by Allison Lane
He stopped at the apothecary for a tin of tooth powder while his mind fretted over the problem. He hated to see her reduced to servitude. She had always been so full of life.
Yet he could see no alternative. She could not return to Fields House, for Peter might yet lose the estate. Moving in with her guardian was likewise impossible, for Mr. Barry was a widower who lived in a small cottage in Exeter. And staying in service would break her spirit. Too many employers abused their companions. At least teaching would afford her a modicum of control over her life. If only she had enough money to live quietly without relying on the good will of others.
Of course, amassing as much as she had was a minor miracle. If not for her inheritance—
New questions lashed through his mind. The estate ledger had mentioned neither trusts nor any income since Sir Nigel had sold some hay in early August, so how had he replaced Chloe’s dowry? And why had a man obsessed with details made no ledger entries for two weeks? Could he have changed that much?
Andrew doubted it, which meant Sir Nigel had deliberately kept the transactions secret. Having blamed his financial woes on Peter’s gaming, perhaps he’d begun hiding money. Did he keep a second ledger – the real ledger – hidden? Was that what Peter was seeking?
Another possibility was that Sir Nigel had quit keeping a ledger at all and stopped using a bank. Hiding cash in the house would prevent Peter from learning about a windfall. But the least hint of such a hoard would invite intruders, putting Sally and the other servants in danger.
Chloe might know if Sir Nigel had any secret hiding places. They needed to talk anyway. Laura’s casually cruel sniping made it vital that she quit immediately. If William had misjudged the situation, then Laura might be worse than even Kevin had claimed.
George Truitt nearly ran him down as he left the apothecary.
“Behind schedule?” Andrew asked. The male Truitts should have reached Seabrook by now.
“Badly.” George shook his head. “Father just dispatched a footman to Seabrook. If I’d known you were in town, I could have saved him the trouble.”
“Problems?” Andrew stepped aside to let a formidable dowager pass.
“A business emergency. Ashley took a fall while hunting last week,” he explained, naming his father’s partner. “He’ll be all right, but his head is still fuzzy, so Father must see to anything important. But we should be at Seabrook by Thursday.” He frowned.
“Miss Truitt will be disappointed, though I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“Perhaps, though I wanted to join her before Miss Seabrook arrives.” His face darkened in embarrassment. “Pardon me. That came out badly.”
“It matters not. Why should Miss Truitt need protecting? Even Laura can’t object to her brother’s choosing a wife.”
George relaxed. “Perhaps you don’t know about last year.”
“Obviously not.” But Andrew’s heart sank. What had Laura done now?
“Miss Seabrook spread lies accusing Martha of secret liaisons with Jasper Rankin before he was banished to the Caribbean. Martha protested, but everyone turned against her. Even Lord Seabrook stopped calling. It was weeks before he resumed his courtship. Martha was heartbroken.”
“You have proof that Laura was behind the tales?” he asked, though he recognized the tactic. She’d done the same thing in London during her Season.
“Yes. Mrs. Telcor discovered the truth in the end.”
Andrew let out a wretched sigh. “Despicable, but I doubt that William heard the tales.” William often became so immersed in estate matters that he spoke to no one. And he was rather slow at times. But whether William had snubbed Martha or not, Andrew could at least ease George’s anger. “You should understand that William is very methodical when making decisions. And he was badly burned by a scheming chit several years ago. It sounds as though he considered this commitment quite thoroughly before passing the point of no return. He has never mentioned Laura’s machinations, so I suspect he knows nothing about them. But I will watch her when she arrives. I’ll not tolerate scheming.”
“Thank you.” George bade him farewell, then hurried toward his office.
Andrew shook his head. Why the devil had William invited Laura to this house party? It made as much sense as inviting a fox into the hen house. Two years at Moorside had failed to instill humility or family loyalty or any other virtue. William must accept the truth.
He headed for the White Hart, only to be stopped by Mrs. Telcor, Exeter’s chief gossip. He nearly groaned aloud.
“I heard you called at Fields House just after poor Sir Nigel died,” she began, giving him no time to respond to her greeting. “What a horrible accident.” But her eyes gleamed.
“Yes. It is dangerous to wander about at night without a candle.”
“Most of us can manage the feat. But surely he did not die of a simple fall. I heard that his wife’s ghost was chasing him.”
“I’m sure you would never believe anything so silly.” She might, though. She sought scandal everywhere, always repeating her tales in the most sensational manner possible.
“Then maybe young Peter pushed him.”
“That is a very serious charge, Mrs. Telcor. Have you any reason to believe it?”
“You can hardly deny he is a cad,” she snapped. “His gaming ruined Sir Nigel.”
“That may be, but it is a long way from reckless gaming to pushing a man down the stairs. Nor does the evidence support it. Sir Nigel clearly tripped over a table. Peter was at the Golden Bull at the time.”
“So he says. But what was to stop him from slipping away long enough to do the deed? The men who frequent the Bull would slit their own throats before crossing a friend. Peter has no honor, and everyone knows he is desperate for money – and doesn’t care how he acquires it. He stole my pearls last week. And I’m not his only victim. Scheming for his inheritance is no worse.”
