0764213512 (R) (36 page)

“Everyone is in an outrage over Humphrey
—
or
most
everyone. A few of the under staff have been mute on the subject, and Father and Mr. Child have agreed to keep a close eye on them all.” Abbott regarded him with an unrelenting stare that made his bite of muffin turn to dust. “On the one hand, it seems foolish to assume anyone else is involved. But on the other hand, something more than what we know is obviously at work. It appears Humphrey was searching for something particular, to return as he did. Have you any idea what?”

Brice washed the tasteless muffin bite down with a sip of the tea.

Abbott leaned forward. “Nottingham. You have been acting oddly for months. Perhaps it is merely your new responsibilities weighing on you—I was happy to assume so. And then you stumbled into marriage. But there is something more, and I’d have to be a dunce not to see it. Tell me, please. Tell
us
, so that we can help. Father and Mr. Child need to be aware of it if more servants are likely to be bought and convinced to partake in such activities.”

Brice sighed and shoved his plate and cup aside. Old Abbott had a head start on him—surely he was about done with his breakfast. “They do, yes. You’re right.”

His friend regarded him with lifted brows when Brice stood. “But not I? You’ll not tell me what’s going on?”

It wasn’t the brows that gave him pause. It was the hurt in the eyes beneath them. “Ab, it isn’t that I don’t trust you—on the contrary. But I don’t want to pull you into this mess.”

“I would pray with you. For you. Support you.”

Brice passed his fingers through his hair. “You’ve a new life you’re planning, one you’ve worked hard to achieve. You don’t need to be distracted with my troubles.”

Abbott looked far from mollified. Indeed, his movements were jerky with anger as he stood, abandoning his steaming cup as well, and strode to the door. But once there, he paused, turned. And speared Brice through with righteous indignation. “I thought that was what friends did—carried each other’s burdens. But perhaps I always thought more highly of our friendship than you did. Perhaps you don’t need my feeble prayers added to yours.”

“Geoff—”

“Do you think I haven’t faith enough to handle the hardships of life? That I do not believe God bigger than anything we might face—the seen and the unseen?”

Where was this coming from? “I have never doubted your faith.”

“Just the worth of my support? Perhaps we are not truly friends, then. Perhaps I was merely taken in by your affability. Perhaps
you
don’t even know where your charm ends and genuine regard begins.”

He would have retorted—but it was the second time in less than twelve hours that someone had made that accusation. Either Abbott had been listening at Rowena’s door last night—highly unlikely—or there was some truth to the allegation that he relied too heavily upon his personality. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment.

But when he opened them again, Abbott was gone.

He took a moment to pray, though he wasn’t sure what he was praying for, exactly. For his own blinders to be removed. For his pride to be torn down before it could destroy him—though his wife and friend had done a bonny good job at that already. For his relationships to be strengthened through these travails, not weakened.

And for Abbott’s faith—whatever that little peek into his insecurities had been about. Not unlike their conversation before Brice’s wedding, was it? Was he questioning his calling to the pulpit? Now, after working so hard for so long?

Brice shoved himself up and strode out of the breakfast room, the house, and across the acre to the steward’s cottage. His knock was answered by Old Abbott’s ancient mother, who greeted him with a wrinkled smile and waved him in. Her son still sat at the table, newspaper before him, Miss Abbott by his side.

She greeted him with a smile too. “Morning, Your Grace. How fares your wife this morning?”

It still felt odd when his childhood friends called him that. But he managed a tight smile. “Still unwell, I’m afraid.”

“I’m so sorry to hear it. Ella and I were hoping to convince her to join us this morning for our archery practice.”

Old Abbott grunted. “So long as you keep it to archery. Yesterday I caught my son teaching them both to handle a pistol—for which I owe you my apologies, Your Grace. I told Geoff he oughtn’t to have let Lady Ella handle a gun without your permission, but he said he didn’t think you’d mind. I don’t know where he would come by such a notion.”

It was a notion he had never considered. But now that he did . . . given the current circumstances, it might not be a bad idea for the ladies to know how to defend themselves. Heaven knew it had saved Brook’s life when she was attacked in her stables almost two years ago. He didn’t advocate the use of violence, but if one found oneself with a weapon pointed at one’s head, one ought to know how it worked. “It’s a wonder she hasn’t asked me to learn before, honestly. I don’t mind at all, if Geoff would like to continue the lessons. He has always been a thoughtful, thorough, careful marksman. I trust no one more to give such instruction.”

“See, Papa?” Miss Abbott gave her father a cheeky grin. “I told you it was not a problem. Which is good, because I’m shaping up to be an excellent shot—as good as Geoff, he said.”

Brice chuckled. “Then remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Old Abbott sighed. “Very well, I’ll make no further complaint. Only promise to be careful, Stella.” He stood, folding his paper and setting it aside. “Shall we then, Your Grace?”

“Indeed.” He smiled his farewell to Miss Abbott. “Try to stay out of trouble, Stella-bell.”

She dimpled. “I would, but what fun would that be?”

Old Abbott shook his head and then reached for a hat to cover it with. “She’s going to be the death of me,” he said as they stepped out into the brisk September air. “I swear one of these days I’m going to step through my door to a telegram saying she’s run off to Gretna Green to elope with some chap I’ve never even met.”

“Only if he’s rich enough to justify it!” Miss Abbott shouted after them.

The second shake of the man’s head didn’t surprise Brice . . . but the lack of amusement in his eyes did. “Were her mother here, God rest her soul, she would never permit Stella to act as she does. But the harder I try to keep her in hand, the worse it gets.”

