Chapter Seven Bellamere #3
Bellamere’s attic smelled of dust, old wood and lavender. Mrs. Penrose led them through two storage rooms filled with trunks, covered furniture and discarded pictures. At the far end stood several canvases facing the wall. She moved one aside.
“There.”
Clara stopped. The portrait was unmistakably her.
Eighteen years old. Not fully finished. The background remained rough, one hand only sketched, but the face was complete.
Clara stood beside a garden wall wearing a pale summer gown, her hair softer than she wore it now.
She looked young. Painfully young. Clara approached.
“I never sat for this.”
Mrs. Penrose looked surprised.
“No?”
“No.”
“It must have been copied from another likeness.”
Clara thought of the charity exhibition during her first Season. Miniatures. Several young women had sat for them. Her own had sold anonymously. She had never known who bought it. The portrait’s face could easily have been enlarged from that miniature.
“Who commissioned it?”
Mrs. Penrose looked at Sebastian.
“I assumed Lord Adrian.”
Clara turned. Sebastian’s expression was unreadable.
“Did he?”
“I do not know.”
That was not an answer. Clara knew it immediately. She looked back at the painting.
“Why was it here?”
Mrs. Penrose frowned.
“It arrived from London eleven years ago. The artist sent it after the commission was halted.”
“Halted by whom?”
“I cannot remember.”
Sebastian said, “We have other matters to examine.” Clara turned sharply. He was retreating. Again.
“Do we?”
“Yes.”
“The portrait has waited eleven years. I suppose it can survive another hour.”
Mrs. Penrose glanced between them. Clara smiled at her.
“Thank you for showing me.”
The housekeeper curtsied. As they descended, Clara walked behind Sebastian.
He knew. She became increasingly certain.
The question was why he would not tell her.
Matthew Rooke lived three miles from Bellamere in a stone cottage at the edge of a village called Harting Cross.
Fane’s clerk had located him the previous afternoon.
He was seventy-two. Clara had expected someone furtive.
Instead she found a thin elderly man with white hair, spectacles and an expression of weary resignation when the Duke and Duchess of Ashcombe appeared at his door.
“I wondered how long it would take,” he said.
Sebastian stopped.
“For what?”
“For one of you to come.”
Rooke looked at Clara. His face changed.
“Miss Whitcombe.”
“Duchess of Ashcombe now.”
He blinked. Then looked at Sebastian.
“Well.”
Sebastian’s expression hardened.
“May we come in?”
Rooke stepped aside. The cottage was neat. Books lined one wall. A fire burned. A woman Clara assumed was his widowed daughter brought tea before tactfully withdrawing. Rooke sat opposite them.
“I heard Lord Adrian was dead.”
“Yes,” Sebastian said.
“I am sorry.”
“Were you close?”
Rooke almost smiled.
“No.”
“Then why did he pay you six thousand pounds?”
Clara glanced at Sebastian. Direct. Apparently diplomacy had ended. Rooke removed his spectacles.
“He did not pay me six thousand pounds.”
“We have the withdrawals.”
“He paid for documents.”
Sebastian leaned forward.
“What documents?”
“Documents your father wanted destroyed.”
The room went still. Rooke looked at Clara.
“Your mother’s money was among them.”
Clara’s chest tightened.
“What happened?”
The old man rubbed one hand across his face.
“The late duke invested funds for several families. Some investments were legitimate. Some were not.”
“Not legitimate how?” Sebastian asked.
“He moved money between ventures to cover losses.”
“Without permission?”
“Yes.”
Sebastian’s face hardened. Rooke continued.
“When one venture failed, he used funds from another to conceal it. Then another. Eventually the accounts became impossible.”
Clara thought of her father.
“My mother’s settlement?”
“Twenty-five thousand initially.”
She stared.
“Twenty-five?”
“Yes.”
“Adrian’s draft left forty.”
“Interest.”
Sebastian looked at him.
“Calculated by whom?”
“Lord Adrian.”
Clara struggled to understand.
“Adrian knew?”
“Eventually.”
“When?”
Rooke hesitated.
“Not when you were engaged.”
Sebastian’s gaze sharpened.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Clara felt something loosen. Not forgiveness. But one possibility disappeared. Adrian had not abandoned her because of the money. Not directly. Rooke continued.
