Chapter Thirteen
Two weeks later, Harbury folded his hands behind his back as he leaned over his wife’s shoulder, casting a careful eye over several gold chains with various lockets, cameos, and crosses laid across Cassandra’s dressing table.
Each had a strong point—one delicate, the next elegantly carved, another fit with deep red stones. None stood out.
“Any one of them will do,” he said.
She craned her neck, squinting back in a pointed manner. “Clearly, you are unsuited for this occupation.”
“You’re right.” He nodded. “You had better make the choice yourself.”
Perhaps then they might be on their way. The journey to Lord Wexford’s was over an hour by carriage. At this rate, they were running out of time to get there and back by nightfall.
At his feet, Mercy lifted himself up and stretched.
He scooped up the pup, carried him over to the bed, and settled himself on her side of the mattress, still holding the dog against his chest. Mercy gazed up at him with a purposeful, fixed study, as if he’d never seen anything more fascinating in the whole of his doggie life.
Harbury fanned his free arm behind his head then crossed his feet at the ankles. “At least someone appreciates my presence.”
“Your boots had better not be on my new coverlet,” she warned.
He moved his legs so that his feet were hanging just off the footboard. “They’re not.”
He was probably creasing his coat. No more so, however, than he would be once he they were traveling in the carriage. In any case, he rather needed a moment of respite.
This morning, he’d received a third anonymous letter.
He’d spent a fruitless hour questioning staff. The letters weren’t franked. And no one remembered seeing anyone out of the ordinary. Not only were they coming from somewhere on the estate, but they could also be coming from inside the house.
The frequency of the letters combined with uncertainty—who was the malignant force behind them, did they have a greater purpose than the obvious one—created enough pressure to force his hand. He’d sent word to Rose Cottage that he wanted to meet with Anderson on Friday.
Cassandra would want to be included…
Which gave him only two days to tell her everything he’d been withholding.
Absently, he stroked Mercy’s soft fur, quelling a sudden spike of fear. The weight against his chest was due to more than just the dog.
In the beginning, he had no intention of letting Cassie into his heart, into his interior world, therefore he had no reason to reveal his entire history.
He’d only revealed that he’d been love with Lady Pennington and that every attempt to eradicate her from his heart had failed.
He had not told her that Lady Pennington, too, had grown up on the estate.
But the significance of his omission had increased at the same pace as his growing devotion.
He no longer had a choice. He must face the insurmountable mass standing between himself and what he had only too briefly experienced—a marriage of tenderness, laughter, and carnal pleasure…
So much carnal pleasure.
Even now, he had to look away as she held up a cameo and dangled it before her chest. He did not wish to focus too closely on her lovely nape, lest desire spike again.
At the rate they’d been indulging his desire, he wouldn’t be surprised if she was with child.
She was going to be furious when he told her all.
How much worse would it be if she then found out she must be confined?
When she’d proposed, her primary condition had been that he and Adrian present a united front, providing a shield her youngest sisters in their Seasons, a shield she had not experienced.
However, he could hardly escort the girls on his own, leaving him unable to adequately fulfill his promise—the reason she’d agreed to wed him in the first place.
On the other hand, if he did get her with child, then, no matter what unpleasant revelations came to light—the letters, Vivianne’s former role in this house—she would have no choice but to remain with him.
No matter how hurt, she wouldn’t be able to leave him.
“You’re looking particularly fierce.” In the mirror, she met his gaze.
Fierce, bleak…Machiavellian. A little of all the above. “We should leave soon.”
“I’m almost ready.” She went back to sorting her necklaces. “By the way, did you ever find the book you thought was missing?”
“No.” Another troubling fact.
He’d checked again late last night. He’d gone back to the secret room, taken apart the entire French section, then the Italian, then the English. Still, he’d found no trace of The Romance of Melusine.
“Who else,” she asked lightly, “knows about the vault?”
“Adrian,” he replied. But there was someone else, wasn’t there? “And Anderson,” he added thoughtfully.
His father, though mortified by the collection, had wanted the books appraised, even though keeping the collection had been out of character for him.
Could Anderson have taken the book? Why?
“Anderson…” She repeated without looking up. “I’ve been thinking about Anderson…”
“Have you?” he asked lightly.
“We didn’t employ a steward at Willowhurst.”
