He turned toward the cook, hands clasped behind his back. “I have decided to heed Miss Tatum’s advice, Mrs. Lloyd. Indeed, I was up most the night contemplating a great many things, particularly the unique history and architectural design of the abbey.”
“I see.” The cook frowned to see the housekeeper staring rather unpleasantly at the table’s scarred surface. Returning her attention to him, the older woman smiled in a nervous manner. “Would ye like a cup of tea, Mr. Randolph?”
“Thank you, yes.” He sat at the head of the thick oak table. “Tell me, Mrs. Lloyd, is the abbey haunted?”
Although he’d directed the enquiry to the cook, Devlin kept his gaze fixed on the housekeeper. Beneath his scrutiny, the blush upon her cheeks heightened. She wouldn’t look at him, but he’d seen a flicker of curiosity in her eyes at his question.
“Haunted?” Mrs. Lloyd squeaked. “Ye mean as in ghosts?”
He accepted a cup of tea from the cook. “Mind you, I am not given to fanciful musings, but I believe I saw the ghost of a monk last night walking outside my bedchamber.”
“What were you doing outside your bedchamber?”
The accusatory tone in his housekeeper’s voice prompted Devlin to quirk a brow. “If you must know, I was in the process of retrieving a book from the library.”
“Oh,” she whispered.
The ensuing silence proved most intriguing. Without doubt, Mrs. Lloyd had noted the tension between him and the housekeeper. The kindly cook made a concerted effort to prepare breakfast, check on bread baking in the oven and otherwise kept her back turned toward them. At the same time, the beguiling Miss Tatum now appeared determined to stare a hole through the wall, no doubt praying one of them would disappear. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew whom that someone might be.
“Tell me, Miss Tatum, have you ever seen anyone suspicious wandering the halls?”
“No.” Her tone clipped, she still refused to look at him.
Devlin hid his amusement. “No ghosts?”
“I suppose ‘tis possible.” She turned an irritated, narrowed gaze to him. “But since I am not in the habit of wandering the halls at night, I have never seen anyone suspicious.”
“Caw, what’s he doin’ in here?”
“Good day, Miss Darrow,” Devlin said without looking at the maid who seemed determined to ruin his clothing in the laundry.
“Mr. Randolph just told us he saw a ghost last night,” Miss Tatum remarked. “It wandered outside his bedchamber suspiciously.”
“The devil ye say,” Polly exclaimed wide-eyed.
After a cursory glance in his direction, Miss Tatum continued, “Apparently, while going to retrieve a book from the library, he saw the ghost of a white monk walking down the hallway.”
“Caw,” Polly gasped.
“Caw, indeed,” Devlin murmured. “I suspect the ghost wanted to communicate with me about something. Naturally, I followed…” He paused for effect, noting the way all three women stared open-mouthed at him. “Alas, it vanished without a trace.”
No one spoke.
Miss Tatum appeared irritated. The cook and maid looked stricken with terror. Mrs. Lloyd held a shaky hand to her throat whilst Polly’s gaze darted about the kitchen as if she expected a ghost to suddenly appear demanding breakfast.
Unless they were exceptional actresses, Mrs. Lloyd and Polly had no knowledge of their friend’s nocturnal activities, which meant—much to his great disappointment—Miss Tatum deceived not only him, but the friends she loved so well.
“Surely you do not believe him?” Miss Tatum scoffed. “Do you not see what he is trying to do? Mr. Randolph thinks to frighten us with ghost stories. No doubt, he considers this entire conversation quite entertaining. I suspect what he really wants is to take his meals with us rather than continue to dine alone.”
“Do you really think so?” he asked with feigned innocence.
Tossing a dark look his way, Miss Tatum replied, “Yes, I really think so.”
Leaning forward until his face was but a kiss away from her luscious rosebud mouth, he whispered, “I never said it was a white monk, Christiana.”
Never taking his gaze from her, Devlin slowly sat back in his chair then finished his tea, very much aware Polly and Mrs. Lloyd had no idea what he’d just whispered for Miss Tatum’s hearing alone. Judging from the housekeeper’s blooming, rose red coloring, they likely assumed he’d made some flirtatious remark to their friend.
