by Adele Clee
It was the time to give Mr Biggs a choice. Devlin could not allow the rogue to go free, to inform the baron of all they had learnt tonight. There was only one proposal he could make—one that left Biggs with no choice but to surrender.
“Let me speak plainly.” Devlin hauled Biggs to his feet. Water cascaded from his sodden coat, a coat that whiffed of algae and rotten vegetation. “I cannot let you leave here.”
A sound akin to a whimper vibrated in the man’s throat.
“Not unless you agree to do my bidding,” Devlin continued. “You can either languish in Blackwater’s cellar until we have solved this mystery, or you can work for me. The baron need not know of your treachery and double dealings. I shall pay you for information.”
Biggs remained silent for a brief time.
Perhaps he needed a little prompting in the right direction. “Know that should you betray me, or attempt to hurt my wife again, I will hunt you down, to the far reaches of the earth if necessary. When I find you, I’ll kill you.”
Biggs’ shoulders slumped. “Looks like I’ve got no choice.”
“Excellent.” Devlin released his hold on the fellow and slapped him hard on the back. “Now tell my wife what she wants to know. You owe her that for the despicable way you’ve behaved.”
“You must know to whom the letters are addressed,” Juliet reiterated.
“I only that know that they’re old,” Biggs said with some reluctance, “that they were addressed to the mistress of the house.”
“To the mistress?” Fifty years ago, Devlin’s grandmother was the mistress of Blackwater, but she would have been a young woman only recently married. “To Charlotte Drake?”
So what prompted the baron to show an interest in correspondence sent to a woman before Bromfield was born? And why was it considered pertinent now after all this time?
Then another thought struck him.
“Did the baron hire you to break into this house three years ago? To ransack my brother’s room?” Devlin loomed over the scoundrel. “Did he pay you to kill my brother?”
Biggs raised his hands in surrender. “No, no. I swear, I had nothing to do with any of that, and have only worked for Mr Middle these last twelve months.”
“Mr Middle?” Devlin asked.
“My … my father’s man of business,” Juliet replied on the rogue’s behalf.
A man of business that dealt with more than the overseeing of the accounts, Devlin thought. Mr Middle’s involvement did suggest it might be a financial matter. Did Devlin’s grandfather owe the baron’s family a debt and the letters pleading for his grandmother’s assistance were a means of proof?
God damn. There were so many conflicting thoughts racing about in Devlin’s head.
“You will return to your master and inform him that my wife needs more time to find the letters.” Devlin grabbed Biggs by the arm. “You will make no mention of speaking to me but confirm that you feel confident in Mrs Drake’s cooperation.”
Biggs nodded.
“Now, I shall escort you to the gate and see you on your way.” Devlin could not let the scoundrel leave without giving him a parting token. Though he would take great pains not to mar the man’s face. The last thing he wanted was to alert the baron.
Afterwards, he would see to it that Juliet soaked her cold bones in a warm bath. He may even join her. It would give him a chance to clear his mind for he needed full use of his faculties if he had any hope of solving this mystery.
During their game at Brooks’, the baron had informed the crowd exactly what he deemed important—money and reputation. As his hunt for the letters clearly had nothing to do with salvaging Miss Bromfield’s character, that left but one avenue of enquiry.
Had Ambrose ended the engagement because of the baron’s financial failings? A man like Ambrose married to secure his estates. He did not marry for love. The lack of a dowry would certainly explain why the baron had offered Juliet as payment for the wager. Particularly when Miss Bromfield would not have hesitated to rip Blackwater apart in her hunt for the evidence.
“How do I know you won’t kill me?” Biggs’ croaky voice drew Devlin from his musings.
An opportunity suddenly presented itself. Devlin cast the thug a wicked grin. “Because I want to see the baron’s account ledger, and you’re going to steal it and bring it to me.”
