Counterfeit Countess (23 page)

He could think of no reason for John Smith to want him dead—except one. He had to link the attempt with the visit to Smith’s tent the night before the battle. The same man, who’d probably wanted more than gambling debts. He might well have lured Smith with promises of cancelling his debts, a promise to wipe them out if Smith killed his commanding officer.

Cockfosters was the link, no doubt about that. He knew John Smith, probably instigated the otherwise senseless attack on him, and now he returned to threaten Faith. John had to find him.

An unknown heir, maybe, waiting in the wings to claim his prize. With the earl and his brother dead, only John lay between him and the title. John could no longer trust Roker to instigate enquiries on his own. True, he’d arranged for a few advertisements in newspapers around the country, a common occurrence, but he needed to increase his search. Ensure no heir existed, or identify one.

Or someone might want the title defunct. Someone wanting revenge for an unspecified act, or someone with another motive.

That begged for close inspection of the earldom’s accounts and holdings, something he was doing in any case. Even the dowager stood to gain from his death, with her income reverting to her and her daughters inheriting the unentailed parts of the estate, but he had no concerns on that score, merely because of her strong pride in the family and title. Charlotte and Louise? They couldn’t say boo to a goose. No, not them.

A cold hand clutched his heart when he realised something else.

He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing.

By taking Faith into his bed, by sleeping with her every night, he’d put her in danger. Servants gossiped, and if anyone asked they’d find out easily enough. Claiming her as his wife had been bad enough, but showing her such partiality was worse. Whoever
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wanted him dead must know Faith might quicken. If she announced a pregnancy, then she was dead too.

Potential enemies crowded in from all sides, but he suspected they all coalesced into one person. Whoever it was would have to get to her over him. So he had to live too.

* * * * *

“Thank you, yes.” David Carlisle gave a bleak smile. “My lord.”

That must have choked him, to use the title.

John returned the smile. “’Sir’ will do.”

“Of course.”

John exchanged a glance with Thomas Pilkington, sitting at his ease, coffee cup in hand, one lanky ankle crossed over his other knee. Thomas raised a brow, but showed no other sign of response.

John knew him well enough to interpret that as gentle amusement.

Carlisle had delayed his arrival in town because of a severe bout of influenza that had grown from the chill he’d laid claim to last week. John saw no signs of the illness in the healthy features and clear blue eyes. Carlisle was a handsome devil, if a woman happened to prefer mid-brown hair and pale eyes, with a face of Classical proportions. Not forgetting the superior attitude that went with the knowledge he was employed by one of the premier families in the country, of course.

John didn’t have to wonder how Carlisle had taken the news he’d inherited the title. He could see it in every line of the hard, condemning face.

Just as he was about to begin his meeting, a tap on the door heralded the entrance of Roker. He apologised profusely for his late
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arrival, claiming the traffic as an excuse.

“You’ve lived in London a long time,” John observed mildly, as a footman furnished Roker with a seat and a cup of coffee. “Could you not have adjusted for that?”

Roker didn’t answer, but took his seat and refreshment. John nodded dismissal to the footman. He knew how much gossip travelled from house to house—it was how the world knew he habitually shared a bed with his wife. At this stage in his investigations he couldn’t afford for anyone to know what he planned to do in this room in the immediate future.

He began the meeting.

“I’ll travel to Graywood as soon as I can to inspect the estate, then I’ll visit the other sites.” He tapped the ledger Roker had given him with his forefinger. “This shows a few failings recently. The income from the farms is down, and rents are up. Is there any reason for that?”

Roker and Carlisle exchanged a glance, but John couldn’t tell from the quick glance what they meant. Collaboration? He and Pilkington had come to some conclusions in the last few days, and both agreed bringing the steward and the man of business together might prove interesting.

“Times were hard in the war years,” Carlisle said, “And a couple of poor harvests hit our earnings badly.”

“Did the mines flood?” At Carlisle’s stare of incomprehension, John added, “The coal mines. You do supervise those as part of the holdings, don’t you?”

“Yes.” After a pause Carlisle added, “Sir.”

John gave no indication he’d registered the insolent second’s silence. “I understand demand for coal is rising, not falling. So were the mines flooded? Some other disaster, perhaps?”

“We had a series of small incidents. And the mines are deep ones, taking more expense to excavate.”

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John didn’t believe that, but when he glanced at Pilkington, his agent gave a slight shake of his head. One lie. Roker didn’t respond to the mendacious answer, but surely he should know it was a lie? “I thought prices were improving.”

“It’s an expensive mine,” Roker put in before Carlisle could answer. “Deep and dangerous to work. Keeping it safe costs a great deal.” John had more than one mine. He had a map with their locations plotted out, or had Carlisle forgotten those lessons twenty years ago? John had spent a week poring over the plans, then he’d been sent north to investigate them, an experience he’d never forgotten. He wondered if Carlisle had undertaken the same exhaustive investigation.

“We should have had this meeting some time ago, but matters conspired against us,” he said, deliberately avoiding Carlisle’s eyes.

He wanted the let the man know his displeasure. “I want you to take me through these figures and give me the state of affairs of the Graywood earldom.” He’d remember what they said, but just in case, he pulled out a notebook from the top drawer of his desk and opened it, prepared to take notes. Pilkington did the same.

“Last year’s profits appear remarkably low,” he said coolly,

“Although the ledger remains in the black.” Barely.

“That is when the expenses are removed,” Roker put in. “The town house is not cheap, and the late earl insisted every estate was kept in readiness in case he wished to stay there.”

And so it went on. For each issue he brought up, they had a ready excuse. The mines were too deep to yield a good profit, and a series of disasters had depleted them even more. The crops had a series of bad years, disease attacking the harvest. A ship had sunk with cargo on board, reducing the investment. Companies they’d invested in had failed.

