Lord Avery's Legacy

by Allison Lane

  “My God!” breathed Michael. “Those things must be worth a fortune!”

  “Probably not, but they will certainly serve as insurance against disaster. What do you have?”

  A key dangled in the casket’s lock. Whoever had left it in the priest’s hole had trusted the location alone to guard his possessions. Michael lifted the lid and gasped.

  “I don’t believe it,” she swore, lifting a heavy pendant redolent with rubies from the pile of jewelry that filled the box.

  Michael removed a leather bag from one corner and tipped it up. Gold coins rolled across the carpet.

  “Who do you think left them there?” he asked in awe.

  She picked up the nearest coin and stared at it. “Charles. No number, so he must have been the first. At a guess, whoever owned the property back then hid his valuables before going to war. Many men died fighting Cromwell, and many estates changed hands when it was over.”

  “How much do you think this is worth?”

  “A tidy sum. You can attend the university and provide a dowry for Alice. You need no longer fear the future.” She relaxed with the words. Her nights of worry were over. What a day!

  She had just recalled Carrington’s draft when Mary shrieked. But before either of them could move, Darksmith appeared in the doorway, a cocked pistol held in a steady hand.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What is it, Cawdry?” asked Richard.

  He had been ready to leave for Winter House when his secretary sent word to meet him in the library. Such a demand was unusual enough to warrant delaying his departure.

  He was still reeling from the morning’s revelations, shocked at Lady Avery’s charges and appalled at the childish retaliation she had pursued for so many years. Poor deluded woman. She had wasted her own life and made Gareth’s a misery over a misunderstanding that could have been put right in an instant if she had only faced her husband with her suspicions. But the Avery weakness left her unable to confront trouble. Instead, she had turned on the Wingraves. Had she expected Laura to punish Gareth for revealing their liaison? If so, she had failed. Gareth had not cared that she shunned him and had not even connected her antipathy to the affair that had ended years earlier. Mathilda’s futile hatred had hurt only the innocent.

  He needed to atone for what his family had done. Reimbursing Penelope for Gareth’s damage was not enough—

  He frowned. She had not mentioned his bank draft at the assembly, though Cawdry had delivered it some hours earlier. He had been so wrapped up in other thoughts that he had not noticed. How strange.

  But he had no time to ponder her odd reticence. Suppressing renewed visions of the woman he loved, he took a seat behind the desk.

  Cawdry laid a sheaf of papers before him. “The report on Mr. Darksmith, my lord.”

  Richard tensed. For Cawdry to summon his employer from other business, the news must be bad indeed. “He seemed to be shunning Millicent’s company last night. Or is he merely biding his time until I leave Tallgrove?”

  “Neither.” His voice was unusually solemn.

  That familiar sense of dread crept across his back as Cawdry’s frown deepened. “Is it that bad?”

  “He is more of a charlatan than you feared, being the son of an Exeter innkeeper. He was born John Dougan but has publicly gone by Darksmith since leaving home twenty years ago.”

  “Where did he acquire the accent and manner of the upper classes?”

  Cawdry sighed. “He is a gifted mimic. The Golden Stag caters to polite society, so he had ample opportunity to observe his betters. I suspect that he made the acquaintance of Lord Avery there, for his lordship frequented that inn whenever he visited Exeter. He was playing cards there the night of his death.”

  “I thought he died here.”

  Cawdry’s face and voice remained wooden. “Lady Avery did not consider the circumstances of his demise to be proper for a lord.”

  “Surely he did not die in someone’s bed!”

  “No, but he had been drinking heavily and fell from his horse while returning home. His doctor had repeatedly warned him against overindulging in wine or exertion, but he evidently tried to finish the journey on foot and collapsed by the roadside. The groom sent out when the horse returned riderless found him.”

  “That is nothing to be ashamed of. But what does my uncle’s death have to do with Darksmith?”

