Chapter 2
Two
Harry was practically a stranger to her despite his close working relationship with the late Lord Skelton over the last nine years. The man’s body was lying there in the manor, and here was Harry, tempting the widow Skelton into the gardens.
He didn’t know what his body was doing. He didn’t even recognize the voice that had invited her to go outside. All he could remember was the first and only time he had caught a glimpse of her five years ago.
He had been summoned to York to pick up papers from Lord Skelton. Harry could have sent his secretary, Parker, to pick up the documents, but because of the baron’s insistence on their significance, he had made the decision to travel himself.
The direct train from London to York took several hours, but he found the trip comforting. The sound of the tracks and rocking motion of the train car were conducive to combing through line after line of the ledgers, potential investments, and reports his employers asked him to review.
The walk from the railway station to Bootham had become familiar in his years of service to the Skelton estate.
He crossed the Lendal Bridge over the River Ouse, admiring the row of houses built to the waterline and the two medieval towers on each side.
The York Minster loomed over the streets as he reached the opposite shore.
History here ran deeper than he had ever noticed in London.
Before his hand made contact with the door to the Skelton townhome, it swung open to reveal a gaunt, white-haired man in maroon livery.
“Yes?” The butler had always shown disdain toward Harry for a reason he had never discovered. It was a mystery that would eat away at Harry during his return trip to London. Ward looked down at him. “It’s not Wednesday.”
Unshaken, Harry spoke of the urgent matter in broad terms. He didn’t want to cause trouble with the man, but Ward did not need to know his master’s affairs. Discretion was one of the many qualities that made Harry a well-respected accountant and advisor among London’s most successful peers.
“I am here at Lord Skelton’s request to retrieve documents of utmost importance.”
“Lord Skelton is not at home. He has been called to the country. Come back another day.” Ward attempted to shut the door, but another hand pushed it open.
“Coming through,” cut a third man’s voice. The younger gentleman brushed past Harry before he stopped and extended his hand. “Ah, Mr. Evans, good to see you.” The abrupt change in the man’s demeanor left Harry disoriented.
“Nice to see you, Mr. Brus.” Charles Brus, Lord Skelton’s heir, exchanged no further courtesies before he strode down the street.
The quick movement of the door caught Harry’s attention. He shoved his foot in the crack just before it closed.
“Please, Ward. I’m just trying to fulfill your master’s request. I’m already here.”
“I was not made aware of such matters, and the lord has been called to Skelton Manor for business. Business which he seems to have deemed more important.”
While Harry prepared his next argument, a soft whisper crept through the hall. “Wait . . .”
The hardheaded butler swayed back and forth to block Harry from peeking into the house. Despite the fact that the man seemed well into his seventies, give or take a decade, he stood strong against Harry’s intrusion with a formidable glare.
The voice spoke again, sliding over Harry like honey.
Clipped words left no room for misinterpretation or argument, but they carried a soothing melody all the same.
“Mr. Evans is right.” His pulse raced at the sound of his name being spoken by this mysterious, lyrical voice.
“Richard asked him to come here to pick up documents. The portfolio is in the parlor.”
Harry nodded at Ward, whose shoulders dropped in defeat. “Stay here. I will retrieve them.” But the butler didn’t move, guarding the door in expectation that Harry would enter uninvited.
“No.” The voice was commanding but still hidden behind the butler-turned-sentry.
“Mr. Evans has made the journey from London. Richard would have a fit if he knew you had sent him on his way without rest and refreshments. Have him sit in the parlor and provide a tea tray. Stay as long as you need, Mr. Evans.” Lightning danced across his skin from the direct address.
Harry followed Ward into the foyer and was shown into the parlor. Curiosity made him cast a covert glance down the hall, trying to catch a glimpse of Lady Skelton.
He saw no person. A flash of forest green darted through the hall, gliding from one door to another. For as quick as the figure moved, it had been silent.
Was he going mad? His eyes must be playing tricks on him, an illusion from the evening light bouncing off the windows.
He gave his head a little shake, wondering if his ears had ceased working altogether.
The sound of a small bell echoed in the corridor.
A black cat, its tail long and crooked, followed in the path of the mysterious woman. A fine witchy companion.
Behind him, Ward cleared his throat. With cutting sarcasm, he said, “Please sir, do take your time.”
