Through the Smoke

by Brenda Novak

  Truman had just lifted his wine glass. He paused before drinking. “That depends. What have you heard, Your Grace?”

  “That he is no longer staying at Blackmoor Hall.”

  “Yes. We’ve had some… difficulty at the mine. I felt it would be in my best interest to have my steward stationed closer—for the time being.”

  “So you had him move in with your Fore-Overman because of unrest at the mine?”

  Truman ignored the skepticism in his voice. “More or less, Your Grace.”

  The duke frowned when Truman wasn’t more forthcoming. It wasn’t any of His Grace’s business where Wythe was staying, but Truman could understand why he would be interested. The duke had been digging for information on Rachel ever since he arrived. While Lady Penelope was dressing for dinner, he’d admitted he was vastly curious about “the Creswell shopkeeper” who had caught Truman’s eye. This latest question told him the rumors circulating about her included some account of Wythe’s banishment.

  The duke stuffed another bite of roast duck into his mouth. “What kind of difficulties are you facing at the mine?”

  Truman barely refrained from exchanging a glance with Linley, who entered the room with their dessert. “The usual struggle, Your Grace, over pay and benefits.”

  “Miners are a bunch of greedy buggers, aren’t they?”

  Since he’d always made the lion’s share of the income from the colliery, Truman wasn’t sure he could call the miners greedy, but the last thing he wanted was an argument with the duke. He was already anxious, waiting to hear some word from his cousin regarding whether his offer of a reward would recover the paintings. “Greedy or justified, they are trying to create a union to force my hand.”

  He made a face. “Good Lord, you have to quash that immediately. Make sure they understand if they don’t want to work, you’ll find others who do. Once they start to go hungry, they’ll change their minds, I assure you.”

  “Fortunately, there should be enough common ground to avoid a starve out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The duke didn’t seem to have detected the sarcasm in Truman’s voice. Truman made more of an effort to eradicate it as he explained. “The price of coal is up. I don’t see any reason we can’t all benefit.”

  “You’re going to give in to their demands?”

  “As far as I see fit. I need workers; they need work. A fair trade should solve both problems.”

  The duke washed the rest of his meal down with a swallow of wine as Linley took his plate. “They’re paid by what they produce, are they not? What could be more fair than that?”

  Truman knew this conversation could not be interesting to Lady Penelope, but her father didn’t seem to care. He didn’t seem to consider her any more than he would a potted plant. But, again, Truman got the impression that she wasn’t listening, so maybe she didn’t care.

  “Some of the stronger hewers do quite well during their most productive years,” he explained. “But it’s a difficult life, which makes it incumbent upon me, as the colliery owner, to insure that everyone gets what he needs.”

  The duke arranged what he’d bumped of his silverware as if he couldn’t bear to see any of it out of alignment. “You sound quite liberal, Truman. You shock me. These are grown men. And you already pay prevailing rates, do you not?”

  “I do.”

  “Then, if they aren’t making enough, let them work harder. You’re not running a charity.”

  Truman clenched his teeth so he wouldn’t say what rose to his lips. He didn’t feel the need to make others suffer, especially men who had women and children depending on them. He possessed far more than what one person needed.

  But he had to remember that the duke wasn’t only criticizing his labor relations. His Grace obviously assumed that to have gotten involved with Rachel, Truman must be too “liberal” with the lower classes on a more general basis. His attitude toward the miners’ demands was just further proof of it.

  “A union could be very damaging to your interests,” His Grace pointed out. “If you allow the miners too much power, you will be sorry.”

  “I don’t particularly like being sorry, which is why I plan to fight the union immediately and with the most reliable of tactics.”

  The duke took another swallow of his claret. “And those are… ?”

  “To make sure the men feel as if they have no need of one.”

  “What’s a union?” Lady Penelope surprised Truman by speaking up. Apparently she’d tuned in to the conversation. The fact that she didn’t know what a union was seemed slightly odd, but she had lived a very sheltered and traditional life—and maybe he was judging her against the exceptionally well-read and intelligent Rachel.

  Whether she should have known the term or not, he would’ve been happy to explain, except her father didn’t give him the chance.

  “Leave the business to us, dear,” he said. “You don’t need to trouble your pretty head about any of it.”

  “Yes, Father. Of course you’re right.” She smiled and fell silent again but Truman got the impression the duke had embarrassed her, which was probably why she quit eating and started doing a lot more drinking.

  “You’ve had enough spirits for one evening,” His Grace snapped when Linley came to refill her glass for the third time.

  Truman thought he saw anger flash in her eyes, but it disappeared so quickly he assumed he must’ve been mistaken. With a nod of acquiescence, she slid her glass to the top of her plate. “The long journey has made me excessively thirsty.”

  Eager to see if he might enjoy speaking to her any more than her father, Truman shifted to face her. “Did you see anything interesting during the ride?”

  “It was long and grueling,” the duke piped up. “You know what travel is like. You’ve gone between here and London often enough.”