Let them. He now had every reason to believe his suspicions about the beautiful, obstinate, fascinating housekeeper were valid. No ghost walked the halls of Bellewyck Abbey, but mischief and treachery were definitely afoot.
Although impatient for the proof he needed, one part of the puzzle had been solved. The sudden disappearances and appearances of his housekeeper had been explained by the magical presence of a ghostly monk last night. Quite obviously, the ancient abbey must be riddled with secret passageways. Passageways Miss Tatum used to hide from him, and where proof of what he needed to know would likely be found.
“This is ridiculous.” Miss Tatum all but shot to her feet. “There is far too much work to be done to engage in such nonsense.”
“Very well,” Devlin said, and stood. “Where shall we go first?”
“We?”
“As I mentioned before, I have decided to take a more active interest in the daily operations of Bellewyck Abbey. And since you know so much about the estate and all its workings, the best way for me to achieve my goal is to be your shadow.”
“You cannot be serious. You intend to follow me about and watch me work?”
He did nothing more than smile.
She narrowed her eyes at him and spoke through what sounded like clenched teeth. “I prefer to not be alone with you, Mr. Randolph.”
“He can follow me ‘bout and watch me work,” suggested Polly.
Miss Tatum shot the maid an exasperated, somewhat comical, look. “I think it best we each do our own duties—unaccompanied.”
“Ah, but it is imperative I accompany you, Miss Tatum.” He employed his most cajoling manner. “My duty is, after all, to learn as much about this estate as I can. And as you well know, I believe you are the proverbial key to unlocking all the secrets of Bellewyck Abbey.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“No man is a hero to his valet.”
~ Mme. Anne-Marie Bigot de Cornuel
(1614-1694)
Will he never leave me be?
Christiana had deliberately put off cleaning Mr. Randolph’s bedchamber all day, hoping the man would tire of this ridiculous game and grant her some privacy. God knows she didn’t want to be alone with him anywhere near a bed.
As if the steward spy hadn’t been enough of an irritant with his constant questions, he now had the audacity to turn a chair around from its position of facing the fireplace and study her with unrelenting scrutiny. He just sat there, watching her work.
She wanted to scream, or throw some crockery at his head. That might knock the arrogant grin off his face. Then again, if she had her pistol at hand, she might just turn and shoot the beast.
Instead, with another snap of the bed linens, she vowed to ignore his presence altogether.
“Ahem, Miss Tatum, I am still waiting for you to explain how you knew the monk’s habit was white.”
Once finished with her task, she faced him. “What is so odd about my saying ‘twas a white monk? Bellewyck was a Cistercian abbey, Mr. Randolph. A distinguishing fact about the Cistercians is that they wore white robes rather than the brown of the Benedictine order. So, you see, I made a perfectly reasonable remark.”
“Why then are you so flustered?”
“I am not flustered.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Well, if I am flustered ‘tis because you have followed me about all day. And I did not appreciate being forced to take supper with you. You did nothing but stare at me during the entire meal. I know you suspect all manner of treachery. You
made that abundantly clear in the orchard. So, accuse me, and be done with it. What are you waiting for?”
“The truth,” he replied in a quiet voice. “I know you were the mysterious white monk last night. As fate would have it, a unique scent lingered in the air after it vanished. And since you are the only one I know who smells of lemon and rose-scented soap, reason dictates…”
He smiled—that purely masculine, slow, heated smile that melted her insides.
She swallowed hard and tried to concentrate. Unable to look at him, she paced. Her thoughts whirled with any number of possible explanations to thwart his logic.
“Call me intrusive,” he continued in a casual manner. “But I should very much like to know why you wander halls in the dead of night dressed as a monk. I should also like to know where you went, although I have a fairly good idea. Of course, I could try and locate the secret passageway myself, but that might take some time.”
