Through the Smoke (40 page)

“If I can.”

“And what will you do when they summon him to court?”

She curled her fingernails into her palms as she battled the fear his words evoked. “I hope the paintings will be found, and he won’t be summoned to court. I am sure you hope the same.”

Wythe’s expression made his true feelings difficult to determine, but his words were what she would expect them to be. “Of course. But I’m not sure you should depend on finding those paintings.”

“Because… ?”

“We have already been through the mine. Where else can they be?”

“They could be anywhere.” She stepped closer. “Elspeth’s, for instance.”

“The whorehouse!”

If he thought his blatant use of the word might make her wince, he was wrong. She hadn’t been sheltered like the ladies of the gentry. “Why not?” she responded. “Elspeth could be storing them in her attic or cellar.”

A muscle moved in his cheek. “You will find nothing at Elspeth’s.”

She arched her eyebrows. “How do you know if you’ve never looked?”

“Because she would have told me if she was hiding paintings that could prove my cousin innocent of Katherine’s murder.”

“You are
such
great friends?”

“We are very great friends indeed.”

She clapped. “Wonderful.”

His face reflected his confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Then she won’t mind letting Truman search tomorrow.
You
can arrange it.”

He opened his mouth as if he would refuse but seemed to think better of it. “I will talk to her when I go there tonight.”

Would he? What would he do when he got there? That was what she intended to find out. “I know Truman would appreciate it. I will tell him you might save him yet again.”

His nostrils flared with dislike despite her acknowledgment of his heroism, but he gave her a bow nonetheless. “Mistress Rachel.”

“Goodnight, Wythe,” she said.

Chapter 23

As soon as the earl’s cousin left, Rachel sent for Mr. Linley. She would have gone to Truman instead, but he wasn’t yet home, and she didn’t want to let his cousin get too far ahead of them.

“Yes, Mistress Rachel?”

She looked up from the settee as the butler entered. “Mr. Linley, thank you for coming.”

“Of course. I am at your service. Always.”

The devotion in that statement filled her with gratitude. There were times when it felt as if she and the earl would have to stand against the world. “I appreciate that. I do. But the favor I am about to ask is a bit out of the ordinary. I dare put it to you only because I am confident of your great love for Lord Druridge.”

He dipped his head. “You can depend on me, my lady.”

The ending to that statement took her aback. “You don’t have to address me that way, Mr. Linley. We both know I am not a
true
lady, and I am not one to put on airs.”

“You certainly act the part. And you will soon be the wife of an earl. I am more than happy to give you the respect due your new station in life.”

She dipped her head to acknowledge his kindness. “That is truly generous of you. I hope the rest of the staff can accept me too, so we can all get on… comfortably.”

“Considering they will make the adjustment or work elsewhere, I do believe they won’t find it
too
difficult.”

He acted as if she had every right to expect their full cooperation. “I
appreciate you trying to ease my concerns,” she said, “but I would hate for it to come to that.”

“I will see to the servants. Never you fear.” He used his cane as he came closer. “Now, this favor you wanted. What can I do for you?”

She was nervous to tell him. She was acting on instinct alone and had no real justification for what she was about to propose. “As I mentioned, you might find this a bit odd, but Lord Druridge isn’t here and I don’t want to miss what I feel could be important in proving him innocent of Katherine’s murder.”

“I will do anything, especially anything you deem important.”

In spite of that, she braced for his reaction. “I would like you to follow Mr. Stanhope this evening.”

He lowered his voice. “You mean…
secretly
?”

Rachel hated to reveal her distrust of the earl’s own cousin. But he had given her such an odd feeling a moment ago when she suggested he make arrangements for a search of the brothel. And she knew Elspeth had information, which had most likely come from Wythe. In her mind, it was entirely conceivable that, if the paintings were still in Creswell, she was hiding them in a locked attic or cellar. “Yes, secretly,” she confirmed. “I want to know where he goes and what he does.” Since Wythe knew her intentions were to search the brothel, he might try to move the paintings, if they were there in the first place. She planned to be ready for him if he did.

He propped both hands on top of his cane. “How do you feel this might prove his lordship’s innocence, my lady?”

“I believe Elspeth’s will be one of Mr. Stanhope’s stops.”

His thick eyebrows shot up. “Knowing Wythe, it will probably be his
only
stop. But I am rather certain we already know what he does there.”

Chuckling, she came to her feet. “Perhaps tonight will be different. I have asked him to secure Elspeth’s agreement so that we can search the brothel tomorrow and—”

“Excuse me, my lady. But you did say
brothel?
”

“I am afraid so, Mr. Linley.” Most decent folks wouldn’t go anywhere near a house of ill repute. She understood that. He probably wondered who would perform the search even if Wythe made it possible. No God-fearing
Christian woman would want her husband in such a place. They couldn’t use the footmen or stable lads for fear of corrupting them, and the maids were out of the question. Just darkening the doorstep of a brothel could ruin a young girl. But Rachel was determined. She would do it herself, if need be. She had taken the risk of associating with Elspeth before. Whatever happened, they couldn’t leave it to Wythe. If they did, they might as well not search at all. “Those paintings have to be somewhere, Mr. Linley.”

