Chapter 14
“So you are staying on for another week, at least?” Adrian asked his friend over breakfast the next morning. Honoria had not appeared yet for the morning meal, and so the friends had a rare moment alone together.
“Indeed,” Oliver agreed. “Your hospitality is most welcome.”
“You have never felt the need to stay so long before,” Adrian said quietly, buttering some toast.
“Am I overstaying my welcome?” Oliver asked with a grin, clearly aware that this was not the case.
“That is not my reason for pressing, and you know it,” Adrian countered. “I merely wonder if you have examined your reasons fully, with an honest account of the things tethering you to Marwood.”
Oliver flushed, and looked down at his tea. For a long moment, the room was quiet. It was clear to Adrian that his friend, though understanding his question, was not yet prepared to answer it fully.
“If you wish me to leave—”
“Never,” Adrian said firmly.
“Then do not ask me such a question again,” Oliver said quietly. “If our friendship means aught.”
Adrian nodded, and took a bite of his toast. “How was your time in town yesterday?” he asked.
“Oh,” Oliver said, raising his eyebrows. “I meant to tell you—I saw Edmund Crewe taking drinks with a gentleman in very fine attire. Their heads were close together, and I could have sworn they were planning to overthrow the empire.”
“Did you recognize the man?” Adrian asked, sitting up a little straighter.
“No,” Oliver said slowly, searching back in his mind. “But I did think… you know how you can spot a gentleman across a county… that the fine clothes were covering something considerably undeserving of the attire. I would stake my horse on it… that gentleman was no more gentleman than… than…”
“Than your horse?” Adrian finished with a smile.
“Indeed,” Oliver nodded with a grin. “But I may be wrong.”
“There is only one way to determine for certain.” Adrian stood, downing his tea in a quick drink and then catching up his coat and gloves smoothly from the footman nearby. “I was going into town anyway this morning, and I will inquire after Mr. Crewe’s friend while I am there.”
Oliver smiled slowly at his friend. “You asked me earlier to consider my motivations, and I would entreat you to do the same. You are not the constable of the village—why are you taking such an interest in Mr. Crewe’s companions?
” After a moment’s pause he added, “Is it because Mr. Crewe is entangled with Thornefield?”
“I am taking a neighborly interest,” Adrian said quietly. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Very well. Then I am staying at your house for another week because my cousin is repapering. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Adrian sighed and nodded, taking his leave with a smile. He knew when he had been well and truly backed into a corner, and he was as unwilling to face his sudden interest in Thornefield as Oliver was unwilling to admit to his reason for staying at Marwood.
He saddled Thunder and rode to town, his mind caught up in thoughts of Rosalind, Thornefield, and the promise he had made to help.
When he tied up his mount at last at the hitching post outside the inn, he was determined.
He walked into the dimly-lit interior, scanning the nearly-empty room for the innkeeper, a man known to his family since he was a boy.
The big man emerged from the back room moments later, hauling a barrel over one shoulder.
“Mr. Graysun!” Adrian called out, coming to the bar.
“Well,” the older gentleman grinned. “Who is this before my eyes?” He set the barrel down with a heavy thud. “It cannot be young Lord Marwood, for he is rumored to never venture into society.” His gaze softened. “What brings you into town, lad?”
It was a slip of the tongue, calling Adrian ‘lad’ when he deserved the title of ‘lord,’ but Adrian understood that the older man was simply remembering him from a younger and simpler time, when he and his brother had shut down the pub many a night with their carousing and light-hearted banter…
back before loss and war had stripped away Adrian’s carefree self.
“I was hoping I might have a word,” Adrian said quietly. He scanned the room. Only a single table was occupied, and that with two women apparently travelling through town. Neither Edmund Crewe, nor his mysterious friend, were in sight.
“Of course,” Graysun said, leaning across the bar. “It appears to be something serious, by your demeanor.”
“Indeed, I am asking after a gentleman newly arrived in the village—a Mr. Edmund Crewe. It is my understanding that he has taken up residence in your establishment.”
Graysun nodded quietly. “I know the man.”
“Naturally,” Adrian acknowledged. “I am not asking you to confirm Mr. Crewe’s presence at your establishment—that information is already known to me.
I even met Mr. Crewe myself on one occasion.
No, I am inquiring after one of his acquaintances, a gentleman seen eating with him here at the pub yesterday.
My friend mentioned he was wearing fine clothing, and they were caught up in close conversation. ”
“I have no allegiance to either gentleman,” Graysun said, shrugging. “The other man—the one in the fine coat—is a Sir Percival Drake, lately of London, who has taken my best room for the length of an entire month. He paid in advance in coin and keeps unsociable hours.”
“Sir Percival Drake?” Adrian repeated quietly. “The name is not known to me.”
“Nor I,” the innkeeper said with a smile, “but I am not in the center of London society now, am I?”
“How does he seem, this gentleman from London?” Adrian asked.
