Through the Smoke (26 page)

“Because… ?”

“I believe I know what they were after.”

“
What?
”

She felt his hands tighten on hers and wanted to remove her gloves so she could touch him,
really
touch him as she had when he brought the ointment. But she dared not be so forward.

Withdrawing instead, she lifted the ledgers she’d placed on the seat beside her and set them in his lap. “These.”

“What are you saying?”

His manner reminded her of the earl as she used to view him. Haughty. Austere. But she knew it was the depth of his passion for this subject that put such an edge to his voice and she was no longer put off by that passion. “You have questioned my mother’s finances.”

“Yes.”

“These ledgers prove the bookshop was not making enough of a profit to support us and hadn’t for some time.”

“So there
had
to be money coming in from somewhere else.”

“There was a payment each month that is currently unaccounted for.” She didn’t want to believe her mother had any culpability in Katherine’s murder, even if that culpability extended only so far as helping to cover it up, but she had to acknowledge the possibility. Considering the way Jillian had felt about Lord Druridge, she probably believed her actions were justified.

“Your mother might’ve been on the payroll of those who fired Blackmoor Hall,” he said. “But you don’t know who was paying her?”

“Although I have my suspicions, I can’t say with any certainty.”

“Whom do you suspect, dear Rachel?”

This was getting more difficult by the moment. Was she going to tell Lord Druridge about Mr. Cutberth and the union? If she brought up the clerk’s name, the rest would come out as soon as the earl took a closer look at his bookkeeper. And what if Cutberth had nothing to do with the fire and really was worried about how Lord Druridge’s efforts might interfere with meeting the miners’ demands? She didn’t want to erode what little power they’d gained. Their lives were hard enough.

But the earl was being blamed for something he didn’t do and while the possibility of catching the real culprit existed, she had to tell all she knew.

“Mr. Cutberth has shown considerable interest in your affairs, my lord.”

He straightened. “My
clerk
?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he was acting alone?”

“There could be others,” she conceded. “Mrs. Tate just told me that her son believes Cutberth and your cousin are involved in something together.”

“What makes him believe that?”

“He claims the two have been acting secretive.”

“That could mean nothing. That could be mine business.”

“I’m just relaying what she told me. But even if Wythe wasn’t involved, wasn’t somehow in it all along with Cutberth, I still doubt Cutberth would have acted alone. He’s very quick-witted. He wouldn’t be the type to set the fire himself.”

“From what I know of Mr. Cutberth, I would have to agree with you there.”

“I could be entirely wrong about him, my lord. I want you to understand that.”

“Then why do you suspect him?”

“He has said some things that have made me wonder.” She lowered her voice. “And this much I can be certain of: He is no friend of yours.”

The earl massaged his left hand. “He pretends to be.”

“Of course.” He’d pretended to be her friend too when he was trying to enlist her help. “You provide his paycheck.”

“I would never have taken Cutberth for a Judas.”

“He can be convincing.”

There was a slight pause. “I didn’t realize you knew him.”

“Creswell isn’t that large, my lord. I know most people, especially those associated with the mine, seeing as my father and older brother both worked there for a number of years.”

“I guess it makes sense, in one way. Cutberth would’ve known your father, would’ve been aware of his problems—that he was disgruntled and eager for revenge.”

She smoothed her skirt. “He would have, yes.”

“And if Jack were caught, a promise to care for his family might convince him to take the fall. If he escaped, he would have every reason to carry the secret to his grave.”

“I have… considered that,” she said. “As well as this: If he refused, Mr. Cutberth would know other men who might be willing to take his place.”

His breath misted in the cold air, looking like smoke in the moonlight. “Did you ever see him at your house?”

“He was a familiar figure,” she admitted. “But he didn’t come only to see my father.” She cleared her throat. Did she now also admit her own involvement? How could she not? “He was usually there to see me.”

“Mr. Cutberth is married. He wasn’t—”

“No.” Now that she’d come this far, it was all she could do not to squirm in discomfort, because there was no going back. “We… we were working together.”

“How? When? He didn’t help run the bookshop.”

“No.” Gathering her courage, she blurted out what she’d been holding back. She couldn’t point a finger at Mr. Cutberth without accepting responsibility for her own role as adversary to the earl’s best interests. “We were trying to organize the miners into a union, my lord.”

The silence that met this admission made Rachel feel as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees.

“I see,” he said at length.

She wondered if she’d upset him. “My brother died in a cave-in,” she said softly. “My father died of miner’s lung. Surely you can understand why I might act in such a fashion.”

When he didn’t respond, she wished she hadn’t felt obligated to be quite so honest. But she couldn’t work for and against both sides and continue to look herself in the mirror.

“Is that all you’ve got to tell me?” he asked.

“Yes, except… Elspeth might know more—a lot more.”

He’d turned his head to look out at the dark night, but at this, his attention shifted to her. “I have questioned Elspeth on a number of occasions. She has assured me she knows nothing.”

“She once indicated the opposite to me, my lord, but that could’ve been mere posturing. Tonight when I tried to see her, she refused to give me an audience. She wouldn’t even accept a letter.” She handed him the note she’d written, begging Elspeth to come forward for the sake of saving an innocent man.

