The Purloined Papers (13 page)

The loss of timber wasn’t the estate’s only problem. Without workers, many fields lay fallow. Rising prices might improve profits from the rest, but the money would disappear several times over in higher costs for products the estate had to buy. Poor weather wasn’t helping. And with three mortgages…

The ledger’s last entry had been made two weeks ago, before Sir Nigel had turned off John Rivers, the last footman – another man who might have a grievance. But Sir Nigel’s journal should explain.

He opened the second drawer and gasped. The journal was gone.

Kevin had often laughed about Sir Nigel’s fanaticism over his journal. The man could not retire for the night until the day’s entry was complete. Boxing Day meant gifts for the tenants and a new journal for Sir Nigel, with the old one being enshrined with its predecessors in a special section of the library.

Andrew glanced at the journals, now stacked on the floor. More than fifty of them, recording every petty detail of Sir Nigel’s life.

He should have checked the journal Saturday night or while waiting for Chloe this morning. It might have told him why Sir Nigel had been up, why he’d let various servants go, or whether he was watching Peter at night. And Sir Nigel would have recorded anything he’d hidden.

Had the intruder taken it?

With new questions crowding his mind, Andrew joined William in the servants’ hall. But again the staff was no help. They had seen nothing, heard nothing, suspected nothing until Sir Peter summoned Gramling to explain the damage in the library.

And no one had seen the missing journal.

It was time to investigate Peter’s activities – and Sir Nigel’s. Jinks could ask questions around the neighborhood.

Tuesday

Andrew parted company with Gray’s courier in Exeter, cursing his throbbing leg as he turned his horse over to the ostler at the White Hart. The courier set a more brutal pace than Wellington’s worst marches. Only pride had kept Andrew going – and the knowledge that he need cover only five miles.

The leg had a long way to go to regain its former strength – which raised new concerns about his future. By leaving for London now, he could have taken two weeks to make the 175-mile journey, arriving sufficiently rested to hide any lingering weakness. Several months at sea would have given him ample time to recover before reaching India.

Now he would arrive in pain and probably limping. Could he convince Major Barnfield that the leg would improve?  The major had heard Harvey’s prognosis.

Half an hour in the taproom helped. When he could walk without limping, he sought out Exeter’s house agent.

Two hours later, he stood outside Rose Cottage while Mr. Weedell wiggled a key in a vain attempt to unlock the door. This was the fourth cottage they had visited. So far none had been acceptable. How could Chloe consider living in places like this?  Kevin would have been appalled.

But at least Chloe needn’t deal with Weedell. If Andrew had had a choice, he would have fled rather than endure the man’s ingratiating voice and insatiable thirst for gossip.

“I was saddened to learn about Sir Nigel,” Weedell had said the moment Andrew identified himself. “We were close friends. I hear you were there when he died.”

“Hardly. He was alone.”

Weedell’s eyes gleamed. “How do you know?”

Andrew had made a vague comment about servants and tried to ask about cottages, but a quarter hour had passed before he’d succeeded. Weedell had demanded particulars of the death and subsequent burglary, his questions sharpening whenever Andrew grew vague – which was often, for he refused to divulge his suspicions. Weedell seemed particularly curious about what might be missing from Fields House. Was he merely a gossipmonger, or did he have another motive?  It seemed odd that a man claiming to be a close friend had missed the burial. Where had Weedell been during the burglary? 

But he couldn’t ask without inspiring a new burst of curiosity, so he concentrated on cottages. Jinks could discover the answer.

On paper, Rose Cottage seemed Chloe’s best choice. It looked charming, was only a quarter mile from town, and appeared sound despite its age – which he estimated at two hundred years.

The roses that gave the cottage its name were overgrown from neglect, but not badly. A large kitchen garden on the south side soaked up sunlight, sheltered from wind by the cottage itself. The thatched roof had been replaced five years earlier.

The previous owner had died in June. Since her only child lived in Plymouth, Rose Cottage was up for sale. Despite several offers to lease the place, the owner demanded a buyer – or so Weedell claimed. Andrew wasn’t sure if he could trust the man’s word. Weedell was the sort who would say anything to further his goals – goals that clearly surpassed selling one small cottage.