“You know these sorts,” Graysun deferred. “He dresses fine enough, and keeps his accounts. I cannot speak to the morality of the man, but I will say this—he is not the sort of fellow I would wish to encounter late at night in an alleyway. Fine as he may be, there is something shifty about him.”
“That is what my friend said,” Adrian mused.
“And it leaves me wondering what could bring such a gentleman to the countryside, especially during the Season. I would think the height of London society would afford more opportunities for a gentleman of ill repute.” He slid a half-crown onto the table.
“Please keep this conversation between us, Graysun.”
“Of course, my lord,” the innkeeper agreed quietly.
“And have you a quill and paper I could borrow?” Adrian asked. “I have a letter I wish to send posthaste to my solicitor in London.”
The innkeeper obliged, and Adrian scrawled a few lines of inquiry before folding the letter closed and taking it to the post office. There was nothing more to be done at present, but the investigation was underway.
***
Three days later, Adrian glanced out of his upstairs window to see the postman arriving on foot.
Beyond the messenger, he caught sight of two figures strolling along the north road: Honoria and Oliver.
They walked a safe distance apart, not touching—not even speaking, as far as he could see—but their steps were slow and lingering.
Adrian walked downstairs and waited on the step for the postman to drop off the letters. He had done so since sending his inquiry, eager to hear back about Sir Percival Drake who, by all accounts, was still residing at the local inn.
When the letters were safely in his hand he sorted through them. There was a message from Aunt Brearley for Honoria, two business accounts to be settled, and there, beneath it all, a message from his solicitor. Adrian tucked the note away just as Honoria and Oliver climbed the steps into the house.
“Good morning,” Adrian said, falling into step beside them. “Had you an errand in town?”
“I went on a stroll to the rectory to seek a copy of the Psalter, and Mr. Ferrand agreed to accompany me,” Honoria said, brushing past her brother.
“We have a copy of the Psalter,” Adrian said, following her inside. He glanced at Oliver, who ducked his head and disappeared upstairs in the direction of his private chambers. Adrian followed Honoria into the parlor, where she hurriedly took off her gloves and cloak. “In the study,” he said.
“Pardon?” she glanced up, distracted.
“We have a Psalter in the study,” he repeated.
“Yes, well… I forgot,” she said. She walked over to the piano and sat down, her fingers picking out an almost frantic tune on the keys.
Adrian walked slowly over to the piano and sat down beside her. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?” the tune became, somehow, even more frantic.
“The Psalter,” he said.
She stopped playing, and stared at her fingers. “Heavens, I must have forgotten. We were caught up in conversation and I just… I will have to return later this afternoon to fetch it.”
“But—”
“Right,” she said, “we have one. How foolish of me.”
“Honoria.” Adrian reached out and laid a hand on his sister’s. “Are you quite well?”
“Very,” she said, her eyes still glued to the piano.
“It is only that, I have been wondering if, as of late, you have been spending more time with Oliver—”
“Adrian, please.” Honoria pulled her hand away. “Oliver—Mr. Ferrand—is a long-time friend of the family and of yours. He is like a brother to me. Besides, he is not the sort of gentleman that I usually seek out in a social setting. You would know this, if you ever came to London with me.”
“I do not wish to overstep,” Adrian began again, still choosing his words carefully.
“Then please, do not.” Honoria stood up from the piano, confusion mixing with frustration on her face. “You have had many years to be an attentive older brother and chaperone me around London, but you chose to hide away instead. I can manage my own affections now, thank you.”
She left, her words cutting Adrian to the core. He had not considered, in all his own pain, how his sister might feel neglected by his absence. He watched her go, then stood and paced the room, his boots wearing a line into the plush carpet.
After a long moment, he reached into his coat and pulled out the letter tucked away there. He opened, and read the contents with growing apprehension.
My Lord Marwood,
The inquiry you asked of me required no real investigation at all. The gentleman known as Sir Percival Drake is already known to me. In fact, I go so far as to say he is far more well-known in my legal circles than any gentleman of the name should be.
He styles himself as a baronet, but he is not—I assure you. He is a conman of the lowest quality who carries unpaid debts in three counties and gets by on his wit and charm alone.
I have attached a list of names he has used in the past, as well as a list of three young women of fortune who have, most unfortunately, found themselves engaged to him in the last six years.
In each case, the betrothal was called off at the last minute and the fellow subsequently disappeared for a time.
Of greatest concern to me is that this “Sir” Percival Drake seems completely free of obligation to the law.
In each of the broken engagements he was gifted a certain sum of money, and the women involved refuse to testify against him in a court of law.
It is my belief that he is an expert blackmailer as well as conman.
If you are asking after this gentleman because he is at all involved with your family, or those known to you, I urge you to detach yourself from his company at once.
Sincerely,
Grantham Elliot, Esq.
Adrian folded the letter, frowning down at it with confusion. He could not make out what Edmund Crewe might have to do with a man of ill repute such as this Percival Blake, but one thing was for certain—if the conman meant to enter Rosalind and Harry’s life, he was gravely mistaken.