Chapter 2 #2
“That is both true and untrue,” she said. “The new Lord Radcliffe inherited the title from my late husband and is indeed ailing. From what I understand, it is rare for him to leave his bed. But this estate—and the management of the borough—lies with me.”
Mr. Yorke’s arrested gaze fixed on hers.
She was accustomed to such reactions. It was a highly irregular situation, after all, and she never failed to find it awkward to explain.
“Please,” she said, coming around the writing desk and indicating a sofa, “do have a seat.”
Eyes still fixed on her, he moved absently to sit. “Do you mean to say that this estate did not pass to the new Lord Radcliffe?”
“My late husband held the estate in fee simple,” she explained. “He and his uncle did not…see eye to eye, so Richard left Trevenna Court to me. It is a singular situation.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Yorke said, awe in his voice. He shifted in his seat, switching the gift he had brought from one hand to the other.
The question of why Mr. Yorke had come—with a gift, no less—had still not been answered.
He seemed to take note of her focus. “Oh.” He gave a small laugh as he looked at the box. “That is…a mistake, I fear. Not the only one I have made today, evidently.”
Caroline smiled, intrigued more than ever. “A gift could never be a mistake, Mr. Yorke.”
“I hesitate to contradict you, my lady, but in this case, it most certainly is. I was under the impression I was paying a call to an elderly Lord and Lady Radcliffe, not”—his gaze met hers, then ran over her person, making her pulse quicken—“well…not someone like you.”
“Well, I am the Dowager Lady Radcliffe,” she said, her curiosity burning brighter than ever.
What sort of gift had he brought? And why bring a gift at all given how little he knew of the recipient?
“In name, perhaps,” he said, “but believe me, my lady—not a person on God’s green earth would see you and assume you could be a dowager.”
“You flatter me, Mr. Yorke.”
“Better that than showering mud upon you as I did this morning,” he replied ruefully.
“True,” she said, smiling at the memory. “Perhaps you should give me that kind gift you brought, after all.” She reached for it, but he pulled it away.
“I will bring you a gift, my lady,” he said, revealing the smile that had been in her mind since leaving the village. “But one that will please rather than insult you, I trust.”
Insult her? What in heaven’s name could he have brought?
The door opened, and their heads came around.
Oswald stopped on the threshold, his gaze sweeping from Caroline to Mr. Yorke, at which point, recognition lit in his eyes.
Mr. Yorke and Caroline both rose.
“Oswald,” she said, wondering at his impeccable sense of timing for the second time that day. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Yorke. Mr. Yorke, this is Mr. Oswald.”
Mr. Yorke bowed, but his eyes met hers, a small question in them.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Yorke,” Oswald said with a responsive bow.
He was taller, thinner, and lighter in coloring than Mr. Yorke, holding himself with a more staid energy than the latter’s easy confidence.
“Forgive the interruption, Lady Radcliffe, but I came as soon as I received word.”
Caroline’s gaze flicked to the letter in his hand, then back up.
“Westvale has died,” Oswald said.
“He has?” Mr. Yorke exclaimed.
Caroline’s head came around, as did Oswald’s.
Mr. Yorke cleared his throat, as though remembering himself. “Forgive me.”
“Are you friends with Lord Westvale?” Caroline asked, though his response had not been the chagrined surprise of someone who has just learned of the death of a friend.
“No,” he replied. “I…was aware that he had taken ill, however.”
Oswald turned more fully toward him. “Indeed? And what is your business in Trelowen, Mr. Yorke?”
“Oswald,” Caroline said in surprise, for his tone was sharper than necessary. While she appreciated his readiness to defend her and Trelowen, Mr. Yorke’s reasons for being there were hardly his affair. Though, she was admittedly curious to know, as well….
“Forgive me, my lady,” Oswald said, his eyes trained on Mr. Yorke, “but I suspect I know the reason for Mr. Yorke’s appearance here at this auspicious moment.”
Caroline stared at her friend for a moment as his meaning took shape. There was only one thing he could mean.
She looked at Mr. Yorke, trusting he would dispel Oswald’s suspicions.
Mr. Yorke looked between them for a moment, a hint of discomfort in his expression. “With news of Lord Westvale’s death so fresh, I hardly think this the proper moment—”
“Lord Westvale’s death happened many days ago,” Caroline said, her voice light, though her gaze was not. “That is what it means to live in Cornwall, sir—the only news is old news. Pray, tell us what has brought you to our small, obscure borough at this precise time.”
Mr. Yorke regarded her a moment. “Very well. While I certainly had no notion Lord Westvale would succumb to his illness at this particular moment—”
“Several days since,” Caroline amended, feeling her blood begin to simmer.
“—I came to Trelowen with the intention of putting myself forward as the most suitable candidate to replace Mr. Brightmoor in representing this borough in the House of Commons.”
The silence crackled, and Caroline’s quickened pulse steadied as though the simmering blood in her veins had been injected with water from the cold stream next to Trevenna.
This gentleman thought he could waltz into Trelowen—a borough to which he had no connection whatsoever—and use it to his political and personal advantage. He had even brought a gift for the people he thought the key to his plan—people he knew nothing of.
All the charm Caroline had found in him disintegrated like sea foam on the sand. Perhaps it was anger—or perchance a sense of betrayal—that pushed her to do what she did next.
“And you brought a gift in pursuit of that goal.” Caroline reached for the small wooden box on the floor before Mr. Yorke could prevent her. “How very thoughtful.”
Mr. Yorke’s hand shot out, his mouth open but wordless. After a moment, he let it drop, as though accepting his fate. In fact, a hint of resigned humor crept in his eyes as he put out his other hand, inviting her to open the box.
Caroline took out the first item. “Ah.” She lifted a snuff box, which bore a painting of a hunting scene. It looked as though it might have belonged to someone who had lived over a century ago. She lifted the lid, then sniffed and gave a cough.
“That was meant for…your husband,” Mr. Yorke said.
“Her husband has been gone these three years,” Oswald said.