7. Chapter 7- Bradford
SIX MONTHS LATER
Bradford stared out the window at the clear light slanting through the trees outside his private study. Only a few intrepid dead leaves still clung to their branches—winter gripped Northumberland in its tight fist. Even the momentary warmth and cheer of Christmas was a fading memory.
In the distance, a groundskeeper slowly pushed a wheelbarrow across the frost-blanched grass.
The man was bundled from head to toe in wool—it would have impaired his stride even if he’d had an urgent errand, which he obviously didn’t.
Bradford couldn’t help but muse that the pace of the gardeners matched the speed of the sap within the plants themselves.
Winter was a time of slowing for everyone, it seemed.
Except for him. He was behind on last year’s final quarter reconciliation.
Though he knew his stewards were exceptionally fastidious men, it was Bradford’s own record-keeping that encouraged them to remain so.
Besides, there was next year’s plantings and repairs to plan—such things must be considered in the frigid winter if one wanted to start with the spring thaw.
Instead of all the things he knew he should be doing, Bradford braced his arm against the stone mantel and stared into the fire, thinking of Miss Hughes.
Though that wasn’t the lady’s real name, it was the only one he had to call her.
He gritted his teeth in self-recrimination.
He should have forgotten her already. He certainly shouldn’t still be wondering where the lady had gone, what she was doing this very moment.
Whether she ever thought of them. Or of him.
It had been months. Months and months, with no answer, with no word. No relief, either, though each day Bradford swore that he’d think no more of her the next.
That first day, he’d gently questioned Rebecca, and she’d promptly told him, “Oh, I know where Miss Hughes has gone.”
Bradford’s heart had leapt, even as his daughter hurried over to her bookcase and pulled a picture book out to show him. He’d taken the offered tome with a crease between his eyebrows.
“She’s gone on a balloon ride with Sir Vernon,” Rebecca said, her brown curls bouncing with a matter-of-fact nod. “She told me so herself.”
Disappointment had rolled like a stone in Bradford’s stomach. It was a children’s story, nothing more.
Now, months later, Rebecca still requested the book be read nearly every night. It was all Bradford could do not to scream. If it weren’t for the sweet, childish hope in his daughter’s eyes, he would have tossed the book into the flames and been done with it long ago.
The lack of a governess was easily solved by the arrival of one Mrs. Holland, a stout woman with grey threaded through the temples of her auburn hair. She came personally recommended from a family Bradford knew, whose daughters had—quite successfully—outgrown need of her services.
Bradford stared into the fire until he noticed the little line of blue at the center of the flame. It was very nearly the color of Miss Hughes’s eyes. He silently snarled at himself and turned from the fireplace. The young woman was driving him mad, and he didn’t even know her true name.
He had just seated himself behind his desk and resolved not to think of Miss Hughes again when there was a knock at the door. Bradford frowned. “Come in.”
His butler said, “There’s a man here to see you, my lord. A Mr. Thornton.”
Bradford sat up straighter. “Send him in.”
As Bradford waited, he promised himself, This is the last thing I will do to find her.
Mr. Thornton had pale blue eyes and brown hair and wore a mid-priced suit of very nearly the same color.
He was bland in appearance, but even his blandness was not so severe that it would draw notice.
He took the room in with one casual sweeping glance, but Bradford wasn’t fooled—he suspected those sharp eyes missed nothing.
Once the butler closed the door, Bradford offered Mr. Thornton a seat and they shared the bare minimum of small talk to satisfy the demands of politeness. They both seemed eager to get through it, but they performed the perfunctory verbal exchange, regardless.
Then Mr. Thornton said, “You are missing your governess, and you want her found.”
It wasn’t a question—Bradford had told him as much in the letter requesting the man’s presence. He had it on excellent authority that Mr. Thornton was an expert in such matters, but above all, the man had a reputation for being discreet.
There was no room for such discretion at the moment, however. Discretion was for every other moment, not this one.
“Yes,” Bradford said.
“Very good.” Mr. Thornton settled himself more comfortably in his chair. His shrewd eyes bored into Bradford’s. “I will tell you what I tell every client: if there is any help to offer, I can offer it. But there is one important stipulation.”