“You’ve become too closely associated with me.”

When she said nothing, they lapsed into silence for the duration of the ride. The reminder of their different lives and different roles had cast a pall across their time together. In the face of that, they could no longer pretend to have found common ground.

Once they arrived at the manse, Linley met them at the door.

“Hello, my lord. I trust you had a… rewarding evening.”

Lord Druridge scarcely answered. He certainly said nothing that gave away where he’d been. He’d given no indication while they were on the road either. But Rachel couldn’t help wondering. Unless he was traveling to London or somewhere else, he didn’t go out much at night. Of all the earl’s estates, Blackmoor Hall was the most remote but seemed to be the one he preferred.

“Miss Rachel, how good to see you.”

Linley’s smile eased some of her misgivings. After what she’d revealed, the earl was treating her politely but distantly. She didn’t get the impression he was angry at her, just doing his best to cope with the stark realities of what he was up against.

She relinquished her cloak into the butler’s care because he offered to take it and she thought it would be impolite to refuse. But she was painfully aware of the fact that she had no right to be treated like a member of the gentry. That she could see Mrs. Poulson standing off to one side, watching, made her especially self-conscious.

“Goodnight, Mr. Linley.” She dipped into a curtsy for Lord Druridge. “Goodnight, my lord. I-I’m sorry if I’ve… displeased you.”

“Rachel.”

When the earl called her name, she hadn’t quite reached the stairs. “Yes?”

“I have something I want to show you.”

The imperious note was back in his voice. She welcomed it because she hated the thought that, with her confession, she might’ve lost some of his respect or his regard. “What is that, my lord?”

“You’ll see. It’s in the far wing. If you will do me the favor of accompanying me there.”

He didn’t act as if she had much of a choice. “Of course.”

The earl squeezed Linley’s shoulder. “You look spent,” he murmured. “I suggest you retire.”

“I’m afraid I’m not as young as I used to be,” the butler joked.

“Get some rest.”

There was genuine affection in this exchange, making it plain that Lord Druridge cared a great deal for Linley.

“As you wish, my lord.”

Catching Rachel’s eye, the earl gestured to the stairs. “Shall we?”

She followed him to his study, where he lit the lamp he carried with them to the farthest reaches of the manse. They entered a wing that had been closed off and passed room after room, none of which had been occupied for some time. Many weren’t even furnished. Others were draped.

“There used to be so much in this part of the house,” he commented as they walked. “The cradle, from when I was a child—
all
my childhood belongings, really. Family heirlooms. Gifts and keepsakes from centuries back. Extra furniture.”

“The fire took it.”

A muscle moved in his cheek. “Yes. The wind carried the flames to this wing. It was the one that was most damaged.”

The corridor stretched far beyond the reach of the lamp. She’d never even been asked to clean here. As far as she knew, no one visited this part of the house. “So what are you taking me to see?”

“Do you remember me telling you about the painter Pieter Bruegel?”

Wishing she’d kept her cloak on, she rubbed her arms. “Yes, although I still don’t understand his relevance to the past.”

“I asked you why Cutberth might want to fire Blackmoor Hall.”

“Yes, and I had no answer.”

“
This
might be the answer,” he said and stopped at a door with a double lock.

Rachel had never seen a Pieter Bruegel painting, so she could shed no new light on the situation. But once Lord Druridge told her about his father’s collection and how it might’ve been stolen—the fire set to hide the theft—she felt new hope. If the earl could prove the paintings hadn’t been destroyed in the fire, he could clear his name
and
his conscience. And the scenario he presented sounded plausible. The amount of money to be gained from the sale of such rare art would provide Cutberth—or anyone else—with plenty of incentive.

Maybe the union organizer wasn’t the selfless individual he’d always portrayed himself to be. Maybe he’d been hoping to get rich off Truman Stanhope and had carefully planned out the method he would use. It seemed more likely that Cutberth would be responsible than Wythe, since Wythe had saved Truman’s life despite the fact that he had so much to gain from his death.

But when Lord Druridge told her he’d already been looking for several weeks and hadn’t found anything, her hope dwindled again. Without at least one of the paintings, he had nothing solid to rely on, no evidence to protect him should his late wife’s family gain the upper hand—only a vague memory, and even he didn’t seem convinced that memory was reliable.

“So you will marry the duke’s daughter,” she said as matter-of-factly as possible. “If that doesn’t save you from criminal prosecution, it will at least buy more time.”

He stared down at the letter she’d given him in the carriage, what she’d written to Elspeth, pleading on his behalf. “Is that what you want me to do?”

It was the
last
thing she wanted. But what else could she say? She would never encourage him to risk the noose. Besides, as much as she preferred to ignore it, the odd feeling from the carriage persisted, despite what she’d read in his letter. “I understand the plight of my class; you understand the plight of yours.”

“Meaning… ?”

“I have worked to create a union among the miners, something that is in the best interest of who I am and who I know and love. You will marry strategically, for the same reasons. We were born into separate worlds, you and I.”

“But do we have to remain in those worlds?” He put down the lamp and the letter and gripped her shoulders as if he’d shake the answer he wanted out of her. But she wasn’t even sure what that answer would be. What if she were to tell him she’d fallen in love with him? That she thought of him constantly?