  Truman said nothing; neither did Lady Penelope. The duke didn’t seem to care that he’d interrupted before she could answer a question that had been posed directly to her.

  “Shall we talk about the wedding?” His Grace asked.

  That was the last subject Truman wanted to discuss, but if settling those details would bring on the conclusion of their visit, he was willing to make the sacrifice. He’d known he wasn’t looking forward to seeing them, but he hadn’t realized just how much he’d hate every minute of their stay. The past four hours had required more self-control than any four hours previous. Maybe it was because he resented the way the duke seemed so ready to capitalize on his misfortune.

  Or was he really trying to help? To support the son of an old friend, as he said?

  Regardless, Truman kept seeing Rachel in his mind’s eye, kept wishing she were here instead of them. Her presence made even monumental concerns seem light. His current company made every minute feel like another step toward the gallows. Maybe it was a different type of gallows than the wooden platform in London, but he hardly thought he’d be “saved” if he went along with the duke’s wishes. Saved from one type of misery only to become well-acquainted with another, perhaps.

  “I’d like a June wedding,” the duke said.

  It was already late February. “That soon?” Truman asked.

  “June leaves enough time for preparations to be made, if we start immediately, so why wait? You both have reason to take your vows as soon as possible.”

  “We are all aware of my current predicament,” Truman said. “But why would Lady Penelope have any reason to hurry?”

  He would’ve directed this question to her, but he knew she would defer to her father.

  The duke’s face reddened as if he’d spoken without thinking. “She doesn’t have any reason to hurry, exactly. She just doesn’t have any reason to wait.”

  Truman got the impression he’d meant what he said the first time. “You have no qualms about promising your daughter to a man who is in the midst of such a terrible scandal? I can’t imagine many men, especially men of position, who would want to tie their daug
hter to such a poor wretch.”

  The duke made a negating gesture with one hand. “A woman who betrays her husband deserves whatever she gets.”

  This was hardly a testimonial to his innocence. Shocked that His Grace could be so practical and uncaring, Truman slid his chair back, but before he could respond, Lady Penelope spoke up.

  “What my father meant to say is that I am dutiful and obedient and will give you no cause to become angry.”

  “She knows what’s at stake,” the duke chimed in. “She wouldn’t be stupid enough to provoke you.”

  Truman lost his appetite. As hard as it was to believe, it seemed the Duke of Pembroke didn’t really care whether he’d murdered Katherine.

  He glanced at Lady Penelope. Twin spots of color rode high on her cheeks, but Truman got the feeling it wasn’t embarrassment that had put them there—not this time. “You have nothing to fear,” he told her. “I didn’t kill my wife, and I hope, within another week or so, to prove it.”

  “What makes you think anything new will turn up?” the duke asked.

  As Truman explained about the paintings, His Grace listened without interrupting.

  “I hope you find them,” he said when Truman had finished, but Lady Penelope suddenly piped up again—this time to contradict her father. “Actually, I’m not sure Daddy would want that,” she said with a sly smile. “Then you’d have no reason to go through with the wedding.”

  His Grace shot his daughter a sharp look, and that was enough to shut her up. Sobering instantly, she dropped her gaze to her plate. “Please excuse my interruption,” she mumbled.

  “The wine has gone to her head,” the duke explained. “Obviously, joining our two families would be advantageous regardless of whether those paintings are found. I’m merely trying to help the son of a dear friend. You couldn’t do any better than Penelope.”

  Then why the rush? What was so wrong with Lady Penelope that she couldn’t make an advantageous match with any one of a dozen or more eligible suitors? She was the daughter of a duke! “Of course,” Truman said. “I appreciate your generosity. Your daughter is a rare jewel.”

  “She will certainly do more for you than that poor village girl,” the duke said as if he’d held his true feelings back as long as he could.

  For Lady Penelope’s sake, Truman smiled, but no one could do more for him than Rachel. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room so the servants can finish clearing the table?”

  The girl who answered the back door at Elspeth’s told Rachel essentially the same thing she’d been told before. Elspeth wouldn’t see her—no need to come back. She was clear and frank, maybe even a little angry that Rachel had returned. But Rachel wasn’t about to leave without achieving an audience.

  She pretended to accept her dismissal, but as soon as the girl went inside, she slipped in behind her and found her own way to the room she’d visited previously. Before she could knock to see if Elspeth was there, however, the sound of Elspeth’s voice confirmed that she was.

  “Is she gone?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” came the reply from the girl Rachel had just spoken to.

  The door stood open a few inches. Rachel felt a nervous flutter in her stomach as she stepped up to the crack and peered inside. Elspeth and the girl who’d answered the door seemed to be alone, but Rachel couldn’t be certain. She could see only a portion of the room.

  “What does she want?” the girl asked. “Why does she keep comin’ back?”

  “What she wants and what she’s going to get will be two different things if she’s not careful,” Elspeth replied.

  “What do ye mean by that, mum?”

  “It’s none of your business, Milly.” She flicked her hand to shoo the girl off. “Go get me something to eat—and clean up for your shift. I’m hoping for a busy night. I don’t want you looking like an old sow.”

