Through the Smoke (14 page)

“It affects me in the same way it affects you.”

Rachel watched Elspeth cross to the window. If her bearings were correct, the other woman was looking out on a narrow alley, one filled with trash, judging by the surrounding neighborhood.

“You know who did it,” Rachel said. “You know who fired Blackmoor Hall.”

Elspeth didn’t answer right away. Finally, frowning, she said, “I have my suspicions, and my reasons for them.”

“And you think
I
know something about that day, too, because of my father, and the money.”

Elspeth looked back. “Isn’t that what anyone would think who hears about the money?”

“The fire happened two years ago. If whoever set it is concerned about what I know, why haven’t there been problems before?”

“Maybe there was reason to believe you would hold your tongue.”

“And now, whoever it is, fears I will talk?”

“Have you given anyone reason to believe you might?”

Rachel wanted to scream. First Druridge and now Elspeth. How could she tell something she didn’t know? “No!” she said, but all she could think about was her two treks to Blackmoor Hall. The earl appearing at her mother’s funeral. Wythe telling everyone she and the earl were intimate.

No wonder the unionizers were worried. If the murderer was among them, they had more to fear than being sacked. They could be hanged as accomplices.

The absurd thing was that everyone seemed to know more than she did.

“The union protects its own,” Rachel said. “Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

“Now you’ve got it,” Elspeth replied. “’Tis best to let sleeping dogs lie. That’s the way I choose to think about it.”

“I thought I was one of the miners, part of the community.” Rachel heard the wistfulness in her own voice but didn’t have it in her to hide the hurt.

Elspeth’s expression softened. “Some lessons are harder than others. The good news is that you can still protect the miners and yourself, if you want.”

Rachel waited for Elspeth to explain, but she didn’t. “You’re suggesting I do what Cutberth wants,” she said, finally realizing what Elspeth had been getting at all along.

“Yes. Tell Druridge your father caused the fire. That would put an end to everything.”

“Then Wythe would take back the lies he’s spreading about me?”

Elspeth’s painted eyebrows shot up. “Wythe?” she scoffed. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“Maybe nothing,” Rachel admitted.

“Just do what Cutberth told you. That would go far enough toward proving your loyalty.”

Perhaps it would, Rachel silently conceded. But something inside her rebelled at the idea of letting Cutberth or anyone else blackmail her into lying to the earl. To her, the end did not justify the means. Especially when, in her heart, misleading Druridge didn’t feel noble or good.

It felt more like betrayal.

Chapter 8

Rachel shivered against a strong northern gale. The walk to Blackmoor Hall had taken longer than she’d expected because the wind kept pressing her back. Good thing she wasn’t in a hurry. She’d closed the bookshop for the rest of the week. Lately so many of the great houses that used to order from her mother were getting their books from London, where they could choose from a much wider variety. Thanks to that and the recent damage to her reputation, not a single soul had stopped by, to browse or to buy, in several days—since she’d visited Elspeth. Even those with reading lessons had canceled.

She’d cleaned the cottage, lovingly tucked away her mother’s possessions, and would have busied herself making stew or something else for supper—anything to avoid this errand—but the food was gone.

Huddling deeper in her cloak, Rachel remembered how her little brother had slowly eaten the thin gruel she’d given him at suppertime the night before. He’d left the table with a smile on his face, but she knew that smile lied, as did her own. They were both hungry, and she couldn’t,
wouldn’t
, let Geordie go without. She was all he had.

At last she reached the drive that wound up to the earl’s imposing home. As she let herself through the tall, wrought iron gate, she wondered how she would be received. For all his taunts, the earl had not been happy at their last meeting. But that was before, when she’d still had some confidence and a great deal of pride. Since then, the unionizers had turned on her and stripped her of both. Now she was desperate—and desperation was an unkind bedfellow to pride.

When she sounded the brass knocker, Linley opened the door. She told him she had something of importance to discuss with the earl and, this time, she wasn’t treated unkindly. He asked only if he could take her cloak. When she refused, he bowed before showing her into the same drawing room she’d seen before.

“It will be just a moment,” he told her and disappeared.

Rachel faced the well-stoked fire in an attempt to absorb its heat. But when she heard the door open behind her, her fingers were every bit as cold as when she’d just arrived.

It was the earl. She could sense his presence even before she turned to see who it was. No servant could cause her stomach to flutter the way it did now, or bring visions of intimacy that turned her knees to jelly.…

“Miss McTavish.”

Squaring her shoulders, Rachel turned. She had been determined to look Druridge in the eye, but somehow she couldn’t quite meet his probing gaze. “My lord.”

He paused as he reached the rug, studying her. “Are you ill?”

She shook her head.

His eyebrows drew together as though he didn’t quite believe her. Then he poked his head outside the room and ordered food and drink to be brought immediately.

Rachel nearly groaned aloud. She must look a sight to give her hunger away so easily. Shame caused her cheeks to burn despite the coldness in her limbs.

She turned back to the fire and stared at its orange flames, wishing, somehow, she were the log it consumed.

“Won’t you sit down?” Druridge asked, suddenly beside her.

With a stiff nod, Rachel took the seat closest to the fire, but she couldn’t keep her hands still. Her fingers plucked nervously at the fabric of her cloak as he sat opposite her.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” she began. “I—” As closed and hard as she had always assumed him to be, the look on his face was almost hopeful. It nearly caused her to falter from her course, but only until she remembered Geordie. “I came because I have something to tell you.”