“Your fee?” He gave a little huff of sarcasm.
It was legendary, that fee—and Bradford had already paid half to get the man here in the first place.
Mr. Thornton didn’t so much as blink. “Other than the fee. My stipulation is this: that you must answer every question as honestly as you possibly can. There will undoubtedly be some embarrassment on your part—none of us are keen to expose our every thought and deed to a stranger.”
“Better a stranger than someone one knows,” Bradford murmured, remembering his reluctance to involve a magistrate.
Everyone knew that those in law enforcement were terrible gossips—amongst each other, if not the public at large. The closest magistrate was exceptionally bad, and Bradford shuddered to imagine the rumors that would have been born of the situation.
“Indeed.” Mr. Thornton very nearly smiled then.
“You have my word that nothing you share with me will ever reach the ear of another, no matter how I am pressed. I would rather give up my life than any of my client’s secrets, as I would no longer have any life worth mentioning if I ever broke my word. ”
For the first time, Bradford noticed a long, thin scar that snaked up the side of the man’s neck. It had been stitched impeccably and healed well, but it had been a nasty slice by something sharp.
If Mr. Thornton felt Bradford’s appraisal, he didn’t show it.
“Cases like this are difficult enough without me trying to suss out the lies. Especially since you’ve waited months to contact me.
If I think for one moment that you aren’t being truthful, if you hide something or otherwise obstruct my investigation in any way, I will walk out the door and keep the deposit. ”
“I’ve already agreed to your rules,” Bradford grumbled.
He’d had to sign a contract along with paying half the fee. Not that the contract could be enforced in court. It was a short thing, so nebulous in its phrasing that it didn’t even include either of their names. Bradford had been instructed to mark an X as his signature.
“In return, you will have the utmost discretion, and the best chance of finding your Miss Hughes. I assume that since you’ve agreed to the terms, you are willing to answer my questions?”
“Of course.”
“Then start at the very beginning and do your best to tell me everything.”
Bradford paused for a moment and gathered his thoughts. He finally started, “My daughter is at the age where she requires a governess instead of a nursemaid…”
For the next half hour, Bradford proceeded to tell the man everything he knew about the young woman he knew only as Miss Sarah Hughes.
Mr. Thornton listened intently, his hands crossed in his lap, watching Bradford.
The entire time, his face was placid, his expression calm.
His eyebrow didn’t even flicker when Bradford told the truth about the calamity of that morning months ago, when he’d threatened the governess with a magistrate.
While Bradford spoke, he had the chance to study Mr. Thornton in turn.
Bradford soon realized that the man was younger than he’d first thought—perhaps even younger than himself.
But the Duke of Devonshire didn’t give his approval lightly.
Not that Devonshire had told Bradford why he knew Mr. Thornton was so trustworthy. Not that Bradford had asked.
“Wonderful,” Mr. Thornton said. He stood and stared out the tall window. “Please, tell it to me again, and leave out no detail.”
Bradford frowned. What an impertinent jackanape! The man had been studying him the first telling, without paying attention to the crux of the matter. Perhaps he wasn’t the right man for the job after all.
Not that Bradford had told Devonshire why he needed such a man in the first place. Not that Devonshire had asked.
But Bradford holstered his impatience and repeated the story again. Mr. Thornton listened and stared at the window, not even turning when Bradford was finally finished.
Mr. Thornton said, “I took the liberty of looking into Miss Sarah Hughes before coming here.”
Bradford leaned forward. “And?”
“It was a very clever ruse—all of her references checked out perfectly,” Mr. Thornton said, his pale blue eyes narrowing on something in his field of vision out the window.
“Though you blame your steward for not doing his due diligence before the lady entered your house, the truth is, there was a Miss Sarah Hughes, lone daughter of a noble clergyman, from Wessex. Her father was the third son of the late Baron Farrows. Miss Hughes was well thought of—everyone I spoke to said she was intelligent and kind, and would have made an excellent governess.”
He swallowed deeply. “She’s dead, then?”
Dread churned in Bradford’s stomach. Perhaps it had been a mistake to go looking for Miss Hughes, if she was involved in something this dark. Perhaps he should have just been grateful she was out from beneath his roof and left things as they lay.