“How, then, were rents collected?” he attempted to steer the conversation away from his own steward.
“The largest landowners paid at the house. If my father wasn’t present, his solicitor updated the records. A common arrangement, I believe.”
“Lord Blackwood employs a solicitor, though I seem to recall him saying the solicitor he uses works for several landowners.”
“From what I understand, Lord Blackwell employs the same solicitor still keeping an eye on things at Willowhurst. The new owner, Mr. Vane, made the introduction. Willowhurst isn’t nearly as complex as the Harbury estate, doesn’t have a large rent roll, and most of the income comes from sheep.”
“You discussed solicitors with Blackwood and Vane?”
“Lord Blackwood and Mr. Vane were discussing the matter at the wedding breakfast. I was only part of the conversation because I had been inquiring after my old neighbors.” She held up a necklace with a small gold cross up to her neck.
“Although I might have taken a deeper interest in estate matters, if Mr. Wainwright had allowed.”
Mr. Wainwright. Not papa. Or even father.
Odd, when she referred to her Godmother, Lady Asquith, as God Mama.
“The night we agreed to be allies, you said you wanted to look through your father’s notes on Anderson’s records… Have you found anything pertinent?”
Her question caught him off guard, as his mind had briefly wandered. He should have asked her about her father, instead of allowing her to ask more about him.
“Not in the least,” he answered.
“And, if I recall, you also said the last Lady Day audit was in order. Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure.” His words had come out harsher than he’d intended.
“Anderson has been with the estate…how long?”
Damnation. He hadn’t the time for this conversation now. “Since before I was born. And his father before him.”
“A family with deep roots in the community, then. Mrs. Townsend mentioned a daughter. Does he have a son? Anyone to carry on the tradition?”
“Ah…no. There is no one.”
A tiny crease appeared between her brows. Yes, he knew his answer had been evasive.
“The Wexfords are expecting us,” he reminded. This was not a time for confessions and explanations. “Are you close to choosing a necklace?”
“This one.” She held out the necklace with the cross. “Will you help me with the clasp?”
Harbury rose from the bed while Mercy snorted his displeasure at having been abandoned. He caught up the necklace. The chain felt thin and fragile in his hand.
“The other day Mrs. Townsend told me prices have been down.”
The necklace fell from his suddenly clumsy fingers. “Did she?” After locating the chain at her feet, he glanced up. “When?”
Her lids lowered. “Following the war.”
He turned down his lips. Ten to one, her misunderstanding of his question had been deliberate.
“I’ve been thinking,” she continued. “One way to alleviate some of the hardship would be to delay rent collection from Michaelmas to Christmas, or even Lady Day. Better still, to give further reductions based on any documented improvements made by the leaseholder over the winter months.”
He stared at her in astonishment.
“Estate income would be down, of course,” she continued, “but we could economize…” Her voice trailed.
She’d been doing far deeper analysis than light contemplation. She’d come up with a plan similar to the one he’d been contemplating, the one based on Townsend’s information.
Coincidence?
Unlikely.
She kept an expectant gaze on him as he rose. “The tenants would then be secure in the knowledge they can count on fair treatment during challenging times,” she added.
“You said your interest in attending tea with Mrs. Townsend was because of your fascination with her fenugreek.”
“I am interested in her fenugreek.” She shifted her hands in her lap, folding one atop the other and then reversing their positions. “I am also interested in her concerns. In your concerns. We ladies are equally aware of troubles. You men give us ladies much less credit than we deserve.”
“Apparently!”
“Don’t be angry.” She reached out. “Allies, remember?”
“Allies share strategy,” he pointed out. “They don’t sneak around behind each other’s backs.”
“Allies”—she raised her chin—“don’t dismiss each other’s concerns, either.”
“I have not dismissed your concerns.”
“You are doing so right now.”
“No. Your plan is extraordinarily close to one I’ve been contemplating.”
“Really?” Her shoulders slumped as she exhaled, looking vastly relieved. “I’m glad to hear.” She paused. “But what of Mr. Anderson?”
“Mr. Anderson?” he queried, with greater alarm.
“Mr. Townsend told you that Mr. Anderson’s quality of work has declined. The disorganized library, the missing book, the strange encounters other tenants have had with him. Not to mention that he doesn’t treat you as he should. I can’t understand why you haven’t relieved him of his position.”