  “They had played cards together that evening. Lord Avery was well into his cups when they started, for he had already spent six hours in the taproom with friends before meeting Darksmith. According to the serving wench, he had been maundering on about finding a lost fortune. She saw Darksmith draw him into a private parlor where he goaded Lord Avery for details of the story. His lordship had a paper that he would not show anyone, yet no paper was found on his body. I assume Darksmith filched it.”

  “By following him and stripping the corpse?”

  “I doubt it. A man of his proclivities would have removed Avery’s purse as well.”

  “And what exactly are his proclivities?”

  “Nothing honest, though his father believes that he works in a solicitor’s office. He has run local scams under several aliases and probably has identities in other cities as well, though I have not tried to trace them. He is often out of town on business.”

  “We will leave that to the runners. What could Gareth have meant about finding a fortune?” he murmured, half to himself. “There is no fortune. Yet that confirms my suspicion that Darksmith is nought but an adventurer. Millicent’s naïve claims would have confirmed his expectations.” He bit his lip. “That’s why he avoided her last night. He must have learned that her dowry is not large enough to set up a man who starts with nothing.”

  “Less than nothing. He is in thrall to the moneylenders to the tune of ten thousand.”

  “That is five times Millicent’s dowry. Why then did he return?”

  “I do not know,” admitted Cawdry.

  His blood suddenly ran cold. Darksmith had been courting favor with the Wingraves at the assembly. As Penelope had observed, he was so anxious to attach them that his insincerity showed. Were his creditors pressing him for repayment? But that made no sense. No one would expect the Wingraves to cover a ten-thousand-pound debt.

  He frowned as he skimmed the report. Cawdry had been thorough, as usual. Darksmith had skirted the law for years, though he was cunning enough to avoid being caught. Mr. Dougan had accepted John’s change of name without argument after the boy refused to learn the innkeeping business. His stint in the solicitor’s office had lasted barely a month, though Dougan did not know that his son had been let go. Since then, Darksmith had lived by his wits. Now seven-and-thirty, he often spent an evening at the Golden Stag. But he never acknowledged a connection with the innkeeper, and few of the inn’s servants knew of the relationship. Nor did its patrons. Darksmith was a cardsharp who had fleeced several customers, and a growing number of guests had been robbed. This last problem was causing custom to fall off, particularly among the aristocrats, threatening the future of the inn. Dougan did not suspect his son, for Mortimer routinely charmed his parent into believing falsehoods. But with fewer wealthy pigeons available, his own finances had taken a turn for the worse. He could run his rig only sparingly at other inns without risking detection from less credulous innkeepers. To maintain his pretense of profitable employment, he had fallen into the hands of the moneylenders.

  Richard set the pages back on the desktop and ran his fingers through his hair. Something did not ring true. How could Gareth claim to have found a fortune when no evidence supported such a notion? And nothing explained Darksmith’s recent attentions to the Wingraves.

  “Summon Millicent,” he ordered. Perhaps she knew something Cawdry had missed.

  * * * *

  Millicent’s face was chalk-white as she confronted her guardian across the desk.

  “I won’t eat you,” Richard assured her. “But a problem has arisen that I need help resolv
ing.”

  “What is it, my lord?”

  “You have been deceived through no fault of your own. But until I understand why, there is little I can do to prevent further trouble.”

  “By whom?”

  He handed her the report on Mortimer.

  The moment she saw his name, her eyes flashed. “How dare you treat a gentleman like a common criminal?” she demanded.

  “Part of the job of a guardian is to check the backgrounds of those courting his ward,” he reminded her. “Even gentlemen of known breeding often hide poverty or unsavory habits behind elegant facades. I can name a dozen lords who use public charm to conceal private abuse. Read it.”

  She snorted in disgust, but complied. The moment her eyes widened in horror, he walked to the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he gazed over the formal gardens. Her murmurs changed from irritation to pain and finally to blazing fury. “Innkeeper’s son … debts … cardsharp … robberies … seduction?” The last was shouted directly at him.