“He began to suspect irregularities two years ago, while the old duke was still alive. After your father died eighteen months ago, Lord Adrian gained access to private papers he had never been permitted to see and finally understood how extensive the fraud had been.”
“Why did he not expose it?” Clara asked.
Rooke laughed without humor.
“Expose his father?”
“Yes.”
“And destroy the Ashcombe name?”
Sebastian’s voice became cold.
“The name would have survived.”
“Perhaps.”
Rooke looked at him.
“But there was another problem.”
“What?”
“Adrian had helped conceal some later transactions.”
Clara’s stomach turned.
“Knowingly?”
“Eventually.”
Sebastian stood. For several seconds he walked toward the small window. Clara watched his shoulders stiffen. Rooke continued more quietly.
“Your brother found himself inside a mess. At first he signed things because your father told him to. Later he understood enough to know questions should be asked.”
“And he did not ask them,” Sebastian said.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Fear. Loyalty. Weakness. Choose whichever word makes you happiest.”
Sebastian turned.
“None does.”
Rooke nodded.
“Adrian came to me two years ago.”
“Why?”
“I kept copies.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed.
“Of the accounts?”
“Some.”
“You stole them.”
“I preserved them.”
“That distinction depends upon perspective.”
“Your father intended to burn them. I hid what I could. One fragment—the Bellamere settlement—went into the spine of a blue Cowper volume in the Ashcombe library. I had no idea Lord Adrian would later choose that very book as a gift for you.”
Clara’s breath caught. “The unsigned letter asking whether I still had the blue book?”
“Adrian sent it. When he came to me two years ago, I told him where I had hidden the fragment. He wanted to know whether the book had survived before he risked saying more.”
Sebastian said nothing. Clara leaned forward.
“Did Adrian intend to repay us?”
“Yes.”
“Through Bellamere?”
“Yes.”
“Why Bellamere?”
“Because the property had been used as part security in the original arrangement.”
Clara looked toward Sebastian. The blue-book settlement. Everything connected.
“Why hide the repayment in a will?” she asked.
Rooke sighed.
“Because Adrian wanted to repair the wrong without confessing it publicly.”
Clara felt anger rise.
“He wanted absolution without shame.”
Rooke looked at her.
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt. Sebastian’s expression darkened.
“Did he intend Clara to know?”
“Eventually.”
“How?”
“He was preparing a letter.”
Clara went still.
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“I do not know.”
Rooke replaced his spectacles.
“He told me he would explain everything once the papers were secure.”
“Were they?”
“No.”
Sebastian returned to the table.
“What is missing?”
“One ledger.”
“Which?”
“The private investment ledger covering the years when Sir Edmund’s money was moved.”
Clara’s heart sank.
“Without it?”
“You have evidence,” Rooke said. “But not the clean chain you need.”
“Where was the ledger?”
“Bellamere.”
Sebastian regarded her in silence.
“When?”
“Until six months ago.”
“Then?”
“Gone.”
“Who knew?”
“Adrian. Me. Perhaps the old duke’s former secretary.”
“Lionel?”
Rooke’s expression changed.
“Lionel Harcourt visited Bellamere twice last year.”
Sebastian became very still.
“Why?”
“He said Adrian sent him.”
“Did Adrian?”
“I never discovered.”
Clara and Sebastian looked at each other. Lionel. The will. The missing witness. The missing ledger. Rooke opened a drawer.
“I have copies of several papers.”
He withdrew a packet tied with string. Sebastian took it. Clara watched his face as he examined the first page. Proof. Not enough. But something. Rooke looked at Clara.
“Your father was cheated.”
The words struck harder than she expected. Clara swallowed.
“And my mother?”
“Her money should have been protected.”
“She died believing it was lost.”
Rooke lowered his eyes.
“I am sorry.”
Clara sat back. For years she had watched her father diminish under the weight of failure.
Selling horses. Reducing staff. Mortgaging property.
Apologizing whenever Lucy required a new gown.
All while money that should have protected them had disappeared into Harcourt accounts.
Sebastian sat beside her. Not touching. Near. She was grateful. Rooke continued.
“Lord Adrian was ashamed.”
Clara laughed softly.
“Adrian had the luxury of shame.”
Rooke looked at her.
“My family had the consequences.”
“Yes.”
Sebastian’s voice was quiet.
“He should have told you.”