‘You are not to take any foolish risks, though,’ Rawcliffe had said with some vehemence. ‘I know we need proof, but it is not worth you losing your life over, as well.’
What was worth losing his life over, though? Fighting for his country? Besides, what kind of life did Rawcliffe think he’d been living, since he’d gone into the navy as a snivelling young midshipman? Life was all about taking risks. And if he’d learned anything, it was that only the boldest risks resulted in success.
They could result in failure, too. As he’d learned to his cost. But he wasn’t going to dwell on that, just now.
‘I will do whatever it takes to find the proof you need to bring Archie’s killer to justice,’ he’d vowed. ‘And to hell with the consequences.’
He turned away from the map and strode to the fire, holding out his hands as though needing to get warm. And truthfully, there was a bit of a chill curdling the contents of his stomach. Though not because of the atmospheric conditions. It was the prospect of interrogating Miss Hutton about Lady Buntingford that was doing it. And using his courtship as a smokescreen to conceal his prime motive for being in the area.
Though it wasn’t as if she could possibly be completely ignorant of what had been going on in her neighbourhood. She spent a lot of time with this Lady Buntingford, whose name had come up time and time again in connection with the girls who’d got into the houses of vulnerable older ladies. What if it was no coincidence that Lizzie kept visiting an elderly lady who was writing references for thieves? What if she was the one who had been...what...filching Lady Buntingford’s headed notepaper and actually forging them? What if Rawcliffe’s suspicions about Cottam were all based on years of dislike and prejudice? What did Harry know about her, really? Except that she was unmarried and lonely, and poor. All good motives for turning to crime...
Stealing rubies, that was.
Not murder though. Not Miss Hutton. She was too...hapless.
Unless that was a very, very clever disguise.
But, no. She’d responded too openly, too eagerly to be any good at the arts of deception. And blushed at the drop of a hat.
When the landlord came bustling back in with a tray bearing a couple of silver pots, some plates bearing slices of cake and two cups, Harry was still standing with his back to the room, his hands extended to the fire. Though Dawkins was still studying the map.
Jeavons set out the plates and cups upon a small table set handily near the fireside chairs, yammering on about various amenities of Peacombe, and the surrounding district. All of which Harry already knew about, courtesy of Lord and Lady Rawcliffe.
While Harry went to the table and sat down to drink his coffee, Dawkins drew Jeavons into a discussion about the accuracy of the map, in regard to distances.
‘Is the cake not to your liking? Would you prefer some sandwiches instead?’ Jeavons, Harry suddenly noticed, was looking rather perturbed. And at about the same time he realised that instead of eating the slice of cake he’d absentmindedly picked up, he’d crushed it, so that sodden crumbs were oozing between his fingers and dripping on to his lap.
‘I find that I am not hungry, after all,’ he said curtly. He got to his feet. ‘Perhaps I will take a walk about the town, to clear my head.’
Jeavons leapt aside as he strode out of the room. Out of the corner of his eye he noted Dawkins snatching up his coat, before trotting out behind him, like an obedient little terrier.
Which was apt, since they were on the hunt for a rat.
Chapter Nine
The suite might have been the most luxurious accommodation The Three Tuns had to offer, but Harry got very little sleep that first night. There were too many things preying on his mind.
To start with, Jeavons had lied about having a marquess stay under his roof.
And Archie had definitely stayed in the hotel. That didn’t necessarily mean that the landlord had played any part in the murder, though. He could just be one of those men who was too scared of the local smugglers to stand up to them. Most such gangs flourished in an atmosphere brewed of two-parts intimidation and one-part reward, after all. But he’d definitely been alarmed to hear Harry intended to visit the local magistrate.
Until he’d brought Miss Hutton into the equation.
And that was another thing. He should be glad she was already providing him with an effectual smokescreen. But the more he thought about her, the more troubled he became. When he’d tried to justify his presence in her life by telling himself she could be a possible suspect, it had turned his stomach. Because he’d started to like her, he’d hated the notion of her being involved in anything nefarious so much that he’d been unable to eat anything until he’d taken a long walk. Even then his thoughts about her remained in turmoil. For, if she was involved, in even the slightest way, then she had Archie’s blood on her hands. Which he didn’t want to believe.
On the other hand, could she possibly be in complete ignorance of what was going on in this neck of the woods? That was equally hard to swallow.
Round and round went his thoughts, with no respite until the first glimmerings of dawn gave him the excuse to abandon even the pretence of trying to get any sleep. He rolled off the mattress that felt as if it had been trying to smother him all night and went to draw the curtains. The sun wasn’t yet managing to make much headway, particularly since a squally wind was flinging handfuls of rain at his window.
So he’d have to rely on Jeavons finding him a carriage to drive across the moors to Lesser Peeving. He didn’t want to arrive dripping wet and windswept, which he would if he were to walk, which was something he’d considered. For, although the road wound round the contours suitable for horses and carriages, his study of the map last night showed he could take a much more direct route if he went on foot. However, a man intent on impressing the guardian of the woman he wished to court was not going to do it by trudging across the moors like a beggar. He needed to arrive in style.