  “Yes, he often accepts loans from women he has seduced.”

  “Dear God, how could I have been so stupid?” she wailed. The pages drifted to the floor as she covered her face with her hands. “All night I agonized because my forward conduct had given him a disgust of me. How many tears have I shed over a man who was playing me for a fool? And I am! He seemed so nice! And so understanding.”

  “The stock in trade of a successful libertine, Millicent.” Despite her shaking shoulders, he could not postpone the discussion that could only hurt her more. “This is not going to be pleasant, but I must know all the details of your liaisons, my dear. Was there anything beyond indiscretion?”

  “Yes … no … I don’t know,” she sobbed.

  He handed her a handkerchief. “This was not your fault,” he repeated firmly. “But I cannot safeguard your reputation unless you tell me what threatens it. Now I know that he kissed you.”

  “How?” Red eyes jerked up to meet his gaze.

  “I came upon you in the folly just after he left, you might recall. The look is unmistakable.”

  She blushed until her face matched her eyes. “Yes, he kissed me. Several times.”

  “Did he touch you?”

  She nodded, dropping her head until he could see only her hair.

  “Where?”

  “My face, my arms, my shoulders—” Her voice trailed off, her hands again covering her eyes.

  “Continue,” he ordered gently.

  “M-my b-breasts,” she whispered.

  “Anything else?”

  Her head shook.

  “So he merely loosened your gown. He did not remove it.”

  She nodded.

  “Was eloping your idea or his?”

  “Dear Lord! How did you find out about that?”

  “Miss Wingrave overheard you. She will not reveal it, but never again forget that a ballroom is full of ears.”

  “How can I ever face her?”

  “With poise. Whose idea was it, Millicent?”

  “Mine.”

  “He never suggested it?”

  “He often hinted at marriage, but he refused to elope. His sudden coldness seemed odd until you told me how forward I had been. How could I have been so gullible?” New sobs wracked her body.

  “It is over, Millicent. We will put it behind us and move ahead. Count your blessings. You are luckier than many who fall prey to a determined seducer. Your virtue is intact, your indiscretions will never become public, and you have learned a valuable lesson about the danger of secret liaisons. He claimed to love you, did he not?”

  “He swore so.” She hiccupped.

  “And you would have allowed him further liberties if he had asked for them.”

  Shame reddened her face as she nodded. “I loved him. He was everything I ever hoped to find in a husband. And I trusted him. How mortifying!”

  “I am not angry with you,” he again assured her. “If only all of life’s lessons exacted so small a price. But I must know what he wanted. Did he ever inquire about your dowry?”

  She frowned in thought. “No. We never spoke of money.”

  “Never?”

  “He spoke only of me – my beauty, my charm…” Her voice trailed away amid vivid blushes.

  “What reason did he give for being here?”

  “The same tale he told you at tea that day.” She bit her lip as another sob shook her body. "Sir Reginald St. Juste claims that Mortimer’s estate belongs to him because the original sale was not legal. M-Mortimer was looking for proof. He said that Father had found it. Since the official records were destroyed, he needed to see the ledger.”

  “What ledger?” His heart was pounding. Had Darksmith’s purpose been to gain access to the house? But nothing was missing that he knew of.

  “He asked to see the 1620 ledger. In those days, the people who owned his estate also owned ours. When his was sold, the transaction was recorded here. I tried to find the reference, but I could not read the words.”

  “Most records were kept in Latin back then,” he said absently as his mind raced. 1620. Tallgrove would still have been in the hands of Lord Chesterton. But Chesterton had left no heir, and Cromwell had confiscated the estate. It was too far-fetched to believe that St. Juste was somehow related to that ancient family. “Why would Sir Reginald care about an estate in Yorkshire that was sold nearly two hundred years ago?”

