Through the Smoke

by Brenda Novak

  “Not at all. We could always bring the meat pies.”

  “You wouldn’t be too cold?”

  “Cold! It’s warm compared to what it’s been these past weeks, almost like summer.”

  “Good.” Again she felt that reluctance to face Mrs. Poulson. Doing so would wreck her fragile excitement. “Run in and get the food.”

  “You want me to get it?”

  She chuckled. “If you’re brave enough to manage the earl’s housekeeper.”

  “I’m brave enough,” he boasted. “Mr. Grude tells me I’m not to let her bother me one bit. He says some people are naturally unlikable and they’ll get what’s coming to them eventually.”

  “That sounds like good advice.” Rachel grinned as she watched him hurry inside. She didn’t think the air was quite as warm as he did, but she could manage until the sun went down, thanks to her cloak.

  She stood staring at Blackmoor Hall as she waited. Who would’ve thought this would ever become her home?

  “I’ve got it,” Geordie called as soon as he came back out. Sure enough, he carried a hamper.

  “That’s a good lad!” she said. “It has certainly been an interesting winter, hasn’t it?”

  “A hard winter,” he said. “I wish Mum was around to hear you’re marrying the earl.” His tone was a trifle awestruck.

  She slipped her arm through his as they walked around to the back. “I don’t think she’d like it, do you?”

  “Look how good he’s been to us. She was wrong about him, Rachel.”

  “I think so too,” she said.

  Chapter 22

  “What did you say?” Wythe addressed a flushed Mr. Tyndale, who’d hurried out to meet him as he slid off his horse.

  “Your cousin is going to marry Rachel McTavish!”

  The boredom he’d been feeling after spending so many hours in the mine evaporated. “That can’t be true.”

  “It is.” Tyndale was obviously pleased. He acted as if Rachel had had the last laugh and he was glad of it. He’d never really cared for Wythe, and Wythe knew it. They came to loggerheads at the colliery all the time. Although the Fore-Overman never dared to expressly disagree—he was far too circumspect for that—Wythe could feel his disapproval and was determined to be free of it. Soon.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just came from the village. They are saying he broke his betrothal to Lady Penelope and proposed to Rachel. The news is everywhere.”

  Tyndale’s excitement irritated Wythe. He couldn’t wait to wreck it. “That pleases you, Tyndale?”

  “It does, sir. I have always been partial to Rachel. It is wonderful to see her come out on top for a change.”

  “So you’re happy the earl will hang?”

  The smile dropped off his face. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “That’s what will happen if he marries Rachel. He will go to the gallows. It is just a matter of time.”

  His mouth opened and closed twice before any words came out. “It’s not as serious as all that, is it? The earl is… well, he’s an earl. They won’t hang a member of the aristocracy, not without solid proof.”

  “The Abbotts are powerful too, Mr. Tyndale.”

  “I would never want anything to happen to Lord Druridge,” he said. “I have always respected him.”

  “Then you will agree that he is making a terrible mistake. It would be a mistake to marry someone like Rachel even if he wasn’t facing murder charges. She might be beautiful, but a lot of women are beautiful—and they all look the same in the dark.”

  “He is obviously in love,” Tyndale responded, instantly defensive.

  “Ah, yes, love.” Wythe rolled his eyes. “Is this why you were looking for me? To share the wonderful news?”

  “I’m sorry—what did you say?”

  The old goat was upset now, enough that his mind had been almost instantly diverted.

  “I ran into Cutberth as I was leaving the mine. He said you were looking for me earlier.”

  Tyndale yanked on the bottom of his waistcoat. Given how his buttons strained, it was a miracle they held fast. “Yes, I-I was. But everyone thought you’d left.”

  “I hadn’t finished searching.”

  “You were in the mine? But we finished looking for the paintings this morning.”

  He had only been sitting around, draining his flask in an abandoned tunnel, but no one would know that. “I had to check Number 15 stall.”