  The girl hung her head like a berated child. “Of course not.”

  Rachel stepped to one side as “Milly” came out. She could avoid a collision, but she couldn’t avoid being seen.

  “What are ye doin’ in ’ere?” the girl cried. “I told ye to go!”

  There didn’t seem to be any point in responding. It was obvious enough that she hadn’t listened. Throwing the door wide, Rachel circumvented the prostitute and walked in.

  Elspeth had heard the commotion and was halfway across the room. “Rachel!”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Ye need to go. Now.”

  “Why? Is there some reason we’re no longer friends, Madame Soward?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Ah, innocent to the last. We were never friends, Miss McTavish. We all ’ave our best interests to look out for, after all.”

  Maybe she was too innocent, because Elspeth’s words stung. “That’s what I can’t figure. Why is it suddenly in your best interest to keep your distance?”

  “Because I want to stay alive. And if ye want the same, ye’ll listen to me an’ get your arse out of ’ere.”

  She sounded seriously frightened. “Who are you afraid of? Cutberth? Wythe? Or someone else?”

  “Men talk when they drink and screw, Rachel. I know more secrets than ye could ever imagine, and that puts me in a very bad position. If ye give anythin’ away to the earl, I’m the one who’ll get blamed. Ye mark my words.”

  “Maybe you’d be better off going to him yourself. Tell him what you know. Do the right thing. Then ask for his protection. He’s a good man—”

  She made a sound of disbelief. “As if an earl would ’ave anythin’ to do with me. Unlike you, I know my place in life.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue with me. It would only be a matter of time before ’e threw me out on the streets. ’E can’t protect me indefinitely. Look at you! ’E got involved just long enough to ruin ye.”

  “I know you won’t believe this but I left Blackmoor Hall of my own accord.”

  “Ye should never ’ave sided with ’im to begin with, should never ’ave betrayed your own kind.”

  “That statement just shows how little you really know. If you’d let me explain—”

  “I already know more than I want to,” she broke in.

  “Do you?” Rachel challenged. “Do you know that Cutberth and my mother had an affair during the six months prior to her death? Is that one of your secrets?”

  This succeeded in surprising her. Rachel could tell by the look on her face.

  “That’s ridiculous,” she responded. “What are ye talkin’ about?”

  “There’s proof.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “Mrs. Cutberth found some letters they exchanged.”

  She shook her head. “So that’s how he handled it.”

  “What do you mean? Who is he?”

  “Just get out,” she said and Rachel knew she’d be sorry if she didn’t. Whatever thin bond had once existed between her and Elspeth had been severed by doubt, fear and expediency.

  Truman heard a soft knock, but it was well after midnight. Assuming it was a maid wanting to bank the fire, he didn’t bother putting on a shirt. He answered the door in his trousers and robe.

  It was one of his servants—Susanna, the maid he’d assigned to Lady Penelope for the duration of her visit—but she wasn’t alone. The duke’s daughter was with her, dressed in a filmy nightgown, from what he could tell, thanks to the gap in her satin wrap.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  Lady Penelope answered. “I hoped we might have a few minutes to… talk.”

  Curious as to the reason she would choose to approach him in the middle of the night—and assuming it was because she didn’t want her father to know—he nodded to Susanna that it was all right to leave Lady Penelope where she was. Then he stepped aside.

  The duke’s daughter smiled nervously as she moved past him.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

  “Please.”

  She sounded almost desperate i
n her eagerness. He’d noticed her preoccupation with alcohol earlier—as well as her father’s disapproval of how much she drank—but he poured her a brandy to be polite. He wanted to learn why the duke was so anxious to have them marry and thought she might tell him.

  “Thank you.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze when he handed her the glass.

  “What did you come to talk about?”

  After downing the brandy as if it were water, she set the glass aside, turned and slipped off her robe.

  The nightgown was more than filmy—it was transparent.

  “Lady Penelope, I highly doubt your father would approve of this, and I would never abuse his trust.” He bent to retrieve the wrap she’d let fall to the floor, but she stopped him.

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am. I have nothing but respect for you and your father and would never—”

  She threw back her head and laughed, which caused him to fall silent. “Who do you think sent me here?” she asked.

  Truman straightened. “Your father told you to offer yourself to me like this?”

  “Why not? We are betrothed. That’s all that matters to him.”

  The alarm bells that had been going off in Truman’s head earlier rang loud and clear. “If all goes as planned, we will be married in June. Why are you here before we even have the chance to get acquainted?”

  She lifted her chin. “You don’t want me?”

  He couldn’t say that he did. She was attractive enough. It was Rachel that stood in the way. He feared she’d ruined him for all other women. His pulse quickened the moment he thought of her lying beneath him—but Lady Penelope stood all but naked in front of him and he felt nothing except the urge to cover her up and preserve her dignity. “I am trying to behave in as honorable a fashion as I can.”

  She shrugged. “Or you’re getting your fill from your little trollop.”