Brice frowned and led the way to the stables. He considered suggesting the car, but the roads were a muddy mess from last night’s rain, and his Austin would likely not make it down the lane. “I daresay you have nothing to worry about, sir. For all her jesting, she is a good girl with a solid head on her shoulders.”

“I pray you’re right, Your Grace—but fear you’re wrong. I don’t know where she came by these grandiose ideas of marrying so far above her station, but I’ve a terrible feeling it’ll lead her to heartache.”

It was on the tip of Brice’s tongue to observe that the world was changing, that social lines were beginning to blur—what with nobility posing for postcards and advertisements and more and more often marrying out of the genteel class. But the lines in the man’s face were those of a father concerned for his daughter’s heart more than her social status. A flippant answer would do nothing for such worries.

While they waited for the carriage to be brought around and then rode into town, they spoke of the more menial matters of the estate—the ones Old Abbott could recite in his sleep and which Brice was finally beginning to get a handle on. But as the countryside gave way to shops and houses, silence fell.

He hadn’t seen the former footman since they left Midwynd in the spring. And the man had only been employed with them for six months before that. But that wasn’t what made him seem almost unfamiliar when they arrived at the jail and the constable led them to a cell. It was the way he looked up at Brice with hatred in his eyes. Definitely not something he had noted in the fellow’s gaze before.

He nodded to Constable Morris. “Could I have just a moment to speak with him?”

“You can, Your Grace. But he likely won’t say much—he hasn’t to the rest of us.”

Brice smiled and made a show of leaning against the bars, casual and comfortable. If he weren’t mistaken, the particular flavor of revulsion in Humphrey’s eyes would take umbrage at that. Perhaps it would goad him into opening his lips.

Indeed, the moment the others had shuffled off, the young man sneered. “His Grace himself deigned to come, did he? Ought I to feel important?”

Brice chuckled. “Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Umstot, shall we? We both know who hired you to do what you did—though no doubt you’ll go mum again rather than give their names. But you’ve chosen the wrong side. Whatever they’ve paid or promised, I could have given more.”

He must play to his greed. More, try to figure out what Catherine’s plan had been—had she paid Humphrey simply to upset him . . . or had he actually been looking for the Fire Eyes?

Humphrey leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “Think so?”

“Mm. But do you know, especially, why you’ve made a grave error?” Brice tipped his head down. “Because never, in a lifetime, would you or anyone else find it.”

Humphrey sat forward, hands braced now on his knees. “Oh, don’t be so sure, Your Grace. They’ve already found them.”
Them
. Brice had deliberately said
it
. So he must have known what it was he was looking for, to realize it wasn’t just one thing.

Never mind the claim itself. To that, Brice just grinned. “Funny. I happen to know otherwise.”

What had he ever done to this man, that he snarled at him with such revulsion? “Didn’t say they’d been handed over yet, did I? But they will be. They’ve another on the inside, ready to meet.”

He wasn’t about to show any concern over that, though his mind immediately began to run through the list of every servant in the house—and, blast it, why were there so many? No doubt the whole point of telling him this was to send him home in a panic to dig out the Fire Eyes from their hiding place . . . where some other traitor would indeed be waiting to seize them.

Fat chance.

He straightened, slung his hands in his pockets, and smiled again. “Good luck to them all, then, and to you. We’ve only trespassing to accuse you of, so I imagine you’ll be out of here soon enough.” He turned, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He wouldn’t threaten. He wouldn’t brandish his power.

Humphrey already knew exactly who he was, of what he was capable. He had deemed the Fire Eyes worth the risk.

So be it. Let them all imagine his reactions. Let them guess at his next move. He’d surprise them all.

He’d do absolutely nothing. Nothing but wait for them to move and be ready to pounce . . . as soon as he figured out who else in his house was waiting to betray him.

Twenty

E
verything all right, Lily?”

Lilias looked up, shocked to hear the familiar version of her first name from anyone but Rowena—but upon spotting Mr. Child a few steps away in the moonlit slumbering garden, she smiled. First that he would approach her, and all the more that he would call her by a given name. She sat on a bench that was cold as the night air, her fingers folded in her lap. “Just worrying o’er the duchess is all.”

“Still sick?” He took a few slow steps toward her. When she motioned him to the seat at her side, he moved far more quickly and settled beside her with a lovely muted smile.

“Aye. It’s been five days. The poor lass ought to be better by now.” But every morning Lilias entered to the sounds of Rowena retching. Every day saw the duchess so exhausted and spent that she could do little but lie about. Every evening His Grace had to practically kick Lilias from Rowena’s chamber, assuring her he’d take care of her.

He did—she knew that. Rowena, despite her misery, smiled whenever she spoke of him now. Her eyes lit up when he came into her room. That, at least, was good to see. This was not the way she would have chosen for it to happen, but seeing them fall in love brought a balm to Lilias’s heart.

It couldn’t quite eclipse the worry, though. Rowena had never been sickly. What was causing it now? If it didn’t relent, if she wasted away, if it was some disease she caught in England, where Lilias had forced her to come, she’d never forgive herself.

“Probably nothing to worry about.” Mr. Child leaned back against the cold iron bench and grinned—actually grinned. “I daresay you would know better than I if it’s good news rather than bad, but the timing’s right, isn’t it? It was always right about now that my late wife, God rest her soul, would start feeling so poorly.”

Lilias just stared at him for a long moment. She already knew of the late Mrs. Child, of the four children who were grown and off making their own way in the world. She knew exactly what he meant by
good news
.

And it made her own stomach clench up so badly
she
nearly retched. “I hadn’t considered that.” Because Rowena had bled. And had never lain as a wife with His Grace. She
couldn’t
be with child. . . . Except the bleeding had been so short. Painless, Rowena had said. Light. And it should have come again in the time they’d been here. Should have, but it hadn’t.