  The look that came over the Fore-Overman’s face was gratifying. Tyndale had regarded the earl with that expression many times, but never Wythe. Part of Wythe wished he deserved the veneration, but he wasn’t one to quibble over details. He had realized long ago that he couldn’t compete with his far-more-noble cousin.

  “You went into 15?” Tyndale breathed. “But that could’ve cost you your life. We decided it was too unstable.”

  “As I said, the earl’s life is at stake.” Wythe brushed some of the coal dust from his clothes. “We couldn’t ask any of the men to take such a risk, but I felt like we had to be sure.”

  “That is very brave of you,” he said. “And? Did you find anything?”

  “No. Which makes this news about Rachel far worse than it might have been, does it not?” He sighed. “If the earl isn’t careful, that woman will prove his ruin.”

  A frown tugged at Tyndale’s lips—but he made an attempt to rally. “I think Katherine’s already got that well in hand, don’t you? You explained to me earlier that without at least one of those paintings, Lord Druridge can’t prove his innocence. That has nothing to do with Rachel.”

  “It does when you consider that marrying Lady Penelope would have provided him with a certain amount of protection.” Wythe handed the reins of his horse to the groom who approached. The stable at Cosgrove House was not nearly as large or well staffed as the one at Blackmoor Hall. He was tired of the inconvenience, tired of being cast into outer darkness like a child who’d lost favor. But he didn’t think his situation would remain what it was for much longer. “As soon as I change, I will go over to see if I can talk some sense into him.”

  “Poor Rachel. I hate to see her hurt, but… I now understand why this is so important.” Tyndale fidgeted with his waistcoat again. “It is admirable of you to do what you can, Mr. Stanhope—all the more so because of the situation.”

  Wythe paused, purposely playing dumb. “What situation, Mr. Tyndale?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. He knew, had to know, it was indelicate of him to mention it, but he finally came out with the explanation Wythe had requested. “Well, the obvious, sir. If the earl dies before he can sire an heir, you will inherit everything.”

  “If I wanted my cousin dead, I would’ve let him burn,” Wythe said with the dramatic flourish he’d come to enjoy and strode to the house. Maybe he hadn’t done many things right in his life, but he was glad he had troubled himself that day. Had Truman died in the fire, Wythe would have taken the blame. No one else had as much to gain from his death.

  But everything was going to work out in the end.

  He started to whistle when he thought of what the Abbotts would be able to do. Let his cousin marry Rachel. Let the bitch think she was going to get everything she’d ever wanted. Her happiness wouldn’t last. Soon, she would watch her beloved die on the scaffold at Newgate and the title and Stanhope fortune would pass to him. Then he’d dump her and her brat of a brother out on their arses without so much as a halfpenny—unless he decided to make her his paramour for turning her nose up at him before.

  Maybe that would teach her to respect her betters.

  Truman found Cutberth at the office. Although Tyndale and everyone else had gone home for the day, a lamp burned on the clerk’s desk and he was bent over his bookwork, looking for all the world like the most diligent of employees.

  “My lord,” he said quietly when Truman walked in.

  “I see you received my message.”

  He didn’t seem surprised that Truman had requ
ested a meeting. Truman hadn’t expected him to be. Word had spread about his betrothal to Rachel. Cutberth had to have guessed she would tell him about their encounter at the shop.

  “I am just finishing up,” he said. “All the excitement yesterday when we were searching for the Bruegel paintings set me back, and I wanted”—he cleared his throat—“I wanted to bring the books current before turning them over to my replacement.”

  “Then you know why I am here.”

  “I do.”

  Truman stopped at the edge of the desk and picked up a vase, obviously made by a child. “It’s unfortunate, really. You have a nice family. I hate the thought that they might suffer because of your actions.”

  “I knew I was taking a risk.” He shoved his shoulders back. “But I believed in what I was doing. I still believe in it and will continue to organize the men as long as they will pay me enough so that I can keep a roof over my family’s heads.”