She stopped and looked at him, barely catching her jaw from dropping open. He knew about the secret passageway? Dear God, ‘tis only a matter of time before he starts snooping about, tapping walls, and discovers the Shadow Walk.
The erratic beating of her heart had somehow risen from her chest, and lodged in her throat.
“For all I know a sinister plot may be afoot.” With a speculative gleam in his eye, he added, “I might even wish to participate, if I find it intriguing enough.”
“So, now I am involved in some sinister plot? Do enlighten me, Mr. Randolph.”
“Call me Devlin,” he said with a rakish wink.
“Devlin for devil?”
He chuckled softly. “In actual fact, Devlin is Irish for David.”
“Hah. You are too bold by far if you think I shall ever call you by that name.”
“Am I indeed? Time will tell, but back to the matter at hand. You must realize the reason for my suspicion is because you have a peculiar habit of becoming exceedingly defensive whenever I question you about the estate or the duke’s ward.”
“The duke’s ward?”
“I hasten to remind you; the Duke of Pemberton legally inherited Bellewyck Abbey. As a matter of honor—and until the Lord Chancellor determines otherwise—that inheritance includes temporary guardianship of Lord Bellewyck’s ward. I assure you, His Grace takes such details very seriously.”
Christiana clenched her fists and restrained her temper by a fragile hair. “The Earl of Bellewyck never had a ward. Neither does the duke.”
She noticed from the direction of his intense gaze that, due to her labors making the bed, her white muslin fichu was askew. More to the point, her breasts looked ready to pop out of her gown. Turning away, she repaired her disheveled appearance.
When she once more faced him, she prayed her voice sounded calm and her manner appeared more composed. “You have seen for yourself in all the estate’s accounts that there has never been any reference to, or provisions made, for the care of a ward. Reason dictates that if a ward existed, arrangements would have been made for the care of the child. ‘Tis absurd to think she would be exiled here.”
“Who said the ward was a she?”
The deadly quiet of his voice caused sheer panic to sweep over Christiana like the cutting cold from a mid-winter squall. In an effort to hide her distress, she walked over to the window. “I merely wanted to make a point. Why must you read something into everything I say?”
She fussed with the velvet drape, absently smoothing the faded crimson fabric. “There is no evidence to support Bellewyck ever had a ward.”
“Evidence can be misplaced. And as far as the estate’s accounts not reflecting expenses paid for the care of a ward, books can be wrong.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “So can a Will.”
“True.” With his arms folded against his flat belly and his legs stretched leisurely before him, Mr. Randolph gave every indication of being bored with their conversation. “The rub, my dear, is that Pemberton believes there is a ward.”
They were at an impasse. Damn Pemberton. She faced the devilishly handsome steward, her hands clutched behind her back to better control their shaking. Please God, do not let him ask any more questions. ‘Tis difficult enough to be in the same room alone with him, but now I feel like a cornered animal.
“Tell me about his lordship,” he said.
She blinked at the change of topic. “Tell you what?”
He rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner. “What was he like? How often did he come to Bellewyck Abbey? You said he made Mr. Hartwell train you to be a chimney sweep. Well, I would like to hear what you thought about Lord Bellewyck.”
“Why?”
With a shrug, he replied, “Perhaps it will help me understand why an earl would claim to have a ward when everyone says he did not.”
She looked away, collecting her thoughts. Something on the floor caught her attention. Four clean neck cloths had been scattered beneath the pier glass mirror. She retrieved them and shot Mr. Randolph an exasperated look. “Must you toss these things so carelessly about? Polly’s fingers are raw from laundering and starching them to your absurd satisfaction. She has other duties, you know.”
Devlin almost laughed, but controlled the impulse. An ever vigilant champion for her friends, the enticing Miss Tatum’s condemnation in this instance was entirely justified. How does a man of thirty years admit he hasn’t the patience to tie a cravat properly? Unbeknownst to her, he’d decided this morning—in a fit of frustration—to cease wearing them altogether while at Bellewyck Abbey.
“We were discussing Lord Bellewyck,” he said, determined to guide her back to the subject at hand.