Chapter Fourteen
Water squelched in Juliet’s boots and dripped from her sodden dress as she hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber. The cold water in the brook had held her in its frigid grip, leeched every ounce of heat from her bones. The spasms had started, the shaking, the chattering teeth, the inability to place her feet on the stairs without her knees buckling. But thoughts of a warm fire, of sinking her limbs into the steaming hot bathtub forced her to the bedchamber door.
Mrs Barbary’s hollow cheeks and disdainful gaze had conveyed the extent of her disapproval. “The mistress must rise above these boisterous antics,” the woman had said, believing the story that Juliet and Devlin had slipped down the bank and into the water during their midnight stroll. “The mistress of the house must be beyond reproach.”
What gave the housekeeper the right to judge?
What gave her the right to express her opinion?
Perhaps she believed those born out of wedlock lacked morals, believed that Juliet would be the downfall of the Drake family. That her children would have tainted blood and run amok like wild rapscallions.
Shaking thoughts of Mrs Barbary from her mind, Juliet pushed open the chamber door. Upon first glance the room was unchanged. But the gap in the curtains told her she had not imagined seeing a figure at the window.
Juliet scanned the dimly lit room, found no sign of disturbed drawers. Yet she could not shake the feeling that someone had violated her private domain.
A knock at the door brought the maid Tilly, accompanied by two footmen laden with buckets of water.
Tilly bobbed a curtsy. “Oh, ma’am, let me move the tub and then I shall help you out of those wet clothes.” She hurried to the far corner of the room, folded back the dressing screen and hauled the bath to a position closer to the fire.
While the footmen emptied the steaming buckets, Tilly rushed to Juliet’s side. “It’s too dark to go walking by the brook at night. Thank the Lord it’s only knee deep.”
“Knee deep for most people, waist deep for me.” Juliet chuckled. The young maid reminded her of Nora, of one of the few things she missed about living in the baron’s home. “That’s how the water seeped into my stays.”
“We will soon have you warm, ma’am, and tucked snug in your bed.”
Sleep would elude her tonight.
How could she settle after what they had learnt from Mr Biggs? Where did one begin to look for letters that were fifty years old? And judging by the callous look in Devlin’s eyes as he escorted Mr Biggs to the gate, the scoundrel might not survive to tell more tales.
“How long have you worked here at Blackwater?” Juliet asked the maid, though from the girl’s youthful complexion it could only be a matter of years.
“Three years, ma’am.” Tilly tugged Juliet’s dress down to her ankles and helped her step out of the garment. “The previous master hired me just before he … before he died.”
Juliet sighed. Death seemed especially cruel when it took those in the summer of their lives. “It must have been difficult here, what with my husband living abroad.”
Upon hearing the trudge of footsteps on the stairs, Tilly drew Juliet into the dressing room. It would take the footmen two more journeys to complete the task.
“What with the mistress passing a month earlier,” Tilly said, “it left the house in turmoil.”
“The mistress?” From their conversations, Juliet presumed Devlin’s mother died before he left for the Far East. She was certain that’s what he had said. “Are you referring to Mr Drake’s mother?”
Tilly shook her head as she untied the laces on Juliet’s front-fastening
stays. “No, ma’am, his grandmother.”
The news came as a shock. “You speak of Charlotte Drake? Charlotte Drake died a month before her grandson?”
An abrupt cough drew Juliet’s attention to the dressing room door. Mrs Barbary stood watching them with her hawk-like gaze.
“Take Mrs Drake’s wet garments to the laundry, Tilly,” the housekeeper snapped. “I shall assist her into the tub.”
Tilly stood frigid for a few seconds, but then scooped up Juliet’s clothes and hurried from the room. Juliet shivered, too. One glacial stare from Mrs Barbary and it was as if a winter chill breezed in through the window to freeze the blood in her veins.
Mrs Barbary took a silk robe from the armoire and draped it around Juliet’s shoulders. “You should direct any personal questions about the family to me. The maids are prone to gossip and bouts of exaggeration. As mistress of Blackwater, you must not let them think you ignorant else they will ride roughshod over you every chance they get.”