* * *
Which ambition Jeavons appeared to be determined to stifle at birth.
‘I’m afraid,’ he said after breakfast, when Harry asked him when he might expect to have use of a carriage, ‘that the only vehicle I was able to procure at such short notice is an open gig. Which is not, I’m sure you will agree, suitable for travelling in this sort of weather.’
Harry’s hackles rose. It was as if the man was deliberately attempting to keep him from visiting Colonel Hutton.
‘It’s only a bit of rain,’ he said, shrugging himself into his greatcoat. ‘Nothing compared to an Atlantic gale,’ he added, clapping his hat on his head. If Jeavons was so determined to keep him away from Lesser Peeving, all the more reason to get there as soon as possible.
‘But, your health...’ Jeavons trotted behind as Harry strode along the passage he’d already ascertained led to the stable yard.
‘I’ll take my chances... Good God,’ he couldn’t help exclaiming the moment he saw the vehicle Dawkins was standing next to, which he had to assume was the one Jeavons had said that was all he could procure. It was the kind of thing an elderly farmer’s wife might use to transport her goods to market.
Well, there went his chance of impressing Colonel Hutton by bowling up his drive in a smart, closed carriage. He might as well trudge across the moors and save the cost of hiring this ridiculous little trap.
But...no...
Even though he’d expressed indifference to the state of his health, it wouldn’t do to let Jeavons, and by extension anyone else he might choose to inform, know that he was, actually, fit enough to do so.
The springs creaked in protest as Harry set his foot on the step and the entire vessel listed to port when he settled on to the bench seat. It didn’t right itself when Dawkins climbed in and took the reins, either. And when he flicked them over the raw-boned horse’s rump, all that happened was that the creature turned and looked at them
over its shoulder as if to ask if they could possibly be serious.
Dawkins flicked the reins a bit harder and clucked his tongue for good measure. The horse took the strain with a snort of indignation. Dawkins proved to be a skilful driver well before they’d left the town. He managed to keep the vehicle from mounting the pavement, in spite of its tendency to veer to portside, by adopting a manoeuvre that at sea Harry would have described as tacking.
And then, once they’d left the confines of the town and begun the steep ascent to moors, he allowed the horse to set a pace that meant it could keep going, with only the occasional pause to get its breath back. All Harry had to do was rein in his own impatience, cross his arms across his chest and watch the scenery dawdle past while he rehearsed what he would say to Colonel Hutton.
Before long, only gorse and heather flourished on either side of the road as far as the eye could see, although he did spy a few intrepid sheep pushing their way through the undergrowth in search of sustenance.
* * *
It felt as if several hours had gone by before they eventually crested a rise that gave a view down on to a row of buildings, strung out along a section of road huddling just beneath the brow of the next ridge, as though trying to shelter from the wind.
Lesser Peeving.
From this vantage point he could see that most of the houses were small. There was only a handful of larger buildings, one of which was a church. Hard by it was the house that had to be the one Lady Rawcliffe’s brother had been offered. It looked fairly substantial from up here. Harry certainly wouldn’t have turned his nose up at it. Nor would most members of the clergy, he would wager. But then the Reverend Cottam wasn’t like most members of the clergy. From what Lord Rawcliffe had told him—though not in front of his wife—the man wanted more than he could get from eking out the tithes and benefices which were his due. He’d been sent to this tiny hamlet, from his last church, after all, because of a complaint made by the bank into which he’d had the responsibility of depositing the collection. They would ignore a certain amount of counterfeit coin, because it had come from a church. But not the percentage which was coming to them through Cottam’s hands.
As they began the descent down the last curve into Lesser Peeving, Harry paid close attention to the other two notable properties, which stood at either end of the town, like bookends.
The nearest one, which was surrounded by high walls, belonged to the infamous Lady Buntingford, the woman who might be responsible for introducing thieves into the houses of her acquaintances so that they could switch family heirlooms for cheap fakes. From up here he could see neat gardens surrounding a house that looked to be of Tudor origins. Just inside the main gates, which were high and topped with spikes, stood a small cottage. In which, he guessed, the gatekeeper lived. The person who prevented anyone except Miss Hutton, or the Reverend Cottam, from getting in to see Lady Buntingford.
Once he drew nearer, he could see that the buildings on the main street looked as though both they, and their inhabitants, had seen better days. As he drove by, he saw that the paintwork on the greengrocer’s sign was flaking so badly it was barely legible, several panes of the bakery windows were broken and stuffed with rags and weeds were growing from the butcher’s chimney stack.
The gates to Colonel Hutton’s manor, which was a short distance beyond the last house in Lesser Peeving proper, stood open. In contrast to those of Lady Buntingford. But then they were also hanging slightly askew from rusting hinges, and the gravel drive which bisected a rather shaggy lawn was liberally sprinkled with weeds.
Dawkins drew the gig to a halt at the steps by the front door, causing the horse to heave a sigh of relief. The plan was for him to wait until they were certain Harry was going to be admitted. At which point he would drive round to the back and play the part of dutiful servant awaiting further instructions.
