by Nichole Van
Jane made suitable noises, flinching and gasping in all the correct places.
He adored her for it.
“Worse,” he concluded, “I received word late yesterday that Madsen had passed on shortly after our visit. So there is no hope in thinking he had any more information tae divulge.”
“What will you do?”
He sat back in his chair. “Well, I’ve had a pair of days tae ponder the problem. And it is this simple—who might wish me dead?”
She shook her head, bewildered. “Have you angered a rival Scottish clan?”
Andrew gave a bark of laughter. “Nae, that’s not likely. First, I’m not a Highlander, and the strict clan structure faded long ago in Fife. We’ve already traversed this conversation. Second, Scots tend tae make their grievances in the open. If we have a problem with a man, we’ll go a round or two of fisticuffs until we work out the frustration and then hare off to the nearest pub for a libation together. This slow nurturing of a murderous grudge worked in secret is more of an English trait, I must say.”
Jane attempted to look surprised but gave up and instead shrugged. “You Scots never seem to see us coming, you know.”
Andrew laughed again. “Ye have the right of it.”
“Have you an explanation?”
“Perhaps. I took a step backwards in my questioning and asked—who knew that I was the heir to the Earldom of Hadley? When I ask that question, I always come back to the old earl. He knew of my existence. It’s also obvious that my dearly departed grandfather had a grudge and, perhaps, a vested interest in my demise.”
“The old earl? Truly?”
“Peter, with his impeccable English pedigree, would have been a preferable heir than my Scottish self.” Andrew shrugged. “It’s a place tae start.”
She frowned, brows slanting down.
“Ye dinnae agree with me?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Ye knew the old earl—”
“I agree that the old earl most certainly was the sort to have planned something like this. He had the means and, perhaps, the motivation. But it makes no sense. Why leave you everything if he planned to have you killed?”
“That thought has occurred more than once. It could have been an alibi of sorts, I realized. If he had me as the main beneficiary of his will, then it would be harder to accuse him of wishing me ill if I did pass away under mysterious circumstances.”
“Ah, I think I see . . .” She thought for a moment. “If you were to die anyway, then naming you as the primary heir would not matter. Once you were dead, Peter would inherit regardless.”
Thank heaven for her intelligence. Was it any wonder he liked her so well?
“Exactly.” Andrew spread his arms wide. “So, I decided there was no harm in digging through my late grandfather’s correspondence.”
“I’m assuming you haven’t found anything.”
“Nothing yet. But there is more tae go through.”
“May I help?”
“I was hoping you’d ask.” Andrew shot her a grateful look. “I assume ye can read and understand an account book?”
“Of course. I have been managing the household accounts for years.”
“I ken ye have a quick head for numbers.”
“Perhaps that, too.”
Smiling, he handed her a pile of letters to sift through. His grandfather had at least attempted to bundle letters together. But none of it was particularly orderly. Personal correspondence was stacked next to business inquiries.
The problem, of course, was that nothing pointed to Andrew and his businesses. There most certainly wasn’t any correspondence with Madsen. In all his weeks sorting through the old earl’s affairs, he had yet to see anything unusual. Granted, he hadn’t been looking for anything that connected his grandfather’s affairs with his own, either.
Unfortunately, working side-by-side with Jane proved a further distraction, a delicious sort of torture. The light scent of her perfume eddied through the room whenever she walked to pick up another item to examine. The rustle of papers as she flipped through pages. The soft sigh of her breathing mingling with the ticking clock.
He waited, but she didn’t bring up their kiss. Andrew was adrift, unsure how to act. He knew he shouldn’t mention it. A gentleman wouldn’t say a word. But it was hard to stay silent, particularly as the clock on the mantel ticked on and on.
Each tick into the silence heightened his awareness of her.
Jane did nothing in a large way. But wee signs betrayed her inner world.
A puff of air indicated frustration.
A faint grunt meant she found something interesting.
A soft snick of her lips suggested boredom.
Andrew forced himself not to simply stare at her in fascination.
When had he ever been so besotted?
The silence stretched until it became a living thing, his body vibrating to the slightest movement from her, aching to take her into his arms again. He could practically see the tension in the room, dripping down the walls, hanging from the sconces.
Fortunately, Jane broke the silence before he did something rash.
“I suppose—” She stopped abruptly, tapping her lips.
Andrew forced himself not to stare at her mouth. “Yes?”
“I’ve just thought of something.”
“You have?”
“Oftentimes, the old earl would conduct business at Rosehearth when he wished more privacy.”
“Rosehearth? The old dower house at the edge of the woods?”
“Yes. He didn’t visit Rosehearth much in the final years of his life, but there might be something there. The caretakers can let us in.”
It was a brilliant suggestion. He had visited Mr. and Mrs. Carlton earlier in the month, munching shortbread and taking tea with them.
“Will you accompany me?” he asked. “You seem tae know more about it.”
It was a shameless ploy to spend more time in her company.
“Of course.”
24
Jane couldn’t help the smile on her face, despite the nature of their excursion.
Her mother had given them both disapproving frowns as they drove out, but a stern glance from Andrew had prevented Lady Hadley from saying anything.