While she was in no doubt that Mrs Barbary meant well, her tone lacked the warmth needed to put Juliet at ease. And although she felt the urge to chastise the servant for forcing her opinion, the heat of shame flooded her cheeks. She was the daughter of an actress, not a lady of the ton. She knew how to work with servants not command them.
A hushed conversation from the bedchamber drew Mrs Barbary from the dressing room.
Tears prickled Juliet’s eyes.
Oh, it was ridiculous that she should let the woman affect her mood.
Mrs Barbary barked instructions at the footmen, and their retreating steps preceded the click of the bedchamber door.
“Your bath is drawn, ma’am,” Mrs Barbary called.
Juliet sucked in a breath, straightened her shoulders and exited the dressing room. “Thank you, Mrs Barbary, you may leave me. I wish to bathe alone.”
The housekeeper’s face remained expressionless. “Then I shall stoke the fire before I do.”
Juliet slipped out of the robe, the silk garment pooling to the floor. Her numb fingers stung a little as she dipped them into the hot water. The same would be true for her limbs, and so she took her time, slowly immersing herself into the steamy depths.
Questions bombarded her mind—the persistent voice eager for answers.
“When you said the mistress read her letters on the bench by the brook, were you referring to Mr Drake’s mother or his grandmother?” Juliet spoke with an air of authority and would demand a reply if necessary.
As an unmarried man, Ambrose Drake would surely have sought his grandmother’s assistance—a lady familiar with Blackwater—in the running of such a large house.
Mrs Barbary straightened. She returned the poker to its fireside stand and turned to face Juliet. “I spoke of his grandmother.”
“Of Charlotte Drake?”
“Indeed.”
“And these were her apartments?”
Mrs Barbary gave a curt nod. “The lady returned to live at Blackwater when her daughter-in-law died.”
“And how did Charlotte Drake die?” From old age, no doubt, for the lady must have been in her dotage.
“Mrs Drake passed peacefully in her sleep.” Mrs Barbary glanced at the large poster bed. A brief flash of pain marred her haggard features. She dabbed her finger to the corner of her eye, perhaps for effect. “I found her cold in her bed.”
Another icy shiver ran the length of Juliet’s spine. The warm water did little to keep the chill at bay. Was that why she had the sense someone lingered in the shadows? Watching. Waiting. For what she did not know.
Ambrose Drake had ended his betrothal less than a month before he died. Had grief over his grandmother’s death persuaded him of the unsuitability of the match?
It could not be a coincidence.
“Had she been ill?” Juliet pressed the housekeeper for more information.
“Not ill. Just tired and weary the last few weeks and so kept to her bed. But that’s to be expected for someone of her declining years.”
“And the silver brush and mirror on the dressing table, the clothes in the armoire, they all belonged to Charlotte Drake?” Knowing the lady had died in the room did little to ease Juliet’s anxiety.
“Everything is exactly as it was on the morning the mistress passed.”
Conversation flowed a little easier now. Mrs Barbary’s fondness for Charlotte Drake was evident in the tender tone of her voice. And so Juliet found the courage to ask the questions burning on her lips.
“And what of the lady’s correspondence? Did she keep her private letters?”
“Her private letters?” Mrs Barbary cast a look of suspicion before lifting her chin. “If they’re not in the escritoire in the sitting room, then I don’t know what she did with them.” Her abrupt tone suggested she had better things to do than answer silly questions. “She may have used them for fire kindling.”
They were not in the escritoire, nor any of the drawers, nor in a box under the bed. Juliet had spent the first few lonely nights at Blackwater growing accustomed to her new apartments.
She was still contemplating the housekeeper’s reply when the bedchamber door burst open and Devlin marched into the room. Raw, masculine energy followed him, emanated from every fibre of his being. Water dripped from his clothes onto the wooden boards. His dark gaze skimmed past the housekeeper to settle on Juliet’s bare shoulders. Purely to save Mrs Barbary any embarrassment, Juliet wrapped her arms across her chest.