“Sir Nigel’s estate is too small to tempt anyone,” said Andrew stiffly, despising her lurid speculations even as he had to consider them. “It consists mostly of debts. But what is this about stolen pearls? Why have I heard nothing of your loss?”
“I should never have allowed him in the house.” She shook her head. “And there is no chance to recover anything. He likely sold them the same day. I reported the theft to Lord Rankin when he returned from Bath last Saturday, but he bade me to remain silent. Claimed I’d no proof young Peter took the necklace, as I’d had a dozen callers that day. He even accused me of mislaying the thing myself, if you can believe it.”
“He has doubtless seen others make that mistake,” Andrew said soothingly, grateful she hadn’t called on William with her problem. “As magistrate, he has seen many oddities, so it was a reasonable question despite your long acquaintance. And I’m sure he questioned anyone who might have purchased such a necklace. If it hasn’t turned up, there is little else he can do.”
“Hmph! I should have consulted Lord Seabrook instead. It would have made him more aware of Peter’s character.”
“I will mention it to him, but it won’t change his findings. The death was clearly an accident.”
She dropped the subject. “You seem recovered from your injury.”
“As good as new. I’ll return to duty soon.”
“Will you join the duke in Paris or go elsewhere?” she asked, curiosity and a thirst for the latest news again brightening her voice.
He was debating whether to mention India and thus trigger a lengthy discussion, when two ladies emerged from the confectioner’s shop.
“Will you look at that?” Mrs. Telcor exclaimed. “Miss Collier has risen from her sickbed! And without even telling me!”
“You’d best congratulate her before she has a relapse,” he suggested quickly, eager to escape. “I must return home.”
“Yes. Of course. Give my regards to your family.” And she was off.
Andrew ducked into a side street and hurried to the White Hart. How did his new information f
it the incidents at Fields House? Was Peter really a thief? And why was Weedell so determined to sell the estate? Was there a fortune tucked away inside its walls?
He needed to talk to William.
* * * *
Lord Grayson poked his head into Andrew’s room, hoping the captain had returned from his errands. But the room was empty.
Accustomed to achieving all goals, Gray had been frustrated ever since Andrew had turned down his request to design the new Rothmoor Park. Granted, he had spent little time with this brother-in-law, but Mary had confirmed his initial impressions, adding new information gleaned from Andrew’s letters.
Andrew did not belong in the army. There was no denying that he did his job well – both promotions had been for merit, for he’d never had the funds to purchase higher rank – but Andrew’s temperament was unsuited to war. It was a miracle he’d retained his sanity through the bloodiest battles of the Peninsular conflict. His regiment always seemed to be involved in the heaviest fighting.
Mary’s most interesting revelation was that Andrew often wrote about buildings. He rarely mentioned battles or even people, but his descriptions of buildings were almost poetic. He’d obviously studied them, looking beneath the surface decoration to find the buildings’ souls. The idea had intrigued Gray even before the incident in the old wing.
After watching Andrew dash off a sketch and elevation nearly as detailed as an architect’s final drawing, Gray was convinced that he had the skill and vision to become a renowned designer. Andrew might dismiss that sketch as a trifle, but Gray recognized the understanding that produced both elegant rooms above-stairs and efficient offices below. Yes, Andrew knew this house well, but few in his position would catalog its shortcomings. And fewer would consider solutions. Andrew had done both.
A sketchbook on the washstand caught his eye. Stifling any guilt at prying, he opened it, then nodded in satisfaction. Validating his instincts was always rewarding.
A lump blocked his throat as he skimmed detailed elevations of Spanish villas, French chateaux, and a dozen cathedrals. There were rapid sketches of English manors done from memory or imagination. He suspected the latter. They were brilliant. Notes indicated stress calculations, construction techniques, and embellishments.
Tucking the book under his arm, he headed for his room and summoned his secretary.
* * * *
Peter Fields closed the last drawer in his mother’s wardrobe and cursed. He’d turned the house upside down without luck.
His mother’s suite always made his skin crawl. All her clothes remained. Her sewing bag spilled its contents across a chair. The place had become a shrine to an image that had never existed.
He stifled anger at his father’s obsession. Not once had the man admitted that his wife’s sweet innocence had been pretense. In truth, she had ignored her children and manipulated her husband. The only argument she’d lost in her life had been over Kevin’s commission. In revenge, she’d snubbed her husband, refusing to speak to him again. Chloe was wrong to attribute her withdrawal to grief. It was pique, pure and simple. And a determination to make her husband pay for ignoring her. Not that it mattered.
Where was the bastard’s hiding place?
Stomping back to his room, he pulled the journal from beneath the mattress and again read that tantalizing July entry. Shocked … blatant fraud … must pay … demand recompense for my trouble…
Blackmail. That explained those despicable trusts as well as the odd sums of money he’d produced recently. It even explained his expectation of an imminent windfall. But the man had been a fool. Multiple demands invited retribution. If he hadn’t tumbled down the stairs, they would have killed him.
Damn it! Where had he hidden them?
