Chapter Five
AS HIS CARRIAGE ROUNDED THE corner, Erik gritted his teeth, preparing himself for the prospect of the castle’s neglect after the way Requin’s villainy had extended to his townhouse. The wheel hit a rut and sent the wicker basket on the opposite bench sliding toward a quick end. He snatched it up and inhaled the sweet aroma of the pastries within. He had finished the last of Muriel’s scones along the two-hour ride. The few pastries that remained were being rationed in the event there was no cook to be found at the castle. At another jolt, Erik groaned. If it hadn’t been for his arm, he would have ridden and cut his travel time. Of course, if it hadn’t been for his arm, he wouldn’t be coming home at all.
He hadn’t returned to the village of Draybridge since his uncle’s untimely death, but the instant the carriage wheels thumped over the old arching stone bridge, a sense of home flowed over him. He craned his neck to peer through the window at the quaint village with its flower gardens at the side door of every townhouse, its tiny shops, bakery, school, chapel, and businesses. It had been his aunt’s doing in having all the flower gardens added. He gripped the sill with his good hand, his knuckles whitening at every passing face. He had inherited the castle and, along with it, the responsibility of this village. It was his duty to see it and its people continue to thrive.
As his carriage passed, villagers paused along the pathway to stare at the crimson and white crest of two rearing horses on the carriage door, a clear declaration of who was the occupant. He waved to those he recognized and nodded to the few new faces in his town. He would have to attend services on Sunday and greet all there. However, he doubted he would be staying long enough to pay and receive calls. When he completed his mission, he would have plenty of time for being the lord of the land. Until then, he trusted Guy Mayfield implicitly to guide the village in his stead.
The carriage rolled past the last house at the edge of the village. Once he drove through the trees, he would see Draycott Castle rising above the lake surrounding it. While traveling the few miles between the village and his castle, Erik compared the land to the estate of his childhood. Apart from a few overgrown spots, it seemed as if time had passed it by. Cresting the hill, just beyond the tree line and hilltops, he spied the beautiful gritstone and limestone work of his castle that had withstood the test of time. Stonework layered by generations of earls adding to the legacy created the sprawling castle it was today, with its hundred rooms, chapel, courtyards, and terraced garden beyond the lake, which gracefully transitioned to the forest beyond it.
The carriage rattled over the drawbridge, the wheels jolting over the boards and sending the basket tottering again. He threaded his arm through the handle and, supporting his left arm to keep it from jarring, he waited for the carriage to halt and hopped down into the sprawling courtyard. Craning his neck, he stared up at the four-storied entrance tower with its impressive arched threshold. All seems well.
“My lord?” a gardener called, pausing in his work of trimming spent blooms from the pristine vine that climbed the walls surrounding the castle’s main entrance and that greatly softened the ashen gray and brown stones of the ancient building. The gardener bowed and jogged inside, no doubt alerting all to the lord’s presence.
Erik thanked the hired coachman that Trumbull had recommended and strode about the courtyard, taking account. It was scrubbed clean, the windows glistening in the morning light. A pair of children chased each other in the sunshine. He offered a smile to the children, who at once dashed into a darkened doorway leading to the servants’ kitchen.
“Lord Draycott.” His steward and former first mate, Guy Mayfield, trotted out of the house, grinning as he shrugged on his coat. “What a marvelous surprise.”
Erik set down the basket and clapped him on the shoulder and pulled the man he had known since boyhood into a fierce embrace. “It has been too long.”
Guy grinned. “Too long? It’s been an age. I was beginning to think you were never returning to dry land.”
Erik held the elbow of his bad arm and leaned back to take in the building. “Well, I greatly appreciate your stewardship. Everything looks well in order here.”
Guy Mayfield nodded, his eyes shadowing for a moment as he caught Erik’s calculated tone. “Unlike the London house. I take it you have been there?”
Erik nodded, thankful Guy had been the one to bring up its derelict state. “Yes, I was going to ask you about that.”
Guy frowned. “I take it you did not receive my letter?”
“What letter? The last time I received anything from you was six months ago.”
He grasped the basket’s handle and motioned Erik inside. “That is what I thought. Perhaps it is something best discussed within the library to keep any pickthanks from rattling on about things that are best kept quiet.”
His senses on alert, Erik nodded to each servant in passing, greeting those he remembered from years spent at the castle. Striding through the second courtyard and entering the library, he found tea had already been set for them beside the crackling fireplace. Guy rested Muriel’s basket of pastries beside the teapot as Erik ran his fingers along the familiar spines of books, remembering the fun he’d had as a lad swinging from wall to wall on the library’s four ladders while imagining that he was swinging from the rigging of a ship. He had cracked his head a time or two, but it had taught him balance.
His steward poured them each a cup and handed one to Erik. “Shall we get down to business, my lord?”
Erik accepted it and waited, running his finger along the rim of the cup as his steward leaned against the fireplace mantel, poking the fire within.