Nobody could be that unlucky. And yet, the estate made just enough profit to run the houses. Enough to prevent anyone asking too many questions.

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Just when John thought he might roar with rage, someone tapped at the door and John bade him enter. The footman crossed the room and gave him a card on a tray. After John informed him he wasn’t at home, the footman left.

Nobody had called. The card was John’s own, given to the footman to bring in as the pre-arranged signal that this meeting had served its purpose. John never expected to get much from either Roker or Carlisle, at least nothing that would help him resolve the current situation.

Much to his relief he got to his feet and the others followed suit.

He’d said everything he wanted to and mildly accepted their increasingly feeble excuses. It didn’t escape his notice that his steward’s expression lifted as he got to his feet and bowed. He claimed his illness had made him weak and he just wanted to return to bed when John made a solicitous enquiry after his health. Luckily not in this house. With Faith’s permission, he was staying at Red Lion Square.

Did she miss her previous life, with her quiet circle of friends and a social life that didn’t depend on making powerful connections? He’d taken her away from the life she’d made for herself and plunged her into something she’d not been ready for.

Now he bade fair to immerse her into the scandal of the season, one they couldn’t answer with simple denial. Like the hydra, as soon as one head was lopped off, another appeared to take its place.

He sighed.

Come to that, he didn’t particularly want this, either. The notion of living with Faith in the small but comfortable house in Red Lion Square struck him as paradise right now.

However, this life had its compensations. He was not about to cavil at living at one of the best addresses in London and his new ability to command respect, although not, sadly, by all people.

“I think we have gone as far as we can today, gentlemen.” He glanced at Pilkington. “Although, Thomas, I would appreciate the
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opportunity to discuss the vessel ‘
Good Fortune
’ with you before you leave.”

No such ship existed, and Pilkington knew it. The ruse was merely an excuse for Pilkington to remain behind without unduly raising the suspicions of the two other men.

After the steward and Roker had left John rolled his shoulders, shucking off a responsibility he didn’t want in the first place. He crossed to the sideboard and unlocked the tantalus, before pouring them both a generous measure of brandy. “So what do you think?”

Thomas accepted a tumbler of amber liquid with a word of thanks. “They seemed equally guilty. If there is something nefarious going on, then they are complicit. They supported each other’s stories, and they had the lies straight. But don’t forget, they could have brought this sad state of affairs about by good old-fashioned incompetence.”

John resumed his seat and took a restorative draught of brandy.

“Something is definitely wrong with the earldom. Whether it is through incompetence or fraud remains for us to discover.” He took another sip, the liquid warming its way to his stomach. “A certain amount of incompetence is definitely involved. They didn’t research me, or you for that matter, and discover exactly who they were dealing with. That, to my mind, is crass stupidity. Who goes into a business meeting with less than all the information they can muster? But I believe wilful deception is involved also.”

“Call it what it is.” Thomas put his empty tumbler on the desk.

“Fraud. You could have them hanged for it.”

The thought left John strangely unmoved. “I may decide to ruin them instead, if that’s true. Much worse. I will uncover everything they did and call them to account. Soon. The rumour they’re spreading about the death of the brothers could be dangerous if allowed to continue for much longer.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “We need proof, otherwise our names will be mud. For myself I care little. Why should I care about a family that openly
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despised me and only put up with me because it was expected? I’m fortunate I didn’t need them. However, there are employees who will be put out of work and my wife—she doesn’t deserve this.” The thought choked him. He wanted nothing but pleasure to come Faith’s way from now on.

“It’s more than that,” Thomas remarked. “You have a decided partiality for Lady Graywood, my friend. Could it be you’re in love?”

John laughed and then paused, broke off his contemplation of the sharp cuts incised into his brandy tumbler. Could it? Could his old colleague be right?

He hadn’t thought about it before.
Love?
He’d never considered it. He respected her, of course, and he cared for her. However, he didn’t know what love was. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t define it. So how could he ever know for sure?

The knock at the door came as a relief, because he disliked thinking about matters beyond his ability to control or describe.

He’d believed his relationship with Faith a welcome one. She was a delightful bed companion, loyal and an asset socially. They made a good team, but love?

They could only see the footman who entered from the waist down. The huge pile of tomes he held rose above his head and obscured the rest of him. “My lord, there are more.”

He gave Thomas a half smile. “Bring them in,” he said to the footman. “All of them.”

Five minutes later they contemplated the stack of ledgers the footman had laid on the floor, the desk being too full and no other surface large enough. “Our strategy seems to have succeeded rather well.”

Relieved Roker kept the books at his office and not locked away somewhere, John studied the piles of heavy tomes with a frown.

“We must give Burrows a bonus.”

“I will. He’ll make partner one day.”

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While Thomas and John had kept Roker and Carlisle busy here with their interminable questions, they’d sent Burrows to Roker’s offices with a note of authority. When Roker returned to his establishment, all hell would break loose there because John had every single ledger relating to the Graywood estate transferred here.

John heartily wished he could be there to see the fuss.

He would deny Roker and Carlisle access to the house unless he gave explicit permission for them to enter it. Work to do.

He removed his coat and tossed it carelessly over the back of the chair before he rolled up his sleeves and gave a happy sigh. At last, real work, something he understood. “I’ll tell them to inform callers I’m not at home, then get to it. Once we’ve established a pattern, we can pick it up in previous years, but I foresee a few days’ hard work until we do that.”

He’d also sent a carriage to the abbey with orders to collect the ledgers and journals from the last ten years and bring them to town.

He’d designed the trip to cross paths with Carlisle on his way to London. They should arrive soon.