  Truman put down the vase. “I appreciate your newfound honesty, so I will be honest with you. That might prove difficult. They may not see any point in hiring you once I announce my new profit-sharing plan. But I understand you must do what you must do.”

  He seemed shaken, as if he had been pushing against an immovable object that had suddenly given way. “Profit-sharing plan?”

  “Wythe will provide the details in the next few days. Since you are no longer an employee of Stanhope & Co., I won’t go into it with you, but I do want you to understand that I am not letting you go because of the union, even though you had no business marshaling forces to oppose me while on my payroll and pretending to have my best interests at heart.”

  Looking chastened, Cutberth cleared his throat. “I didn’t plan to continue after—”

  Truman lifted a hand to indicate he had no interest in his excuses. “I am not letting you go because I suspect you were involved in the fire that caused my wife’s death, either.”

  At this he jumped to his feet. “My lord, no. You can lay the union at my feet, but I had nothing to do with the fire, and I don’t know who did, as I have always said.”

  “Forgive me for pointing out that your credibility isn’t quite what it used to be.” He forced a pained smile. “Regardless, I wouldn’t have taken your job on suspicion alone. I would have waited until I had proof.”

  “You will never have proof, because I didn’t do it. I swear!”

  “Then why did you lie about your relationship with Mrs. McTavish in order to explain away the payments she received?”

  He didn’t attempt to deny it. “To protect the union, of course. That money came from a fund I created to help the widows and orphans of miners who die on the job. That is why I got so upset when Rachel admitted she told you about my efforts. I feared it would cost me my livelihood and destroy everything I’d accomplished so far. It has already scared away many of those who were interested in contributing to that fund and creating other, similar schemes for those who work at Stanhope & Co.”

  Truman leaned forward, bringing his nose very close to Cutberth’s. “So you struck her?”

  Cutberth seemed to realize that this was the part that angered him most. “I-I shouldn’t have,” he said. “I cannot explain what came over me. I was… out of sorts, enraged. I felt as if she had ruined so many good things by reaching for a man who was—who is—too far above her.”

  “How did you get the key to her shop?”

  Cutberth’s nostrils flared and he could no longer meet Truman’s eyes. “Wythe has a master set to all your holdings. I went through his office when he wasn’t around.”

  Of course. And it probably wasn’t too difficult to find. Wythe wasn’t as diligent as he should be about anything. There was even the possibility that he’d given Cutberth the key.

  “What about the lie you told about her mother? You didn’t care about the humiliation that might cause her? You didn’t care about the humiliation that might cause your own wife?”

  “I felt it was… for a good cause, my lord. I had to protect the union.”

  “It’s a miracle your wife will speak to you, let alone live with you. Maybe she will leave now that you no longer have a job.”

  “I admit I let myself get carried away. I am sorry about that. I truly am.”

  “You should be,” he said. “Don’t ever come near Rachel again. Not for any reason. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You will have a month’s wages. I suggest you use it wisely.” He turned to go, but Cutberth spoke before he could reach the door.

  “My lord?”

  “Yes?”

  “If one of the miners set that fire, I would probably know about it. Although I couldn’t say this before, no one is closer to them than I am. Have you considered… ?” He stopped, obviously unsure whether he should continue.

  “Go on.”

  “I hate to cast doubt on anyone, but…”

  Again Truman had to prod him. “Out with it, man!”

  His chest lifted as he drew a deep breath. “Have you considered any of the servants?”

  Truman narrowed his eyes. “All the servants were in church, Mr. Cutberth.”

  “Except Mrs. Poulson.”

  That was true. She’d left the day before to visit a sick aunt. But his housekeeper would have no reason to murder Katherine. On the contrary, Truman was convinced she had secretly gained some sort of satisfaction from watching his wife play her manipulative games. Why would she want to get rid of her? “And what would be her motive?”

  “To protect you from scandal.”