Guy set his cup on the mantel, keeping his gaze on the flames. “There was a series of burglaries, my lord, where nothing of value was taken … a warning, I believe. I wrote to you, and now that I have confirmed you did not receive my letter, I fear there is something far more dangerous lurking in the waters.” He met Erik’s gaze. “From my time as your second-in-command, I learned to follow the signs when it came to Requin. I believe he was the one who had a letter sent to me requesting the redirection of funds from your London house to a bank in London. I did it once.”
“What?” Erik shot to his feet. “Do you have the letter?”
His steward nodded. “The second time I received the request for an even greater sum, I grew suspicious. I traveled to London to look into the matter and, upon my arrival, found that the bank closed the account where I directed the funds.” Guy crossed the room to the heavy desk in the corner and removed a key from around his neck, fitting it to the lock. “I decided that for the safety of the staff, I needed to vacate the London premises. I wrote to you, in our code, of my decision to withdraw the funds in full from your accounts lest Requin attempt to forge a letter to the bank itself. After that withdrawal, I secured half of your funds in coffers here, locked for good measure in the hidden room.”
“And the other half?”
“Dispersed in six banks across England. I did not wish to send any more money than necessary to your London residence, lest Requin discover the source and attempt withdrawal of your funds once more. I send a rider every month with minimum funds for the London house.”
Erik released a low whistle. “And what about Trumbull? Didn’t you tell the butler of the danger?”
“I’ve told him multiple times. He has been losing patches of his memory, my lord, and has no recollection of the burglaries. I felt rotten leaving him there, but he was adamant that his remaining was what you would have wanted. I had to think of the safety of the rest of the staff, and he needed a position and shelter. I have a nephew who comes by every week to ensure the man has everything he needs.”
“You mentioned nothing of consequence was stolen. What exactly was taken?”
“That was the disconcerting part, my lord. They never filched anything, but rather mussed up the rooms they entered, and the final time …” He swallowed.
“Yes?”
“On the final burglary, they left a flag atop your bed.” From the desk he withdrew the letters and a thick folded black cloth, unfurling the flag to reveal a pirate’s bleeding heart. “I believe it means ‘death awaits.’”
“Actually ‘a long, painful death awaits.’” Erik ran his hand over his jaw. If his uncle hadn’t been ill for years and nursing opium in his crippling grief, Erik would have suspected foul play in his uncle’s demise with such threats being left in his very home. “And the letters?”
Guy handed them to him. “After the second request, I studied the letters. If I hadn’t been so busy with the estate, I would have discovered it at once. I felt quite the gull. The man’s hubris forced him to leave a clue behind to display his cleverness.”
Erik skimmed the letter for any sign of Requin. “Where?”
“To be fair, you have always been consistently inconsistent with your signature. He pressed the nib into the paper so that the r in Erik and Draycott would resemble what?”
“Shark fins.” Erik frowned. To anyone else, it would seem a mistake—as if the writer were in a rush. Requin did not make mistakes. “I can see why you removed the staff.”
Guy ran his hand on the stone wall. “This place was built to withstand war. I figured it was the safest of places for them and your funds.”
“War? Have you armed the footmen, Mayfield?” He chuckled.
“Only with the cutlery. I pity the man who broke into Cook’s kitchen with her cleavers lying about the butcher block.” He sighed. “I would have written you a second time. However, I feared Requin was intercepting anything I sent, and he might piece together our code. I made the choice to simply await your return and took a risk writing to the man posing as you to say that you lacked funds to run the London house. There was no way I was going to allow a farthing more to drop into that smuggler’s hands.”
Erik sipped his tea. “I would have done the same in your place. Now I have made a plan to draw Requin’s English counterpart out, and it starts with a garden party here.”
Guy’s brows lifted as he grinned. “I suppose we have fought our enemy with a show of canons and guns to no avail. We might as well try fighting the man with tea and cakes. What’s the plan?”
Muriel barely kept her mouth from watering as she stood in Gunter’s Tea Shop studying the confections lining the shelves behind the counter. She had heard about the famed shop. Her stepfather had even ordered a cake brought by carriage to surprise her on her twenty-first birthday, but never had she beheld such magnificence all in one room before. It was little wonder the room veritably brimmed with fine ladies and gentlemen waiting to place their orders, even with a line of carriages beside the shop’s iron railings bearing more patrons eager to order sweets from the shop’s sidewalk waiter. Muriel stood mesmerized as her mind whirled with possibilities for her little bakery in Chilham. Perhaps she might find security there if she didn’t procure a title. That way she could at least follow her passion of baking and attempt to gain the fame of this shop.
“Anything else, Miss?” The young baker’s assistant asked, pencil poised to add to her shamefully long list of baked goods.
“Do you have anything else that doesn’t possess a hint of strawberry, dried, jammed, or infused? Not that I wouldn’t love it, I’m certain … It is only, strawberry does not agree with me.”