“And I have something to tell you.” He cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology, for the other night. I don’t know what came over me. I am certainly not in the habit of paying for a woman’s favors. Neither do I typically seduce young virgins.”

“Perhaps it was an act of anger,” she said, unsure how to classify what, exactly, had happened to transform the two of them into such passionate, if temporary, lovers. “We… we have not exactly been the best of friends.”

“Is that what you think?” he asked softly. “That I was trying to hurt you?”

She closed her eyes against the memory of his gentleness. “No.”

“What I felt had nothing to do with anger, but I still owe you an apology, and perhaps an explanation—”

“Please, don’t,” she broke in. “It was Wythe’s fault. I provoked him. Let’s just forget it ever happened.”

His mouth quirked to one side. “A truly generous response. Won’t you at least allow me to make some sort of reparation?”

Reparation? How could he ever replace what he’d taken? She hoped he wasn’t going to offer her money again. This time she feared she might take it, grab Geordie and run far away from Creswell. Far away from the earl and the miners.

If only she could run from herself.

“I am not that kind of woman,” she said.

“I know.”

There was a knock. At the earl’s bidding, a servant Rachel didn’t recognize carried in a tray very similar to the one Mrs. Poulson had delivered before. Rachel’s gaze lingered on the clotted cream, scones, preserves and small sandwiches, but she didn’t want to eat anything, not with Geordie hungry at home. Besides, she couldn’t accept Druridge’s hospitality and then purposely mislead him.…

“Won’t you eat something?” he encouraged.

She forced her attention away from the tray, hoping he hadn’t noticed her preoccupation with it. “No, thank you. I-I’m fine.”

“You don’t look well.”

“I am.”

“You have lost weight.”

“I’m wearing a cloak. How can you possibly tell?”

“I can see it in your face.”

“I’ve been… busy, working.”

“Books are selling well, then?”

“Very well, yes. Business has never been better.” She forced a bright smile.

He nodded. “I am glad to hear that. Some tea, perhaps?”

This time Rachel didn’t refuse. Certainly there was nothing wrong with accepting something so minimal as a spot of tea. She took a sip of the warm brew and felt its bolstering effects within seconds.

“You have something to tell me,” the earl reminded her when she finished and set her cup on the tray.

For her father’s sake, even for the earl’s sake, she winced at what she was about to do. But the miners had won. Or maybe it was the hunger caused by their withdrawal from her life. Regardless, she tried to find some peace in knowing she wouldn’t tarnish her father’s reputation for nothing. What she was doing here at Blackmoor Hall should, as Elspeth and Mr. Cutberth said, help the labor movement.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “About the fire.”

“You know more than you have shared?”

Rachel took a deep breath and launched into the lie she’d prepared for him, the one about finding her mother’s diary and reading all about how her father set the blaze. She had thought about forging a diary and bringing it to him but hadn’t been willing to carry the lie quite that far.

He listened without interrupting, showing no emotion beyond the rigid set of his shoulders. Then he asked one simple question. “Are you familiar with Pieter Bruegel?”

“I’m sorry?” she responded.

“Pieter Bruegel. Have you heard of him?”

At a complete loss, Rachel shook her head. She had just given the earl the answers he had been searching for, for two years, and instead of exhibiting any joy or relief, he brought up this Bruegel.

“He was the greatest Flemish painter of the sixteenth century,” he explained.

“My education has centered on literature and poetry, my lord. I am afraid I know very little about art.”

He smiled, but uncertainty flickered in the depths of his eyes. “I understand. Will you let me compensate you for your trouble in coming here today?”

Oh God, now he was going to try to reward her for the lies she had just told him. Her conscience bucked at the thought. “No, thank you.” Rachel jumped to her feet. “I expect nothing.”

“But you didn’t have to come. At least let me send some flour and eggs and other foodstuffs to your cottage—”

“No!” What would the miners think if the earl started sending her barrels and crates? “I-I don’t need anything,” she amended.

He didn’t look convinced, but in the face of her adamant refusal, he sketched a slight bow. “As you wish.”

“Then I will be on my way.” Rachel pulled her cloak tighter and turned to leave, but he caught her by the elbow. His fingers seemed to burn through the fabric of her cloak and dress, making her aware of him not as an earl, but as she knew him that one night, as a man.

“If you will wait here, I’ll have the carriage brought around. There is no need for you to walk. In any case, I would like to show you something before you go.”

She agreed to stay so he would release her, but as soon as he left the room she headed for the door. She had already done what the miners wanted her to do. She had no desire to see whatever it was Druridge planned to show her, and she certainly didn’t want to ride in his carriage. She couldn’t withstand his scrutiny a moment longer. Being in his company made it impossible to forget his strong hands on her body, his soft, firm lips at her temples, her neck, her breasts.

But just as she reached for the knob, the smell of the food caught her about the neck like a shepherd’s crook, and she thought of Geordie. He was hungry. The earl would never miss a tart or two. The servants would clear the remains of the meal, possibly even throw them away.

The idea of waste proved unbearable. Grabbing as much as she could carry, Rachel hid the food under her cloak. Then she let herself out and ran
most of the way home, feeling as much like a thief as if she’d stolen the earl’s silver.