Through the Smoke (33 page)

Truman had had a terrible time forgiving Katherine, but she’d never asked for his forgiveness. Not sincerely. She’d made a game of manipulating his emotions. And she hadn’t gotten caught up with just one lover. She’d willfully betrayed him whenever the opportunity presented itself. “How could he afford to help for so long?”

“It was only about six months. She had a bit put by before that.”

“Do you know where her savings came from?”

“No.”

“And the monthly payments? Six months would be quite a burden.”

“He told me he put together a fund. Several of those who were better off contributed.”

With a scowl, Wythe broke into the conversation. “Why haven’t I heard of this…
fund
?”

“
I
hadn’t even heard of it, Mr. Stanhope,” she said. “It was union business. No one was supposed to talk about it.”

“You contributed personally, I suppose?” Truman asked.

She toed a rock. “Yes. We gave as much as we could. There was a time when Jack was making good money that he helped us. We were new here and Jonas hadn’t yet found work. I doubt we could’ve gotten by without him. So I can hardly feel bad about doing a kind deed for his widow. I just wish… I wish it had ended there.”

“
Jack
helped the two of you?” The disbelief in Wythe’s voice revealed
his
opinion of Rachel’s father, which came as no surprise since it mirrored Truman’s own.

“Did you thank him the way Jillian McTavish thanked your husband?” Wythe asked.

“Please forgive my cousin.” Truman spoke before she could respond—but she lifted her chin and answered in spite of his attempt to spare her the humiliation.

“It might seem strange to you, Mr. Stanhope. But my husband is a good man. He has his faults, like anyone else. Caring too much is one of them. Trying to save the world when he’d be better off leaving it alone is another. Jillian was lonely, and she was beautiful.” Her gaze lowered along with her voice. “Far more beautiful than I.”

“That depends on how you define beauty,” Truman said. “I personally find loyalty at least as attractive as a pretty face.”

It took her a moment to realize he’d paid her a compliment. When she caught on, she gave him a quick, shy smile. “Thank you, my lord. But I’m well aware of the vast difference between Jillian and me in that regard. If you don’t remember her, Rachel’s the spitting image of her. That should give you some idea of what my husband was up against.”

She’d chosen a good way to make her point. Rachel was all he could think about. “How much did your husband give the McTavishes each month?” he asked, hoping to match the amount with that mysterious entry in the bookshop’s ledgers.

“I never asked.” She glanced around as if concerned as to who might see them. “I don’t care to talk about Jonas when he’s not here. Could we perhaps wait—?”

“You’re doing a fair job of possibly saving your husband’s job,” Truman told her. “Could he do any better at convincing me?”

“I doubt it,” she said with a skeptical laugh. “I fear the passion he feels for his many causes would only make matters worse.”

Truman smiled. “I appreciate your honesty.”

“I know you can’t be pleased with my husband’s choices where the union is concerned, my lord. Where Jillian McTavish is concerned, either. God knows
I
find that one difficult.” She pulled her shawl tighter. “But I can admire what he was trying to do. And I hope you will at least
try
to understand why he has made some of the choices he has.”

Was Cutberth a visionary? A hero to the poor working class, as his wife portrayed him? Or was he a simple crook? “Have you ever heard of Pieter Bruegel, Mrs. Cutberth?”

“Of course.”

Her response made Truman catch his breath. He’d never expected her to admit to knowing of Mr. Bruegel. He’d merely wanted to witness her expression when he mentioned the artist’s name, to see if he could ascertain some familiarity. He was looking for Wythe’s reaction too. But he could ascertain no sudden nervousness.

“Your father had an extensive collection of his paintings that was lost in the fire,” she said. “My husband has mentioned it many times. He says losing such rare art is as much a tragedy as the rest of it. Why do you ask?”

“Because at least one of those paintings
wasn’t
lost in the fire.”

It was her turn to be surprised. Wythe was shocked too. His cousin’s gaze locked onto him as if he’d just bolted it there.

“
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus
went missing before the fire ever broke out,” Truman told her.

“Why is this the first
I’ve
heard of it?” The pique in Wythe’s voice suggested he was offended, and Truman couldn’t blame him. Their relationship had all but disintegrated the past six months—ever since he started searching for Katherine’s killer a little closer to home.

“
Why
did they go missing? How?” Mrs. Cutberth asked.

He could address Wythe’s reaction once they left; he answered the clerk’s wife. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

“You weren’t going to tell me about the paintings?” Wythe asked after Mrs. Cutberth went inside and they climbed astride their horses.

Truman glanced behind him. The place where Rachel was staying wasn’t far, just a few blocks closer to the center of town. He wanted to check on her, see how she was faring. But he had Wythe with him. And he’d purposely upset him to see what might come of it.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” he responded.

“In something that might help you solve the mystery of Katherine’s death? When I know it’s been eating you up inside?”

“The Abbotts are growing angrier by the day,” he explained. “I need to provide them with some answers, and I need to do it soon.”

“Then we will. Because you didn’t set that fire. No matter how angry you were, you would never destroy Blackmoor Hall. You love it too much. That old place is in your blood.”

Truman wished he found that monologue convincing, that he could believe his cousin was as innocent and supportive as he pretended to be. “I hope you’re right. But I can’t help wondering… where were you when the fire broke out, Wythe?”

