Chapter 24
Two days had passed since Tristan and Helena had called upon Mrs. Fenwick. In that time, he had secured safe accommodation for her and arranged a meeting with Mr. Markham, during which her statement had been formally taken.
The next difficulty lay in locating Samuel Pritchard. None of Tristan’s connections, including Mr. Markham and those within his network, had been able to discover where the man had gone. It was as though he had vanished entirely.
“Still nothing?” Helena asked.
She sat beside Tristan in the garden, where a gravel path wound between neatly clipped borders and beds of roses, lavender, and other summer flowers.
A small lawn occupied the center, while several mature trees provided shade along the far wall.
It was not large enough to rival the grounds at Blackmere, but it was a pleasant retreat from the bustle of London, and spacious enough for Oliver to enjoy an afternoon outdoors under the watchful eye of his family.
“No,” Tristan replied. “I have almost begun to wonder whether Mr. Pritchard was even his true name. Mrs. Fenwick may have been given a false identity, though there was a man of that name in the baron’s employment a few years ago. He disappeared without a trace.”
“I thought he might be the person behind the notes,” Helena admitted.
“Indeed, so did I.” Tristan lowered his gaze to the pavement beneath his feet.
Helena sighed, and for a moment neither spoke.
“I cannot imagine any of this is easy for you,” Helena said at last, lowering her voice so Oliver would not overhear.
“It is your first Season in London after many years, and you have only just begun to establish your family name in society again. Then, on top of everything else, you have been forced to confront a grief you must have worked very hard to overcome.”
“I do not believe I could have anticipated any of this, even with the assistance of a fortune-teller.” Tristan gave a grim laugh. “I was determined to move forward, toward contentment and happiness. And yet…” He trailed off, his gaze drifting toward the lawn where Oliver lay drawing something.
“And yet,” Helena repeated gently. She reached for his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Contentment and happiness will come, Tristan.”
He looked down at their joined hands. There was something remarkably natural about confiding in Helena, about allowing her to see the uncertainty he so rarely permitted anyone else to witness.
He thought of the carriage after their visit with Mrs. Fenwick, when she had squeezed his hand much the same way, instead of pressing him to speak of what he was feeling. She had understood that he needed only her presence, and somehow that had given him the strength to maintain his composure.
The revelations he had been forced to confront had not at all been easy. His grief and guilt were now mingled with anger and resentment. Yet, with Helena beside him, he found himself believing that perhaps the future she described was possible after all.
He knew with certainty that left no room for doubt, that he loved her deeply, more deeply than he had ever imagined he could love anyone. What he could not be certain of was what Helena felt. He knew she cared for him, but was it love?
“Indeed,” he said, turning his hand beneath hers so that their fingers rested together. “I believe they will, Helena.”
The sound of approaching footsteps caused Tristan to look up, and he found one of the footmen making his way toward them with a silver salver.
“My Lord and Lady.” He bowed. “My Lord, these two letters have just arrived for you.”
“Thank you,” Tristan replied.
The footman bowed and retreated, while Tristan turned over the two letters. One bore familiar handwriting, and he suspected he knew who had sent it. He slipped it into his coat pocket. The other bore no writing at all and had been sealed with wax without any identifying mark.
“Helena…” Tristan said quietly as he broke the seal. “I believe this may be from our ghost.” As he unfolded the page, he recognized the handwriting at once. “Indeed, it is.”
Helena drew closer to him to read the letter as he did.
Mrs. Fenwick has confessed, and I believe you are currently searching for me. I shall call upon you at four o’clock today, and I would ask you not to involve the authorities just yet. I wish to speak with you myself.
Samuel Pritchard.
“What is the time now?” Helena asked softly. “Will it be safe?”
“It is almost three,” Tristan answered. After a moment, he continued.
“I believe his decision to call here was intended to remove any concerns of danger. No one would attempt anything against a household surrounded by family and staff, and I believe the only harm he means to do is to see justice brought to the baron.”
“Yes, you are right,” Helena breathed out slowly. “Would you have Nathaniel here?”