“Lord Seabrook will wed soon,” said Weedell as the lock finally gave way. “You will need a place of your own, and I know the perfect estate.”

“I won’t—”

“Fields House,” Weedell said over his objection. “A bit run down at the moment, but sound land. There is another interested party, but Sir Peter would rather it went to a local.”

“I didn’t know it was for sale,” said Andrew, scanning a sitting room best described as cozy. His hair brushed the ceiling beams, but Chloe was several inches shorter.

“Not officially. Sir Nigel refused every offer I brought him, though everyone knew he’d have to sell in the end. Sir Peter will see reason the moment he studies the books. I’ll call tomorrow and help him decide. He will leap at a chance to realize some cash from his inheritance.”  Weedell’s tone raised images of hands rubbing together in anticipation. But he was doomed to failure this time. Andrew had seen the books. Fields House was mortgaged for more than its value. Selling would leave Peter in worse shape than ever.

Perhaps he should mention that to Peter. Weedell seemed determined to wrest an agreement from the lad. Had Weedell helped Sir Nigel to his death so he could sell the estate?

The question jerked his attention from Rose Cottage. How much would the agent make from such a transaction?  Perhaps he had financial difficulties of his own.

“Fields House would require a huge investment to restore the land,” he commented.

“Not as much as you might think.”  Weedell’s smile grew crafty. “And you have two wealthy lords in the family. Either of them would extend you credit. It would be an ideal situation for you – land you know well, adjacent to Lord Seabrook’s holdings, tenants who would welcome the change—”

“I’m not in the market for an estate,” Andrew said firmly, interrupting what promised to be a lengthy sales pitch – and for a property that wasn’t even for sale. “I will rejoin my regiment in a fortnight.”

“Ah. That’s why you need a cottage for your young lady,” he replied knowingly.

“Not at all.”  His glare sent Weedell back a pace. “My sister’s companion is retiring from service. Since I had business in town today, I offered to see what was available. But if you intend to insult her—”

Weedell paled. “No, no. Of course not. I misunderstood entirely.”  He inhaled deeply. “As you can see, the cottage is fully furnished and—”

Andrew ignored his patter, too busy castigating himself to care about details. He’d done Chloe a disservice by agreeing to help. Weedell suspected that he sought lodging for his mistress. When he discovered Chloe’s age and her relationship to the impoverished Sir Nigel, he would be sure of it. How would that affect her plans to teach?

He wondered if she realized how precarious her position would be once she left the protection of her own class. Any man who helped her would be suspect, yet buying a cottage on her own would leave her open to insult, if not fraud. He could perhaps shield her from the worst of it, but her age and appearance would hamper her for years.

At seven-and-twenty, Chloe was too young to set up her own household, even with a companion. Doing so would tarnish her reputation, making it difficult to find students. And her looks would compound the problem. Even merchant-class mothers would think twice before inviting a pretty girl into the house, no matter how menial her position.

But he had promised to help, so he would do his best.

Rose Cottage was smaller than it appeared from the road. Besides the tiny sitting room, it contained only an equally tiny dining room, with two cramped bedrooms upstairs. Cooking facilities and space for one servant filled a shed addition on the back. The only outbuilding was a hen house.

Weedell wanted an immediate answer on Rose Cottage and was again pressing for an offer on Fields House, certain that he could convince Peter to sell on the morrow. An hour passed before he finally accepted defeat and returned to his office.

Andrew shook his head. The cottage met Chloe’s requirements for price and location, but his gut didn’t like it.

Had she thought clearly about her plans?  Teaching the squire’s daughters while she lived at Fields House was one thing, but he doubted anyone from the gentry would hire her once she moved into her own establishment. Some would openly brand her a harlot. Weedell might be an obsequious coxcomb, but his reaction was typical. Even with a companion, the situation would appear scandalous. And if she failed to attract students, she might well become a harlot. Her savings could not support her for long.

He stopped at the apothecary for a tin of tooth powder while his mind fretted over the problem. He hated to see her reduced to servitude. She had always been so full of life.