After neatly folding the cravats, she set them down on the dressing table and walked over to stand before the window again. How delicate and pale she looked in profile beside the tall, gothic panes of the bedchamber. Waning sunlight through diamond-shaped Flemish glass formed a surreal altar, and bathed her in a warm glow.
“I saw his lordship but a few times in my life,” she said in a quiet manner. “If you want to know more about him, you should ask someone else.”
“I want your opinion, Christiana.”
She said nothing—not even about him using her given name—and the silence seemed to stretch on endlessly. The woman was truly an enigma. She had strength, intelligence, and a will of iron. Beautiful beyond compare, she could appear provocative as a temptress one moment and innocent as a child the next. He doubted not she was a virgin, but she was also heaven in his arms and extraordinarily sensuous. If only she were not so secretive.
And yet, he might have discovered the reason why.
It happened after her spectral appearance in the corridor last night. He’d returned to his chamber, unable to sleep, and contemplated every conversation with her since arriving at the estate. Pushing aside his attraction, he’d managed to piece together enough unguarded remarks from their ride into the village, their argument in the brewery, and their conversation in the hop garden to glean one recurring truth.
Christiana Tatum considered the people at Bellewyck Abbey her family. She admitted as much in the brewery. In the hop garden, she’d even said she couldn’t walk away from those who needed her. Since he found it difficult to believe her capable of orchestrating any treachery, one logical explanation remained. She protected someone.
Loyalty to one’s friends was an admirable trait—especially in a woman. Point of fact, he’d rarely encountered genuine, sincere compassion amongst women at all. Most females he’d known made a pretense of friendship then preferred to gossip about one another.
“He was not an attractive man.”
It took Devlin a moment to realize she’d answered his question about Lord Bellewyck. He could do nothing more than nod.
“Tall, but not near your height, and quite thin.” Her gaze took on a faraway glint. “Small, dark eyes—much like a rat. He always looked very pale. In truth, he appeared a most sickly looking man.” She directed her gaze to Devlin. “I loath
ed him. Whenever he came to the abbey, I would hide. Then again, so did everyone else.”
“I can see why,” Devlin said under his breath. Now that he knew about the secret passageways, he could well imagine where and how his darling Christiana Tatum had hidden.
“What did your mother think of him?”
“My mother?”
“She was the man’s housekeeper. She must have made some comment about him from time to time—his likes, dislikes, traits.”
“No one was fond of his lordship. He was not a nice man. I suppose the only good thing I can say about Lord Bellewyck is that he rarely came to the estate.”
“Why is that?”
No response.
“Well, I suppose he had his reasons.” He feigned interest in his fingernails yet watched her surreptitiously. “When his lordship came to the abbey, how long did he stay?”
She walked over to the tester bed and sat down—an action he found disconcerting to say the least. Too many nights he’d dreamt of having her in his bed, and now she sat there with her dainty feet dangling over the side—too fetching for words.
His body came alive with need.
Bloody hell, how do I remain objective now?
He gruffly cleared his throat. “I believe that is my bed.”
“Actually, ‘tis the Duke of Pemberton’s bed.” With a tellingly exasperated feminine sigh, she continued, “Well, if you are going to interrogate me, I prefer to be seated. Now then, what was it you asked?”
What was it I asked? How the devil should I know? All I can think about is getting into that bed with her. Using admirable self-control, he focused on their conversation.
“How long did Lord Bellewyck stay when he visited the abbey?”
“No longer than a few days, a fortnight at the most.”
“What did he do during these visits?”
“He took things.”
Devlin narrowed his gaze at the unexpected response. “What things?”
“Anything of value.”
A slow rage burned inside him, try as he might to conceal it from her view. The more he learned about Lord Bellewyck, the more he detested the bastard. If she spoke the truth, which he suspected she did, the earl himself had been responsible for stripping the estate of its valuables. And in just a few moments, he’d also learned there had been a ward at one time—a little girl. The sudden pallor on Christiana’s face had been far too dramatic to be anything but an admission she’d never intended to reveal.
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 15