Thank goodness.
Simply being with Andrew was stepping out of a prison and into the light.
The sunny May day had turned unseasonably warm, as English spring days did on occasion. The sun decided that it should be summer and sent temperatures soaring.
The day was nearly uncomfortably hot; Jane fanned herself incessantly. Crossing the river brought a breeze of blessedly cool air, but by the time they reached the old quarry, Jane was sweltering again. As they skirted around it, she resorted to removing her gloves, as it was too stiflingly hot with them on. Hadley had chosen not to wear any tartan at all—the day was too warm for extra wool layers—and instead sported a swallowtail coat and top hat, looking every inch the London gentleman.
Jane struggled to decide which she liked more—charmingly Scottish Andrew or urbane Lord Hadley.
They both had their merits. But in her mind, he had become simply Andrew, even though she lacked the courage to call him by his Christian name with regularity. She needed a finger or two of scotch before she did that.
Andrew drove them across the small drawbridge and through the arched entrance into the central courtyard of Rosehearth. Ancient stone flanked age-darkened oak doors and wavy, mullioned windows. Wisteria climbed over one wall of the courtyard, putting on a flashy show of purple blooms.
Mrs. Carlton came out of the house to greet them, her weathered face ringed with cheer.
“Lady Jane! It does a body good to see ye,” she said, dipping a curtsy.
“Mrs. Carlton, it’s always a pleasure.” Jane smiled, nodding her head in return. “We intend to tour the house and see if the old earl left some correspondence here.”
“Of course. Ye’ll be wantin
g to see the library then. His lordship always liked to conduct a spot of business there.”
Jane led Andrew into the house, the cool interior a relief. She removed her bonnet, and he handed off his hat and driving gloves to Mrs. Carlton. The caretaker bobbed another curtsy and said she would prepare some tea and a small luncheon for them.
The entrance hallway was the same as always—rough-cut stone, a worn rug on the floor, dark doors and a beamed staircase leading upwards. As the house was four hundred years old if it was a day, nothing was plumb. Floors dipped and sagged. Windows were askew. Not a single timber remained straight.
Jane adored every nook and cranny of the place.
She led him through the entrance hallway and into the great hall with its imposing stone fireplace and glittering stained glass window. Andrew walked over to inspect the fireplace.
“Ye seem quite fond of Rosehearth,” he noted, running a hand along the fleur-de-lis carvings etched in the stone mantel.
“Yes,” she replied truthfully. “I grew up here.”
That stopped him.
Andrew froze and turned slowly around, staring at her.
“You grew up here? At Rosehearth?”
“Yes. Peter and I,” she all but whispered. “My mother and the old earl were always off in London, entertaining and being seen. I think that they both preferred to forget about us here in the country. When they came down from Town, they always brought guests with them. It was easier for Peter and me to remain here with Nanny Smith, as we were out of the way and never seen. I can’t say that I minded.”
Andrew surveyed the room again, as if seeing it anew. “It appears tae be a lovely, homey sort of place tae grow up.”
“Sometimes I think Nanny Smith was more a mother to me than my own.”
A pause.
“I’m verra glad you had someone like Nanny Smith.” He met her gaze. “Ye need light and love in yer life, Jane. It seems tae be sadly lacking at Hadley Park, if I can be honest.”
Something tight and aching lodged in Jane’s throat. She blinked, once, twice.
“Did you grow up with light and love?” she finally asked.
“Aye, I did. That’s why I know its value. Show me yer Rosehearth, Jane.”
He extended his hand to her. The motion should have been rote, but something in his expression told her otherwise.
This . . .
This was why she cared for this man.
Because he not only saw her. He not only accepted her.
But he also wanted to know more and more of her.
She realized, in that moment, that there was nothing in her so ugly or unwelcome that Andrew wouldn’t extend his hand, asking to listen and understand.
He would accept her without judgment.
Oh.
Could anyone ever ask for more than that from a fellow human being? To understand and be understood in return?
It was a gift without price.
Tentatively, Jane reached out, her bare palm sliding across his. Logically, one simple touch shouldn’t have the ability to spark a fire atop every nerve in her body, and yet here was scientific proof of it. His skin was shockingly warm and smooth, enveloping her hand with quiet strength.
He threaded his fingers through hers, holding tightly.
A small smile tugging at her lips, Jane led the way through the rest of the ground floor—the small receiving room, the dining room, the breakfast room. Their hands clasped the entire time.
All the while, Jane talked about growing up here with Peter. Their endless games of tag, keeping a menagerie of pets including a fox, hunting for a suspected priest hole left over from the Reformation era, and pinching cheese and bread from the larder in midnight raids. Peter had been the first to bring her interesting rocks from the old quarry. Jane had been the one to sit at his bedside for days when a particularly virulent fever swept the neighborhood.
Upstairs, she led him through the long gallery, which ran the entire length of the south wing, windows regularly lighting the space, a large oriel window at one end.
“Peter and I would race here.” She pointed to the worn jute mats. “Sometimes just foot races, but once we sneaked our ponies up from the stables.”