“No. I think you ought to be with me. Mr. Pritchard wrote to you as well, and he encouraged you to seek the truth.” Tristan hesitated. “But if you would not be comfortable…”
Helena straightened and lifted her chin. “I would like to meet him.”
Tristan studied her closely. Her chestnut curls had been arranged in a simple knot at the back of her head, pinned neatly into place, though a few had escaped to frame her face. He much preferred her hair loose, as he had seen it in her chambers.
He remembered her expression then, the surprise in her eyes and the smile that had played upon her lips when he had spoken to her.
Her hair had fallen freely past her shoulders, and he had never seen her more beautiful than she had been in that moment; without jewels, artful arrangements, or grand gowns.
She had simply been Helena, newly awake and full of life.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts and returning them to Mr. Pritchard.
He would speak to Helena once the matter with the baron had been resolved, when they could both consider what they wanted from one another without the present danger and uncertainty pressing upon them.
Until then, there was little purpose in allowing his thoughts to wander.
“What is the matter?” Helena asked.
Tristan turned back to her. “I was merely wondering when all of this will finally be over, and what Mr. Pritchard will have to say.”
“We have not long to wait,” Helena replied. “Let us get Oliver inside and tell Beatrice. She may wish to keep him on the upper floors.”
A short while later, Helena and Tristan sat together in the front sitting room, listening to the clock upon the mantel tick toward four. Two minutes remained, and Tristan knew Helena was watching the clock just as closely as he was.
There was a soft knock at the door, and a footman entered. “Mr. Samuel Pritchard,” he announced before stepping aside to allow the gentleman to enter.
Tristan rose and crossed the room to greet him. He was not quite certain what he had expected of Mr. Pritchard, but the man before him was in his forties and appeared at first glance to be entirely unremarkable.
There was nothing rough or threatening about him; indeed, Tristan might sooner have taken him for a gentleman accustomed to working behind a desk.
His mouse brown hair was beginning to turn gray, while his pale blue eyes possessed a tiredness that seemed to have little to do with want of sleep and far more to do with the life he had lived.
“Lord Blackmere,” Pritchard greeted before turning toward Helena, who had risen as well.
“Mr. Pritchard, this is my wife, Lady Blackmere,” Tristan introduced.
“My Lady.” He bowed before looking between them. “Thank you both for receiving me. I shall not take up much of your time, but I wished to explain myself to you, My Lord. I am grateful that you are here as well, My Lady.”
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Tristan gestured toward an armchair. “I have informed the staff that we are not to be disturbed.”
“Shall I pour you some tea?” Helena offered.
Mr. Pritchard nodded. “Yes, please, My Lady.”
Helena poured a cup for him, as well as for Tristan and herself, before returning to her seat. Once she had done so, Mr. Pritchard looked toward Tristan, who gave him a brief nod.
“If you will permit me, I should like to explain everything.” Seeing from their expressions that both Helena and Tristan were eager to hear what he had to say, he continued. “I was once employed by Lord Ravenscroft.” He paused before adding, “I shall start at the beginning.”
“Of course,” Tristan replied, studying him closely.
“I was employed as his private clerk, responsible for keeping his accounts. The baron had a number of investments, as well as his estates, and I was responsible for maintaining his ledgers and corresponding with his banker concerning his financial affairs. He kept many of his own books in order, but they were passed to me so that I might reconcile the figures, prepare the necessary accounts, and ensure that the funds were directed where they ought to go.”
He paused, the lines between his brows deepening.
“It was not long before I noticed discrepancies. I had always been an honest man, so I looked into the matter more closely. It was not difficult to discover that the baron had dealings with smugglers. Some of the investments were fraudulent, and he had been using me as an intermediary in his financial affairs, making certain that the transactions appeared legitimate to his banker and anyone else who might examine the accounts.”
“I imagine you confronted him,” Tristan said grimly.
“I did. His title did not intimidate me. Fraud was fraud, whether committed by a common man or a nobleman, and I told him plainly that I would have no part in it.”
“I imagine his response was not what you expected,” Tristan noted.
“No, indeed.” Mr. Pritchard gave a humorless smile. “I was a fool. I believed I could confront him over his wrongdoing and simply walk away. I ought to have resigned without saying a word.”