Agnes was quite sure that it was not proper for her to be out in the gardens with Mr. Evans, but the relief of fully expanding her lungs in the crisp air outweighed any concerns about propriety.
Rumors sprouting from her husband’s death were sure to grow, regardless of how she behaved at his funeral. She would have done anything to get away from the venomous stares inside. The smell of decay still clung to her clothes, but here in the gardens, she could imagine life again.
Agreeing to his invitation had been a rash decision made on desperation and blind trust. By Richard’s account, Mr. Evans was a respectable man. Besides, the poor thing seemed in need of some fresh air of his own, so really, she was just fulfilling her duties as a generous hostess.
The man rocked back and forth on his feet, eyes cast down. What was wrong with him? It was possible that the friendship he and Richard had formed over the years of regular correspondence had been more profound than she had realized. He must be overcome by grief.
Mr. Evans regularly visited Richard in their York home to update him on the Skelton accounts. Perhaps that was why, despite never having been formally introduced—Richard had never forced her to make acquaintances—Mr. Evans didn’t feel like a stranger to her.
During the twice-monthly meetings between Richard and his accountant, muffled sounds of business discussions resonated into the hall.
But it was the laughter that frequently punctuated the conversation that drew her in.
Richard’s laughter would ring out boldly, and Mr. Evan’s reserved chuckle rumbled beneath it.
Agnes hadn’t known what possessed her, but unbeknownst to the men inside, she would sit just around the corner of the study door and listen.
The man before her was unrecognizable as the charismatic man who had brought such laughter to their home.
Sure, he had the same brown hair smoothed with oil and mustache waxed into two pointed tips, the same meticulously tailored suit, the same trustworthy eyes.
But with her, he could barely form a sentence.
“Are you feeling any better now, Mr. Evans?” Agnes asked with a small smile of reassurance. Mr. Evans nodded, murmuring something unintelligible as he continued to stare at his feet. “Perhaps if you take some deep breaths, you will be able to find your words again. Like this,” she said softly.
Agnes leaned over to catch his gaze and lifted her head to encourage him to do the same, ensuring his eyes locked with hers. Modeling a slow, long inhale and forceful exhale, she nodded for Mr. Evans to join in. She repeated the process again and again until the man seemed convinced it was working.
His hands steadied, and the red drained from his face. Only a faint stroke of pink remained over each cheek. When he finally spoke, his stammer was almost gone.
“Please excuse me, Lady Sk-Skelton. I must have been in need of some fresh air. It was quite stale inside.”
“Indeed. No need to be excused. Funerals can be overwhelming. Were you and Richard that close of friends?”
A moment passed before Mr. Evans opened his mouth to speak. Her question had caught him by surprise. “It would be my honor to call him a friend, but I am not sure it is acceptable for an accountant to refer to his employer with such familiarity.”
“Oh, nonsense.” His eyebrows rose at her remark. “Richard was not so stuffy as that. He always spoke so fondly of you. Your meetings uplifted his mood, even near the end.”
The right side of Mr. Evan’s mouth curled upwards, as he clearly tried not to look too pleased with himself.
But he was doing a poor job at it, and Agnes didn’t mind.
Good people deserved to know of the joy they brought to others, especially while they were still alive to hear it.
No need to save all of the praise for the departed.
“That means a lot, Lady Skelton. May God rest his soul.” Silence stretched between them, and his eyes lingered on her face.
He shuddered and broke eye contact before examining the garden foliage with more scrutiny than Agnes ever had.
“Please let me know how I may be of assistance to you. Your late husband would have been disappointed if I did not ensure your well-being.”
“That is kind. I expect I will hear from you soon about the inheritance. I was told he named you the executor, did he not?” Harry nodded in affirmation.
Kitty tapped her shoulder and informed Agnes that Louisa had finally arrived and was searching for her. Agnes turned back to Harry to take her leave, but before she could speak, he excused himself.
“Please attend to your guests, Lady Skelton. Thank you for helping me find my air.”
“It was my pleasure, Mr. Evans.” The accountant smiled and nodded. For the briefest moment, his gaze trailed down her face before he turned and walked off.
Kitty stood next to her, hands on her hips. “Where do you think he’s going? The manor and the carriages are that way.” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder.
Agnes shrugged, watching as his figure rambled deeper into the gardens until he disappeared from sight.