Through the Smoke(50)
Author: Brenda Novak

“Is that all you’ve got to tell me?” he asked.

“Yes, except… Elspeth might know more—a lot more.”

He’d turned his head to look out at the dark night, but at this, his attention shifted to her. “I have questioned Elspeth on a number of occasions. She has assured me she knows nothing.”

“She once indicated the opposite to me, my lord, but that could’ve been mere posturing. Tonight when I tried to see her, she refused to give me an audience. She wouldn’t even accept a letter.” She handed him the note she’d written, begging Elspeth to come forward for the sake of saving an innocent man.

“You’ve become too closely associated with me.”

When she said nothing, they lapsed into silence for the duration of the ride. The reminder of their different lives and different roles had cast a pall across their time together. In the face of that, they could no longer pretend to have found common ground.

Once they arrived at the manse, Linley met them at the door.

“Hello, my lord. I trust you had a… rewarding evening.”

Lord Druridge scarcely answered. He certainly said nothing that gave away where he’d been. He’d given no indication while they were on the road either. But Rachel couldn’t help wondering. Unless he was traveling to London or somewhere else, he didn’t go out much at night. Of all the earl’s estates, Blackmoor Hall was the most remote but seemed to be the one he preferred.

“Miss Rachel, how good to see you.”

Linley’s smile eased some of her misgivings. After what she’d revealed, the earl was treating her politely but distantly. She didn’t get the impression he was angry at her, just doing his best to cope with the stark realities of what he was up against.

She relinquished her cloak into the butler’s care because he offered to take it and she thought it would be impolite to refuse. But she was painfully aware of the fact that she had no right to be treated like a member of the gentry. That she could see Mrs. Poulson standing off to one side, watching, made her especially self-conscious.

“Goodnight, Mr. Linley.” She dipped into a curtsy for Lord Druridge. “Goodnight, my lord. I-I’m sorry if I’ve… displeased you.”

“Rachel.”

When the earl called her name, she hadn’t quite reached the stairs. “Yes?”

“I have something I want to show you.”

The imperious note was back in his voice. She welcomed it because she hated the thought that, with her confession, she might’ve lost some of his respect or his regard. “What is that, my lord?”

“You’ll see. It’s in the far wing. If you will do me the favor of accompanying me there.”

He didn’t act as if she had much of a choice. “Of course.”

The earl squeezed Linley’s shoulder. “You look spent,” he murmured. “I suggest you retire.”

“I’m afraid I’m not as young as I used to be,” the butler joked.

“Get some rest.”

There was genuine affection in this exchange, making it plain that Lord Druridge cared a great deal for Linley.

“As you wish, my lord.”

Catching Rachel’s eye, the earl gestured to the stairs. “Shall we?”

She followed him to his study, where he lit the lamp he carried with them to the farthest reaches of the manse. They entered a wing that had been closed off and passed room after room, none of which had been occupied for some time. Many weren’t even furnished. Others were draped.

“There used to be so much in this part of the house,” he commented as they walked. “The cradle, from when I was a child—all my childhood belongings, really. Family heirlooms. Gifts and keepsakes from centuries back. Extra furniture.”

“The fire took it.”

A muscle moved in his cheek. “Yes. The wind carried the flames to this wing. It was the one that was most damaged.”

The corridor stretched far beyond the reach of the lamp. She’d never even been asked to clean here. As far as she knew, no one visited this part of the house. “So what are you taking me to see?”

“Do you remember me telling you about the painter Pieter Bruegel?”

Wishing she’d kept her cloak on, she rubbed her arms. “Yes, although I still don’t understand his relevance to the past.”

“I asked you why Cutberth might want to fire Blackmoor Hall.”

“Yes, and I had no answer.”

“This might be the answer,” he said and stopped at a door with a double lock.

Rachel had never seen a Pieter Bruegel painting, so she could shed no new light on the situation. But once Lord Druridge told her about his father’s collection and how it might’ve been stolen—the fire set to hide the theft—she felt new hope. If the earl could prove the paintings hadn’t been destroyed in the fire, he could clear his name and his conscience. And the scenario he presented sounded plausible. The amount of money to be gained from the sale of such rare art would provide Cutberth—or anyone else—with plenty of incentive.

Maybe the union organizer wasn’t the selfless individual he’d always portrayed himself to be. Maybe he’d been hoping to get rich off Truman Stanhope and had carefully planned out the method he would use. It seemed more likely that Cutberth would be responsible than Wythe, since Wythe had saved Truman’s life despite the fact that he had so much to gain from his death.

But when Lord Druridge told her he’d already been looking for several weeks and hadn’t found anything, her hope dwindled again. Without at least one of the paintings, he had nothing solid to rely on, no evidence to protect him should his late wife’s family gain the upper hand—only a vague memory, and even he didn’t seem convinced that memory was reliable.

“So you will marry the duke’s daughter,” she said as matter-of-factly as possible. “If that doesn’t save you from criminal prosecution, it will at least buy more time.”

He stared down at the letter she’d given him in the carriage, what she’d written to Elspeth, pleading on his behalf. “Is that what you want me to do?”

It was the last thing she wanted. But what else could she say? She would never encourage him to risk the noose. Besides, as much as she preferred to ignore it, the odd feeling from the carriage persisted, despite what she’d read in his letter. “I understand the plight of my class; you understand the plight of yours.”