  “When you phrase it like that, it sounds ridiculous,” she agreed, shuddering. “But it seemed so reasonable when Mortimer explained it. Sir Reginald is horrid. Jeremy Jacobson claims that he shoots anyone who sets foot on his estate. He cut Miss Partridge dead last month for no worse crime than wishing him a good day. Trying to steal another man’s estate would be nothing for him.”

  “Actually, I have met the man. He is a scholar who wants only to pursue his studies. I doubt he knows anything about his own estate let alone anyone else’s, for he spends his days immersed in ancient Greece.”

  “But why is he so surly?”

  “You have run afoul of him, I see.” He smiled. “Sir Reginald hates both women and children and eschews most social contacts. But that does not make him a villain. I suppose Darksmith was kissing you when he made his request.”

  She nodded.

  “Classic seduction technique – inflame the passions until desire drives reason into hiding, at which point the victim will agree to anything.” And didn’t he know it. His own reason fled every time he saw Penelope. “That is another lesson you should remember. But enough of the past. Let us get the ledger and discover Darksmith’s game.”

  Millicent paled. “It is not here,” she admitted in a small voice.

  “What?”

  “He borrowed it, but has not yet returned it. I planned to ask him about it last night, but I had no chance.”

  “Did you give it to him that day you were in here?”

  She nodded. “The ledger was not in the office. I had just found it when you arrived.”

  “But you had nothing in your hands.”

  “I shoved it behind that cabinet,” she admitted, shrinking into her chair. “I retrieved it later and left it in the folly, expecting him to return it within a day or two, but I did not see him again until last night. Dear God, what have I done?” Her voice broke.

  Richard wandered over to glance behind the cabinet, his mind stupidly expecting the missing ledger to still be there. It wasn’t, of course, but something gleamed in the dim light. Retrieving the poker, he fished it out.

  “What is that?” asked Millicent nervously.

  “Some notes your father made.” He recognized the handwriting. “They must have fallen out when you dropped it.”

  “Why would Father have been interested in so old a record?” she asked. “If Mortimer was lying about everything else, he must have lied about knowing Father, too.”

  “He knew him. Darksmith fleeced him at cards just before Gareth died. Gareth must have said something about the
ledger.” More likely, the information was on that missing paper. He had known which book to search.

  “From 1620?” she scoffed.

  “Gareth was researching the history of Tallgrove Manor before his death.” He scanned the sheet, its disjointed phrases finally answering his questions – margin note; hid before war; d house p hole.

  The lost fortune. Chesterton had penned a note into the margin of the 1620 ledger just before leaving for war in 1646. To guard against looting, he had hidden his valuables in the dower house priest’s hole. Writing his note in an old ledger provided a further safeguard. But Chesterton must have told someone to check that volume in the event of his death, so why would Gareth believe the cache might still be there? Yet he must have thought so. It was the only explanation for his long campaign to acquire Winter House.

  No wonder the Tallgrove dower house had been vandalized. Darksmith would have collected the ledger as soon as Millicent returned to the house. He had left the King’s Arms in the morning and must have spent the next three days looking for someone who could read Latin. Needing no further access to Tallgrove, he had no use for Millicent, so he moved to Plymtree. That night he vandalized the current dower house. Not until he failed to find a priest’s hole did he steal the Tallgrove files and learn that the original dower house was now Winter House. So he set about cultivating the Wingraves.

  But they had not fallen for his seductive patter. Penelope was too knowing, and Alice’s heart was bestowed elsewhere. What would be his next move?

  Terror gripped Richard’s soul at the possibilities. A desperate, unscrupulous villain might try anything.

  “What is wrong?” asked Millicent nervously.

  “I understand his game,” he said. “And he is more dangerous than I supposed. You have been very helpful. Thank you.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Nothing more. Stay here and do not approach him again. I will see that he does not bother you. By the time you stage your come-out, this will seem no more than a bad dream.”

  “I do not want a come-out. After watching my parents constantly snipe at each other, I refuse to marry without love. But I will never love again. Or trust again. It is too painful.” She slipped away before he could respond.