“I’ve told you. I was on a ride.”

“Alone.”

“Yes, alone! I didn’t do it.” Wythe pulled his horse to a stop, causing Truman to slow up if he didn’t want to leave him behind. “If I wanted what you’ve got, I would’ve let you burn.”

Truman winced. Blaming Wythe didn’t make sense, and yet he couldn’t conquer that terrible doubt. “I’m sorry. I know you haven’t received the gratitude you probably deserve. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ve grown suspicious of
everyone
.”

“Except the forever devoted Linley.”

“Is Mrs. Poulson any less devoted?”

Wythe didn’t answer the question, but he came up alongside Truman. “How can I convince you?” he asked. “How can I
finally
prove myself and make things right between us?”

He seemed intent, sincere. “You could find
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus
,” Truman said.

The gelding Wythe rode snorted and swished its tail. “Haven’t you tried?”

“I have men searching, in England and abroad, but they’ve been doing so for more than a month—all to no avail. Which makes me wonder—have I gotten ahead of whoever took them?”

“Ahead?”

“Maybe they’re still here. Maybe they haven’t gone to market.”

“After
two years
?”

His cousin’s skepticism was more convincing than he’d expected it to be. “The culprit could be lying low, waiting for the perfect opportunity. It’s even possible he didn’t mean to kill Katherine. She should’ve been in church with everyone else but wasn’t feeling well that day. No one would’ve known except the servants.”

“I remember. But where could the paintings be?”

“Anywhere.” Truman recalled his conversation with Linley. “Even at the mine.”

“It would be too dangerous to leave something of such value there.”

Truman had been of the same opinion, but Linley had made a good argument. “Not if they were well protected—and well hidden.”

“But even if I happen to find them—say, in some tunnel that’s no longer used—that won’t necessarily tell us who put them there.”

Exactly the point Truman had hoped Wythe would grasp. He wanted his cousin to feel safe returning the paintings, even if he was the one who’d
taken them. “But it
would
prove my innocence. I was in London that whole week and returned just before the fire broke out. I would not have had the opportunity to secret them away between the time my driver saw me go in and you carried me out.”

“That’s true.” Wythe nibbled on his lip as he considered Truman’s words. “And they had to have gone missing sometime that day, otherwise the servants would’ve noticed them gone.”

If
his memory served correctly and
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus
was really missing when he argued with Katherine. He couldn’t help but acknowledge, at least to himself, that he could be leading Wythe on a wild goose chase.

“Yes, which means, if we find the paintings, the Abbotts will have to back off.” Maybe then they’d launch their own investigation instead of trying to persuade the authorities to press charges against him.

“Even if they refuse, no one of any import will listen to them at that point.”

“It’s the shred of proof I need.”

“Then I’ll head to the mine right now.”

The bridle jingled as Truman’s horse threw its head, but Truman easily reined in. “Get all those at the mine to aid in the search—and offer a significant reward.”

Wythe adjusted his hat to cut the sun’s glare. “How much of a reward?”

“A thousand pounds, no questions asked.”

“Any miner I know would betray his own mother for that much money.” Wythe brought his horse around so he could lower his voice. “This might solve that other problem too—the one I came to speak to you about earlier. You realize that.”

“The miners’ thirst for vengeance against me?”

“Yes. If they could be convinced that you aren’t the murderer the worst agitators claim you to be, it might assuage their anger over Jack and Rachel. Especially Jack, since they would have to admit that he might have been the one who fired the manse instead of you.”

Truman nodded to acknowledge the truth of that statement. “See that they are made aware of the possibilities.”

Wythe gave him a mock salute. Then he kicked his horse’s flanks and veered left, leaving Truman sitting in his saddle, watching. He wanted to believe the excitement he’d seen in Wythe’s face was genuine. But he couldn’t help thinking that his cousin might merely be using this as the opportunity Truman had intended it to be.

“Godspeed, cousin,” he murmured, and then, without Wythe to give him pause, he turned around and headed to Mrs. Tate’s.

Chapter 19

“Rachel?”

Rachel was lying down with a wet rag on her forehead when she heard Mrs. Tate call for her. She’d awakened with the worst headache she’d ever known. “Yes?”

“Someone’s here to see you.”

A tremor of foreboding caused her head to pound even more. Was Cutberth paying her another visit? Or was it Greenley again? “Who is it?”

“Lord Druridge.”

The earl. Just his name made Rachel’s heart yearn. She didn’t want to let him see her like this, while she wasn’t feeling well. But she figured this might be her only opportunity to tell him it was Cutberth who’d been searching for the ledgers. “I’m coming.”

After tossing the rag into the bowl on the table beside her, she got up and did what she could to tidy her appearance. But there was no way to cover the blood vessel Cutberth’s ring had broken when he struck her. The swelling near her eye wasn’t so bad anymore but the area had turned bright purple.

She let her hair down in hopes that might cover it. What she had to tell Lord Druridge would be incendiary enough. She didn’t want to start an allout war between him and the miners.

“My Lord?” Her breath caught as she came around the corner and saw him standing at the door so tall and erect.

“There you are.” He smiled as though he was relieved to see her, but his eyes honed in on her injury almost immediately and that smile disappeared. “What happened to you?”