Two deep grooves formed between his eyes. “What makes you think they might be
there
?”

“Elspeth knows something about the fire. I am convinced of it.”

“She claims she doesn’t. I have spoken to her many times.”

“I have spoken to her too. Although she once led me to believe she could name those who approached my father, she has since clammed up. I wonder why—what, specifically, she is afraid of.…”

“She would certainly have reason to fear if she has the paintings.”

“
If
Wythe took them in the first place, he had to have somewhere to put them.”

“The earl has offered a significant reward for their recovery. I would expect someone like Elspeth to come forward and claim it.”

“Unless she is afraid she won’t live long enough to enjoy the money.”

“You’re not suggesting Wythe would…
kill
her?”

It wasn’t an accusation she enjoyed making. She was probably crossing all kinds of lines when it came to the “hero” who had pulled Truman from the fire. But she had to do everything in her power to clear the earl’s name. And the Wythe she knew was capable of anything.
I could throw your body into the ocean and tell my dear cousin that you ran away in the night
. Although he had later recanted those words and claimed he hadn’t been serious, they had felt
quite
serious at the time. “Someone killed Katherine, did they not?”

“Indeed. Thank you for relying on me to handle this for you. I will take the matter from here.”

She felt a flicker of concern. “Are you sure you are up to going out this late? I know you must be tired. Maybe there is someone you trust—”

“Not with this. But never you worry. I am more than capable, my lady.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. He was no longer a young man, but she didn’t feel as if she had anyone else to turn to. “Thank you, Mr. Linley. I—”

The floor creaked in the entry, causing Rachel to fall silent.

Was someone there?

A shadow fell against the single door that stood open. She wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t heard that creak, but now that she had focused her attention that way, it looked to be in the shape of a person.…

“Hello?” she called. “Who is it?”

The shadow vanished as whoever cast it darted away, but Rachel managed to get out of the room quickly enough to see a flash of fabric—the hem of a skirt—disappear around the far corner.

Was it the housekeeper?

Rachel couldn’t be certain. She hurried to the steps leading to the kitchen and servants’ hall, but they were empty.

“Mrs. Poulson?” she called down, just in case.

There was no answer.

Wythe took a long swig from the flask in his pocket as he paced in his room at Cosgrove House. He had hated few women as much as he hated Rachel. He had managed to endure the conceit of his aristocratic relations—he had put up with being treated as the “lesser” cousin his whole life—but he could not endure a mere miner’s daughter acting as if
she
was better than him, too. How dare the earl pretend as if he could take a common villager into his bed and make her into anything he wanted, including his wife, when he hadn’t even tried to demand that his own cousin be treated with the proper respect. And how dare that woman assume she had a right to all she had been offered. Rachel wasn’t the mistress of Blackmoor Hall quite yet. Truman hadn’t even been home, yet she had dared step up and take over for him.

Wythe thought about the many things he had planned for Miss McTavish after the earl was hanged. She would be sorry then, he told himself.

Planning his revenge helped ease his anger but did nothing to solve the problem at hand. He had to get the paintings out of Elspeth’s right away, before the earl could organize a search. If they were found, he would lose everything he was about to inherit. There was even a chance he would be hanged instead of his cousin.

But how would he get them out? He couldn’t carry them on horseback, couldn’t even ask for a wagon this late—not without good reason. And where would he put the paintings once he rescued them from the brothel?

He took another pull from his flask.
The mine
. He would put them in the mine. No one would look there because it had already been searched. He could hide them in Number 15 stall, where everyone was too afraid to go, until he could sell them.

But he wasn’t sure moving them would warrant the risk or the effort. They were worth a great deal, but things had changed. When he wound up with everything Truman had, he wouldn’t miss the money from the Bruegels, so they were no longer important.

What had been unthinkable just a few days before now seemed like his best option. He should destroy them. Immediately. That way they could never come between him and the future that was within his grasp. He wouldn’t have to secret them out of the brothel in order to do it. He would merely have to chop them in pieces and burn them in the grate.

“Mr. Stanhope?”

Tyndale
. The old windbag was calling up to him from below. What did he want now?

“What is it?” he snapped.

“You have a visitor.”

He refilled his flask. “Who?”

“Mrs. Poulson.”

Good. The only person he could trust. He needed to talk to her.

He poked his head out of his room so that Tyndale could easily hear him. “Send her up.”

The rotund Fore-Overman gaped at him from the bottom of the stairs. “You want her to come to your
bedroom
, sir?”

Yes.
He definitely wanted that. He wasn’t about to let Tyndale overhear a word they said. And he wasn’t about to go out in the rain to avoid that. “If you are afraid it might compromise her reputation, Mr. Tyndale, please don’t worry. Knowing you to be an honorable man, I trust you will not tell a soul.”

He straightened his waistcoat. He fidgeted with that thing so often, Wythe wondered why he bothered wearing one—or why he didn’t get one that fit properly. “I would
never
create gossip, Mr. Stanhope.”

“You see? We have nothing to fear. Send her up.”

“
Now?
” he stalled as if he were trying to think of another argument against it.