Andrew laughed. Not a polite chuckle, but a head-back, eyes-shut, white-teeth-flashing, belly-rumbling sort of laugh.
“I would have paid a wee fortune tae see such a sight. Something tells me Nanny Smith didn’t appreciate having horses in her house, ponies or no.”
“She did not. I think Peter and I had to eat bread and milk for a week.”
“Ye were a rare pair, the two of ye.”
“We were.” Jane was quite sure her eyes shone with fondness. She cleared her throat. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for helping Peter, for forcing him to shoulder some responsibility. It’s been lovely to watch him grow over the past several weeks.”
“Och, the lad was fair brimming with stifled energy. I simply nudged him in the right direction—”
“Nudged? Don’t you mean ‘dragged kicking and screaming’?”
“Perhaps,” he chuckled, “but regardless, Peter will fill his role well, I ken.”
“Not everyone would have taken the time to help him find a place, so thank you.”
Andrew looked at her, something fond and gentle shining in his gaze “Think nothing of it.”
Jane bit her lip before turning her head away. The tenderness in Andrew’s eyes was causing feathery feelings to build in her chest again.
She waved them on to the library. It was a magnificent space, dominated by a fireplace on one side and a bank of mullioned windows on the other. From everything Jane understood about the house, the library was actually a medieval lord’s Great Chamber—the place where he would listen to tenants’ complaints and mete out local justice. White plasterwork dotted the ceiling with carved wood paneling on the walls. A cozy sofa and chairs crowded around the fireplace while a desk stood in front of the windows. Bookcases lined one of the walls.
Jane breathed in the space, the singular smell of woodsmoke, books, and lavender which would forever say ‘home’ to her heart.
She told him of reading Robinson Crusoe to Peter late into the evening, tucked together on the window seat. She pointed to the small scorch marks in the carpet before the fire, relating a comical incident involving toasted cheese that went awry.
And then Jane found herself telling him about Montacute, about the tumble into the river, and her subsequent humiliation. The end of her idyllic life here at Rosehearth.
“Do you miss that carefree wee lass?” he asked when she was done.
“More than I can say,” she whispered, blinking as the room turned blurry. She bit her lip for long seconds before raising her head.
Andrew stared at her, his eyes still holding that gentle fondness.
“I like ye at Rosehearth, Jane,” he said at last. “Ye appear tae be yerself here. Less Lady Jane and more simply . . .”
“Jane?” she supplied.
“Aye.”
That tight feeling returned to her throat.
How did Andrew do this? How did he see through her barriers so easily? Once again, she felt that tug, that sense of homecoming—soul-to-soul.
It was finding the other half of her and finally being able to breathe freely.
Of finally, at last, being whole.
Andrew ached for Jane, for the spirited girl who had been so thoroughly tamed and bridled.
Her revelations over the morning had been . . . revelatory.
Not misreading his expression, Jane sucked in a deep breath. “Well, I do believe I have reached my allotment for maudlin conversation today. Shall we begin our search?”
Andrew nodded, turning away from Jane before he did something impulsive himself, like kiss her again. He longed to comfort her, to pull her close, and soak his soul in her sorrow, allow her to release her anguish into his shoulder.
Would that he had that right.
Images rushed through him
.
Jane laughing with him, feet tucked underneath her, chin resting on her hand. Jane cuddled into his arms, arguing mineralogy in her crisp, aristocratic voice. Jane handing him a wee babe with her eyes and shock of red hair—
Heaven help him.
He was sinking fast.
He ached for that future.
His Jane would be free. Somehow, Andrew would see to it. And if she chose to marry him at the end of it, so much the better.
He pushed the thoughts aside. He would plot his strategy later this evening. For now, he would enjoy the luxury of being in Jane’s company.
She fetched a key from an Italian vase on the mantelpiece and unlocked the drawers of the desk.
“You certainly know your way around this room,” he said.
“I was an inquisitive child, and the old earl was a creature of habit.”
Andrew lifted bundles of papers, letters, and several jotters onto the desk surface.
“Shall we?” he motioned toward the stack. Jane nodded and sank into the desk chair. Andrew pulled another chair over to sit beside hers, a little closer than propriety dictated, but much farther apart than he wanted.
Elbow to elbow, they began to sort through the papers, making the occasional comment.
Unlike the financial records at Hadley Park—which had benefited somewhat from the organizational efforts of the earl’s steward—the documents here were in absolute chaos. Letters from stewards about farming investments were mingled with solicitor’s requests for funds and creditor’s demands for payment.
The documents in Hadley Park painted a picture of an earl who was not prosperous but neither on the brink of despair.
The records here told a different story. It was obvious fairly quickly that the Caribbean Affair was simply the tail end of a lengthy series of poor investment choices. The earldom had been in trouble for many years. The Caribbean Affair of 1814 had simply been a last bid effort to recoup finances.
“So many bad decisions,” Andrew finally said, sorting another report of a failed canal scheme.
“How did the earldom have any money at all in the end, I wonder?”
“Hadley Park is just prosperous enough. It’s the only thing that kept him afloat.”