He cursed himself for not reading the journal sooner. But he hadn’t thought to check it until learning about the trusts. Then the burglary had prevented him from reading it until this morning.
Now he knew why the intruder had been so destructive. Had the man recovered the letters?
“They have to be here,” he murmured groggily. If they’d found the damnable things, they would have left immediately. Yet every room had been thoroughly searched.
He shivered. The letters constituted his only inheritance. With a mortgage payment due on Monday, he was desperate.
But perhaps the actual letters didn’t matter. He had a name and a general idea of the letters’ contents, so he could bluff. He needed money too badly to quibble about the source.
Jacob held two thousand of his vowels, and Woods held another three hundred. Never had his luck been so bad. The bank wouldn’t accept shares in the Gray Gull in lieu of the mortgage. Nor would they extend the due date.
So the letters were the only commodity he had left. But he wouldn’t make the same mistake as his father. One request. No more. Ten thousand would pay his debts, cover this year’s mortgage payments, and buy time to rebuild. And maybe that ship would come in after all.
* * * *
Andrew returned to Seabrook, his head spinning with duties. He had to talk to William. Tomorrow he would arrange time alone with Chloe to make sure she understood the consequences of buying a cottage. Once that was done, he must keep Laura from embarrassing the family and insulting their guests.
The drive had given him time to consider his sister. Laura had probably meddled in William’s courtship to make him miserable. She hated seeing others happier than she. Or perhaps it was one of her petty revenges. By the time William had begun courting Martha, Laura had been at Moorside long enough to become bored and lonely. She would have convinced herself it was William’s fault. But whatever her reasons, her failure would make her more determined to succeed the next time.
If William weren’t so stubborn, he would have left Laura at Moorside this week. Now Andrew must figure out how to prevent her from marring the occasion. And he had to protect Chloe from her spite if he succeeded.
It was enough to make Waterloo seem like a romp in the park.
William met him at the door. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I had business in Exeter. Did Fields House send for you again?”
“No, thank God. I am truly tired of questioning that pitiful staff. I doubt anyone will stay if there is new trouble.”
“Sally and Gramling already plan to leave.”
When they reached the library, William poured drinks, then produced Andrew’s sketch of the old wing. “Martha loves this, and I must admit that it sounds interesting. To sleep without drafts…” He laughed. “We tried to arrange the rooms in a convenient way, but neither of us can manage. Would you help?”
“Gladly, though you will need a builder to do the final design.”
“Understood.”
Andrew also understood. William would save money if Andrew did the preliminary design, assuaging his guilt over the cost. “Let her do this, Will,” he murmured. “She doesn’t care a fig that her father is wealthier than you, and she would live in a hovel if that were all you had to offer. But don’t make her live poorly because you are too stubborn to make her comfortable.”
“I know.” He pulled out a sketchpad. “This is what we came up with, but it doesn’t look right.”
“Let’s draw it to scale and see how it works. Are these the rooms you want?”
William nodded.
“You’ve left out the servants’ stairs and the butler’s pantry. And you should add a morning room to catch the early sunlight. Putting the drawing room on the west side means it won’t seem welcoming until afternoon.” Grabbing a pencil, he set to work.
Excitement built as he sketched plans. Creating something that would outlast him almost made up for the death and destruction of battle. And since this would be his only chance to design, he would make it elegant and strong, with enough innovation to make William the envy of all who visited.
* * *
Chapter 8
Wednesday
Chloe set the last trunk
by the front door, relieved that Laura had not questioned why she was packing her entire wardrobe for a five-day visit.
“Are you ready?” she asked Laura, who was listlessly turning pages in a book. Chloe had dressed her in a carriage gown that morning, but Laura never went out without half an hour of debate over gloves, fans, reticules, and bonnets.
“I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not going,” Laura snapped. “I will not bless a union with that disgusting merchant. Nor will I watch William drag the family name into the mud.”
“You have no choice. Lord Seabrook’s carriage will be here shortly,” Chloe responded, battling exasperation. Her plan to wear down Laura’s objections had died along with her father. Laura had used her absence to fortify her determination and hone her complaints. “How long can you stay at Moorside without his support? He controls both of your trusts and can reduce your income anytime he chooses.”
“You’re lying!” Laura whipped around to face her. “The money is mine. Mine!”
“That is true, but it is in trust, so you can’t touch it without your guardian’s permission. Dress the truth however you like to nosy Parkers like Mrs. Tubbs, but don’t twist facts with me. Lord Seabrook was very frank when he hired me. So far he is turning over all the trust income for your use. But he can change his mind whenever he chooses.”
“He lied. I can do whatever I want. No one can ever force me to follow silly rules again.”
“Wrong.” Andrew was right: Pandering to Laura’s conceit merely encouraged her. “No one can act with impunity, Miss Seabrook. Not me. Not you. Not even the Regent. When Napoleon broke the rules, the world rose en masse to punish him. In your case, Lord Seabrook controls where and how you live. He could place bounds on your behavior that are even stricter than society’s rules, and no one would stop him. So far he has been more lenient than most guardians, but he will take you in hand if you flout his orders. So you’d best prepare to leave. The carriage—”