Through the Smoke (38 page)

If she were Mrs. Poulson, Mr. Linley, or any of the other servants or villagers, she’d probably feel the same way. An earl simply didn’t marry a poor miner’s daughter.

But Truman seemed convinced that he wanted her to be with him. And he’d insisted, before he left, that she rely on what
he
said and not anyone else.

Overcome with a sudden panic, she almost couldn’t bring herself to climb into the earl’s carriage, however—especially when a few of the other neighbors came out to stare at the peculiar sight of the earl’s coach sitting in front of Mrs. Tate’s humble abode.

“Miss McTavish? May I offer you my assistance?” One of the earl’s footmen held the door while Timothy, the driver, remained in the box on top.

Taking the hand the footman offered her, Rachel forced a smile and let him help her inside. But she’d never felt more self-conscious of her low position in life.

“Are you all settled, mum?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied and he climbed on back before Timothy cracked the whip and they started off.

Rachel rode with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The first time she’d been inside this carriage was the snowy night she’d brought the doctor. So much had changed since then. Was she wrong for agreeing to marry the earl? She didn’t want him to have to cope with the social stigma they would face, but he seemed singularly determined.

Despite the strength of his commitment, when they approached the gates, she almost cried out for Timothy to take her back. She was in love with the earl, but maybe that was precisely the reason she should run away and never speak to him again.

“Timothy?” she called.

He didn’t stop. They started up the drive before he spoke above the grating of the carriage wheels.

“Yes, Miss McTavish?”

It wasn’t easy to get any words out with her heart in her throat. She pressed a hand to her chest in an effort to settle her pulse, but before she could insist he return her to the village, she saw Geordie running toward them.

“I’ll get out here,” she said.

Geordie threw himself into her arms as soon as she alighted. “I am
so
glad you’re back, Rachel. I hated thinking I wouldn’t get to see you as often.”

Rachel gazed up at the manse. It looked more imposing now than it ever had before. And she was to be mistress of it? “I’m glad to be back, Geordie.”

“The earl has asked Mrs. Poulson to make us some meat pies and savory pudding. He said I can have the afternoon off and the two of us can eat in the parlor and be together as long as we like. Isn’t that nice of him, Rachel? Mum and Dad never cared for him, but he seems like a kind fellow to me.”

“He
is
a kind fellow, Geordie.” Knowing the earl had provided her with this opportunity so she could tell her brother about their betrothal before he heard the news from someone else, she smiled. “Did he also tell you we are to be married?”

His eyes went round. “
You?
Marrying the
earl
?”

She frowned as she stared down at her very practical and not particularly nice wool dress. She hardly looked the part. “He asked me today.”

It took her brother a moment to absorb it. “Do you think he was teasing?” he asked at length.

Only those few minutes when they were making love made it feel real. She knew Truman hadn’t been teasing about anything then. “He seemed serious at the time.”

She expected her brother to react with the same shock and skepticism she anticipated from everyone else. But a broad smile curved his lips, and he seemed completely in earnest when he said, “Then he’s a smart fellow, too.”

Grateful for this single token of confidence, Rachel mussed his hair and stepped aside as the carriage rolled past them. “Thank you for that, little brother. God knows how much I needed it.”

“Shall we go eat?”

The thought of confronting Poulson so soon wasn’t appealing. She decided she’d rather put it off—until she became more accustomed to the idea of being Lady Druridge. “No. I want to enjoy the outdoors. Would you mind if we went for a walk along the cliffs instead?” They’d developed a few favorite spots. She wanted to go back to them.

“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 requested 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.”