckworth cook away with a hefty increase in salary — and a promise to avoid changing the menu fifty times a day as Lady Beckworth had done — he was grateful to Gaunt for his discretion.
Hugh was reasonably sure that Gaunt was perfectly aware of the cook's whereabouts.
In fact, Hugh had heard rumors that his cook had offered her own inducement to Gaunt not to find her.
Gaunt showed excellent judgment. A quality precious few had.
“May I ask that you join me, my lord, when I speak to your household? I'd appreciate another set of eyes.”
Hugh smiled and nodded, wondering if Gaunt would have asked if he had already read Lionel’s diary. Those who knew him best obviously considered him less than observant.
“I'll introduce you,” Hugh said, considering it. “I'm the house steward. It would be appropriate.”
Gaunt’s face grew longer and more serious. “You should be prepared to cut short your charade after the announcement. It will be hard on them.”
“It was hard on me. They will weather it. I will not argue about it further.” He rose and gestured toward the door. “Let us get this over with.”