“There are a few fresh pear—”
A strident giggle behind her drowned out the assistant’s reply.
“How lovely to see you, Miss Beau.”
Muriel stiffened at the too-sweet voice of Elena Whelan.
“And the humorous thing is that I saw this shop and thought of you. I had this inexplicable intuition that if I entered, I would find you just where you would be in Chilham. And here you are.”
After years spent avoiding her barbs in a tiny village, how on earth had the girl managed to find her in a shop in Berkeley Square with all of London at her fingertips? “Miss Whelan.” Muriel curtsied, resentment making the action arduous. “Lovely to see you as well.” She cleared her throat. “I was, however, very surprised to find you so far from Kent.”
Elena shrugged. “When my mother caught wind of your little scheme, she decided I should attempt it as well. I meant to greet you at the Hughlots’ ball, but with the Prince Regent waiting for my curtsy and then proceeding to have a delightful tête-à-tête with me that ended with a request to hear me sing, I know we both understood what etiquette dictated.” She batted her lashes innocently. “Unless you’ve skipped that part in your training as well.”
Muriel gritted her teeth. She deserved that one.
“I’ve been wishing to express my regrets over my dear cousin’s horrid rejection of you.” She sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Such a frightful moment for you and witnessed by so many too. It was good of you to depart within a fortnight. It would have made things awkward for Osmund in his courtship with the lovely Miss Fox.”
The assistant impatiently tapped his pencil against the pad and cleared his throat.
Muriel smiled at him. “My apologies for keeping you. I think if you add that pear-something to the list, I shall have all I need for now.” She reached into her purse for the amount, her cheeks tinting at being caught purchasing so much … even if it was for research for her own business, and she was intending on sharing her treats with the Ingrams and kitchen staff.
“Best be careful. All the fine fare available in London threatens the waistline.” Elena’s lips quirked as the assistant held out two large boxes over the counter to Muriel.
Muriel snorted and expertly balanced the boxes in one hand. “If I can grow up in a bakery without having my waistline affected, I’m certain one trip to Gunter’s will not prove a burden.”
“Quite true. Of course, all the dancing helps as well. I saw you with that handsome captain the other night.” Elena sidled up next to her, keeping her eyes on the goods before them.
Of course Elena had seen them. And, having discovered he was an earl, she most likely wished for an introduction. Would Muriel never be free from her tormentor? While they had debuted the same season, there was one distinct difference between them that prevented Miss Whelan being labeled a wallflower such as Muriel had been—Elena had received and rejected at least three eligible proposals a season, marking her as the most desired heiress in the county. For unlike Muriel, she was born into polite society, was an accomplished lady, and did not have several little siblings to share her father’s wealth. She was positively dripping money. Elena could afford to wait for a gentleman with something more to offer than good looks and a bit of prestige, unlike her mother, the Widow Whelan, who had forfeited any chance of a title upon her hasty marriage to a handsome, wealthy merchant gentleman.
“I heard he was titled,” Elena prompted, pointing out a knotted biscuit to the assistant and laying her coin atop the counter as he boxed it up.
Muriel sighed. “His name is Erik Draycott.”
“And?” Elena clicked her tongue, taking the box. “You are the most infuriating girl. What’s his title?”
“He is the Earl of Draycott, and he possesses a castle in Draybridge.”
“My, that is quite the improvement over a lowly baron. Though I’d caution you to guard your heart, as I heard he is a man focused on his career with no intention of taking a bride.”
Muriel glanced sideways at her. “And you know this how?”
Elena released her trilling laugh again. “I just do. But I think a pretty face will be just the thing to convince him otherwise. Along with the right dowry, of course.” She leaned closer and went on in a stage whisper, “I heard his London house is all but in shambles. And what earl would earn his living at sea when he could wed and spend the rest of his days as a handsome lord should? In wealth and with a handsome wife at his side holding his bouncing baby.”
In her brief time with Erik, she could not imagine him lounging about in a great London house. She could see him in the House of Lords, though. He was certainly passionate enough, but she gathered it would take an act of God to get that man to leave the sea … and a heaven-sent wife could be just that. She shook her head and sighed. She had to get the man from her thoughts, for she would not make the same mistake twice. She would wait for a gentleman to approach her with courtship.
“Muriel? Muriel, are you listening to me?”
“Yes?” She blinked and shifted the boxes in her arms. “I mean, no. My apologies. What did you say?”
“I asked if you were going to the earl’s garden party in Draybridge?”
Muriel pressed her lips into a firm line to keep herself from rolling her eyes. “If you are attending his garden party, didn’t you already know his name?”
Elena laughed. “I can tell a lot about where a woman’s affections lie from how little she describes the bachelor in question to another eligible lady.”
“See you Friday.” With a nod to Elena, Muriel hurried out to the sidewalk. She needed to get taste testing and baking straightaway, before her imagination led her astray again.