Yet he could see no alternative. She could not return to Fields House, for Peter might yet lose the estate. Moving in with her guardian was likewise impossible, for Mr. Barry was a widower who lived in a small cottage in Exeter. And staying in service would break her spirit. Too many employers abused their companions. At least teaching would afford her a modicum of control over her life. If only she had enough money to live quietly without relying on the good will of others.

Of course, amassing as much as she had was a minor miracle. If not for her inheritance—

New questions lashed through his mind. The estate ledger had mentioned neither trusts nor any income since Sir Nigel had sold some hay in early August, so how had he replaced Chloe’s dowry?  And why had a man obsessed with details made no ledger entries for two weeks?  Could he have changed that much?

Andrew doubted it, which meant Sir Nigel had deliberately kept the transactions secret. Having blamed his financial woes on Peter’s gaming, perhaps he’d begun hiding money. Did he keep a second ledger – the real ledger – hidden?  Was that what Peter was seeking?

Another possibility was that Sir Nigel had quit keeping a ledger at all and stopped using a bank. Hiding cash in the house would prevent Peter from learning about a windfall. But the least hint of such a hoard would invite intruders, putting Sally and the other servants in danger.

Chloe might know if Sir Nigel had any secret hiding places. They needed to talk anyway. Laura’s casually cruel sniping made it vital that she quit immediately. If William had misjudged the situation, then Laura might be worse than even Kevin had claimed.

George Truitt nearly ran him down as he left the apothecary.

“Behind schedule?” Andrew asked. The male Truitts should have reached Seabrook by now.

“Badly.”  George shook his head. “Father just dispatched a footman to Seabrook. If I’d known you were in town, I could have saved him the trouble.”

“Problems?”  Andrew stepped aside to let a formidable dowager pass.

“A business emergency. Ashley took a fall while hunting last week,” he explained, naming his father’s partner. “He’ll be all right, but his head is still fuzzy, so Father must see to anything important. But we should be at Seabrook by Thursday.”  He frowned.

“Miss Truitt will be disappointed, though I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“Perhaps, though I wanted to join her before Miss Seabrook arrives.”  His face darkened in embarrassment. “Pardon me. That came out badly.”

“It matters not. Why should Miss Truitt need protecting?  Even Laura can’t object to her brother’s choosing a wife.”

George relaxed. “Perhaps you don’t know about last year.”

“Obviously not.”  But Andrew’s heart sank. What had Laura done now?

“Miss Seabrook spread lies accusing Martha of secret liaisons with Jasper Rankin before he was banished to the Caribbean. Martha protested, but everyone turned against her. Even Lord Seabrook stopped calling. It was weeks before he resumed his courtship. Martha was heartbroken.”

“You have proof that Laura was behind the tales?” he asked, though he recognized the tactic. She’d done the same thing in London during her Season.

“Yes. Mrs. Telcor discovered the truth in the end.”

Andrew let out a wretched sigh. “Despicable, but I doubt that William heard the tales.”  William often became so immersed in estate matters that he spoke to no one. And he was rather slow at times. But whether William had snubbed Martha or not, Andrew could at least ease George’s anger. “You should understand that William is very methodical when making decisions. And he was badly burned by a scheming chit several years ago. It sounds as though he considered this commitment quite thoroughly before passing the point of no return. He has never mentioned Laura’s machinations, so I suspect he knows nothing about them. But I will watch her when she arrives. I’ll not tolerate scheming.”

“Thank you.”  George bade him farewell, then hurried toward his office.

Andrew shook his head. Why the devil had William invited Laura to this house party?  It made as much sense as inviting a fox into the hen house. Two years at Moorside had failed to instill humility or family loyalty or any other virtue. William must accept the truth.

He headed for the White Hart, only to be stopped by Mrs. Telcor, Exeter’s chief gossip. He nearly groaned aloud.

“I heard you called at Fields House just after poor Sir Nigel died,” she began, giving him no time to respond to her greeting. “What a horrible accident.”  But her eyes gleamed.

“Yes. It is dangerous to wander about at night without a candle.”