  Truman had to laugh. “That’s hardly something that would motivate Mrs. Poulson to murder.”

  “Someone else in your household then.”

  “I have told you all the rest of the servants, barring Mrs. Poulson, as you have just pointed out, were in church.”

  “That doesn’t mean they didn’t hire someone to do it.”

  “I have already learned that it was a group of miners who approached Jack.” Truman didn’t want to give up on that. Nothing he had found had led him to believe it could be a member of his domestic staff.

  “Can you be sure that’s accurate? You asked the miners what they’d heard, and they’d heard that Jack was offered some money. Maybe they only assumed it was from other miners. In their minds, that is who would logically approach him. But it could have been anyone, even a woman.”

  “Except Mrs. Poulson would have no reason to set fire to Blackmoor Hall. How would a mere servant come by the money to give Jack McTavish, anyway?”

  “Mr. Linley makes a good salary.”

  Truman walked back to his desk. “You think my butler stole those paintings and set the fire to cover his tracks?”

  “No, I think maybe your butler wanted Katherine dead. He could have taken the paintings for a variety of reasons—to sell them, to salvage them, to throw off an investigation.”

  Linley was the only person Truman knew who’d loved those paintings as much as his father did. He had mourned their loss far more than Katherine’s life. Linley had hated Katherine, was convinced she would be the ruin of the Stanhope dynasty he had spent so many years serving and protecting. He definitely wanted her gone. But he would never kill her.

  “It has to be someone else,” he insisted.

  “It’s not one of the miners, my lord.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “It’s someone who lived at Blackmoor Hall. Maybe even your cousin.”

  Cutberth was growing bold now that he had nothing to lose. Although Truman suspected Wythe and had for several months—ever since he’d come to the conclusion that no one from London had traveled all the way to Creswell with murderous intent—he was still a member of the family. Truman would not humiliate him by sharing his suspicions with just anyone. “Have some respect. My cousin rescued me; it couldn’t be him.”

  “Someone had to have fathered her child,” he said. “And I don’t think it was a miner or a servant. Do you?�
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  The thought had certainly crossed Truman’s mind before. But Wythe was a Stanhope. He had some boundaries, didn’t he?

  It felt strange to be back at Blackmoor Hall—and even stranger to hold yet another position in the household. Rachel had come here as the lowest of the maids. She’d graduated to something rather awkward and undefined as the earl’s chess partner. And now she was the earl’s betrothed. She knew it had to be as difficult for his staff as it was for her to make the appropriate adjustments, but so far they had treated her better than expected, and that included Mrs. Poulson. The housekeeper had greeted Rachel politely, even dipped into a curtsy when Truman lined up the staff and told them they were to accept her as their new mistress. There had been some shocked faces, of course—maybe even some hidden resentment, especially when he had stated, in no uncertain terms, that she had the authority to sack anyone who proved the least disagreeable—but no one stepped up when he asked if they would rather leave their post than serve her.

  Although Truman had privately suggested that, for her sake, it might be wise to start over with a whole new staff—other than Mr. Linley and Mrs. Poulson, of course—she had asked him to give the servants time to acclimate. As long as Mrs. Poulson continued to be civil, Rachel thought they would manage. After all, she and Mr. Linley set the tone for the whole household.

  Following that meeting Rachel was feeling optimistic, especially when Mary winked at her as they all filed out. She had one friend. She had the earl and her brother and, possibly, Mr. Linley, even though his determination to expose her father had once made him her enemy. That was a start. After the dread she had felt going before the staff, she relaxed, to a degree, and enjoyed a delicious dinner with Truman. But that pleasant interlude proved all too brief when he left right after to seek out Cutberth. Rachel had tried to talk him into waiting until morning, but the bruise on her cheek bothered him so greatly he’d been intent on having a word with his clerk as soon as possible. He didn’t like that he hadn’t been able to deal with the issue since the duke and his daughter had arrived and didn’t want to let it go any longer.