“Let me call Mr Jasper, sir.” Mrs Barbary moved to shield Juliet’s naked form. “You must get out of those wet clothes before the cold seeps into your bones.”
“I’ve spent five years dressing myself and have no need to wake the man at this late hour.” Devlin shrugged out of his coat. The fine lawn of his shirt clung to the bulging muscles in his arms. The riveting sight banished all thoughts of the cold.
“You should take a hot bath,” Juliet said, wishing there was room in the tub for two. “Mrs Barbary will alert Mr Jasper.”
“I intend to take a hot bath.” Devlin cast a sinful smirk. “Though I confess I lack the strength of will to remove myself from your bedchamber.”
Mrs Barbary sucked in a breath. Juliet could feel her burning disapproval. The mistress of the house should not tempt the master. The mistress of the house should act with decency and decorum.
Devlin met the housekeeper’s gaze and said, “Leave us. I shall attend to Mrs Drake.”
“As you wish, sir.” Head bowed, the woman left the room without a word or backwards glance.
Devlin locked the door.
“Please tell me you didn’t murder Mr Biggs.” Juliet scanned his face and hands looking for scratches or cuts or bruises, though in the firelight it was impossible to see in any detail.
“The man may have a cracked rib,” he said as he stripped out of his clothing, “but he was breathing when we parted company at the gate.”
“And you think you can trust Mr Biggs to keep his word and not mention our conversation to my father?” Juliet swished warm water over her shoulders to distract her wayward thoughts as her eyes feasted on Devlin’s naked form.
“If Biggs has any sense, he’ll be on the first coach to Edinburgh.” He came and knelt down beside the tub and began tracing teasing circles on the surface of the water. “I doubt the man has a trustworthy bone in his body, and imagine he’ll say whatever suits his purpose at the time. Pity though, I hoped your father’s account ledger might provide us with a clue.”
“Mr Biggs is in fear of his life. I doubt he will make a return visit.”
“I agree.”
Juliet remained silent while she watched her husband draw patterns in the water. Every muscle in her body wrung tight while she waited to discover where his fingers might venture next.
“What a shame the tub isn’t big enough for two,” Juliet said to tempt him to touch her.
“Most ladies would find the idea of sharing bathwater abhorrent.”
“I am no
t most ladies,” she said with a seductive grin. “And I could think of nothing more pleasing than settling between my husband’s thighs as he massages my back with soap.”
A hum left Devlin’s lips. “Then first thing tomorrow I will send word to London and have Nash dispatch one of his architects to Blackwater. We’ll have a Roman-inspired bathhouse built. One made just for two.”
A sudden rush of love for her husband filled Juliet’s heart.
Despite her wet hand, she cupped his cheek. “You would do that for me?”
Devlin gave an amused snort. “Well, as you require nothing but honesty from me, I admit that my own needs play some part in the decision, too.”
“Can we have statues of Roman gods in the alcoves, and sconces on the walls with torches?”
“We can have whatever your heart desires.”
Her heart desired but one thing—him. She would bathe in the icy brook if it meant being enveloped in his strong embrace.
Juliet drank in the sight of his broad shoulders, of the lock of ebony hair hanging over his brow. The orange glow from the fire’s flames enhanced the brown flecks in his eyes, and his lips were a faint shade of … of blue!
“Heavens,” she said, shooting up out of the water. “You must be frozen to your bones. Quickly, step into the tub.”
Devlin stood, gripped her hand and assisted her out of the copper bath.
Before she knew what she was about, he dragged her into his arms and devoured her mouth. Desire pooled low and heavy in her loins, but concern for his welfare overruled all thoughts of seduction.
“Get into the bathtub, Devlin,” she said, reluctantly tearing her mouth from his. “I shall kiss you once you’re immersed in warm water.”
He smiled. “And will you wash me as well?”
“You want me to massage soap over your back?”
“My back, my chest, a few other parts of my anatomy that need your caring touch.”
Oh, he really was incorrigible.
But while she wanted nothing more than to lose herself in a moment of bliss, a nagging thought in her mind refused to be tempered.