Harry climbed down and went to knock on the front door. It wasn’t long before a man of distinctly military bearing opened it and asked his business.
‘I’ve come to speak to Colonel Hutton,’ Harry replied, handing over his card. ‘And you may as well tell him I’m not going to take no for an answer,’ he added, stepping forward into the hall.
The butler didn’t bat an eyelid. He simply did an about face and marched off into the interior of the house. But then, since the Colonel was the local magistrate, he was probably used to all sorts of people turning up and demanding admittance.
Harry took off his hat and tucked it under his arm. So, this was where Lizzie lived. He looked round the wainscoted hall as he drew off his gloves, noting the mullioned windows on the landing at the top of the oak staircase, the series of portraits of men who all looked remarkably like her grandfather hanging from every available space.
‘The Colonel will receive you in the study,’ said the butler on his return. ‘If you would follow me?’
Harry first took a moment to take off his soaked overcoat, which he handed to the butler along with his hat and gloves, so that at least the top half of him would look respectable.
Even so, the moment he set foot in an overheated, book-lined room to the rear of the house, the Colonel banged his cane on the floor. ‘Damn jackanapes,’ he snarled. ‘What do you mean by coming down here, eh? The impudence!’
‘I have come,’ said Harry, walking over to the man and taking up a stand directly before him, ‘to ask your permission to court your granddaughter, Miss Hutton.’
‘Well, I shan’t give it. Not to a damn sneak like you, that’s already tried to worm his way into Lizzie’s affections. I know all about the kind of scoundrels who infest Bath hoping to seduce heiresses. Turning silly girls’ heads with all sorts of promises they’ve no intention of keeping.’
‘I have made Miss Hutton no promises.’
‘No, too clever for that, weren’t you? Thought you could turn her up sweet before making your play.’
Since that was precisely what Harry had intended to do, it took an immense effort not to wince.
‘But I’ve got news for you,’ Colonel Hutton continued. ‘You’ve wasted your time coming here. Lizzie has no money to speak of. Hah!’ He banged on the floor with his cane again. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘I think,’ said Harry on a surge of indignation, ‘that you are doing your granddaughter an injustice.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘You are assuming that no man would wish to marry her unless she was wealthy. Implying you believe she is lacking in some way.’
‘Are we talking about the same gel? Most men can’t look at her without sniggering.’
What? But Miss Hutton was beautiful. ‘Most men,’ Harry growled, ‘are idiots.’
‘Shan’t argue with you on that score, but I still don’t see why you would want to marry her. What do you see in her that other men don’t, eh, that’s what I’d like to know?’
‘She’s witty,’ he promptly replied, almost as much to his own surprise as the Colonel’s. He’d rehearsed all sorts of things to say, in response to any question the Colonel might ask, but this had not been one of them.
‘Witty? Lizzie?’
‘Yes. The first morning we met, when I bumped into her in the Pump Room...’
‘You bumped into her? Other way round, more likely...’
‘And that is another thing. Most women make me feel like a lumbering great oaf. They are such tiny, frail-seeming things I’m afraid I’m going to accidentally snap them in half. And I get backache just thinking about kissing them. But Miss Hutton and I...we match, sir. When we danced together, it was as if we were...well, a matched pair.’ And no cleverly conceived answer could have carried so much conviction, he quickly saw. For the Colonel was looking at him in a new, more assessing manner. But then that answer had sprung from his heart. If he ever did seriously start considering marriage, he couldn’t imagine anyone suiting him better than
Miss Hutton.
‘Hmmm,’ said the Colonel. ‘Well, I still don’t like it. Don’t like it at all.’
‘I realise that if she does marry me, it will cause you a great deal of inconvenience,’ he said, deciding it was time to deploy one of the weapons he’d already decided he could turn on the Colonel. ‘You will have to actually employ somebody to fill her function as...what is it? Nurse? Companion? Drudge?’
The Colonel’s knuckles went white. ‘Are you daring to accuse me of being selfish?’
‘Well, have you ever thought about what will become of her after you have gone? You say she has no dowry. No money. Would you not rather know that she has a secure roof over her head and a man to care for her? Even if it does mean your latter years may be slightly less comfortable than if you were to keep her chained to your side.’
The Colonel’s face went puce. ‘Knew you were a damned jackanapes the minute I set eyes on you.’
‘For speaking the truth? For offering to provide Miss Hutton with a secure future when you are no longer able to do so?’
The Colonel growled. Worked his gnarled knuckles over the head of his cane. All the while glaring at Captain Bretherton in a way that probably had most men quaking in their shoes.
It had no effect upon him whatever. For the Colonel couldn’t shoot him, or clap him in irons, or flog him, or court-martial him. Nor could he force him to leave the district to prevent him from paying court to Lizzie, with or without his permission.
‘And what are your prospects, pray? Nothing but a half-pay officer from what I can see,’ he said, giving Harry’s scuffed boots a scornful look.
And yet Harry’s pulse sped up. If the Colonel was asking about his prospects, it meant he was actually considering his proposal. So now it was time to wheel out the big guns.
The Captain Claims His Lady Page 7