Regina Scott (12 page)

G
wen saw the change in Trevor. It was very much like watching Dolly wake to a strange sound. His body stiffened, his head came up and his eyes narrowed. Goodness, what troubled him? Was it that she’d looked after Mr. Cord’s needs before his?

“Forgive me, Sir Trevor,” she said as soothingly as she could. “I should have thought to ask. Are you warm enough?”

Calculation flickered in those jade eyes, and she nearly groaned aloud. She’d just given him an excellent excuse to send her from the room, and she was certain he’d take it. She’d fully intended to participate in the interviews, to ease them along. Not that Trevor was incapable of choosing his own staff; she just wanted to help.

But, with the exception of Mrs. Bentley, who’d come beaming from the room to throw her arms about Gwen in thanks, none of the others had been
able to assure Gwen they’d been given a position. Trevor hadn’t refused anyone, exactly, but neither had he given them reason to hope.

She’d thought surely it would be different with John Cord. Unlike the others, he had years of experience. Besides, he badly needed to work. Unfortunately, from what she’d just seen, he was in far worse trouble.

“I am a bit chilled,” Trevor replied. “I believe there’s an exceptional wool blanket in the upstairs sitting room. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to bring it down.”

Oh, but he was a canny one. He knew the trek would take her several minutes at best. He was going to pounce on poor Mr. Cord, and he didn’t want her here to witness it.

“Certainly,” Gwen said cheerfully. “But I’ll just stoke up the fire first. You two go right ahead. Don’t mind me.”

She turned her back on him, pretending not to notice the shake of his dark head. Her steps to the hearth were slow and measured, her ears straining.

“Had you other questions for me, Sir Trevor?” Mr. Cord asked, with charming grace, Gwen thought.

She picked up the brass poker and opened the iron door on the stove inset in the fireplace. Heat bathed her.

“Have you always been a valet?” Trevor asked. “For some reason, I see you handling horses.”

The poker slid from Gwen’s fingers and clattered on the stone hearth even as Mr. Cord began coughing. He’d been the man to take Icarus? She knew he was given to walking on the estate from time to time. She and Dolly had come across him once, and he’d told her as much.

“It reminds me of happier times,” he’d said in that slow, mournful voice of his, and, of course, she’d assured him it was quite all right. But she’d never dreamed he’d be so familiar as to take a horse from a gentleman he’d never met or agreed to serve!

“Water,” he croaked now, and Gwen raised her skirts to kick shut the door, then hurried back to the table. Though there was a glass and a pitcher sitting in easy reach, Trevor made no move to help the valet. Gwen poured a glass and held it out to Mr. Cord. She frowned at Trevor, but his gaze was narrowed on the valet.

“Forgive me,” Mr. Cord said at last, handing the glass back to Gwen. “I don’t know much about horses, but I thought I could at least be of service when you rode up that night.” He lowered his gaze to his gloved hands, which had tightened into fists in his lap. “It’s been a long time since I could be of service.”

Gwen hurt for him. “There, now,” she said, setting the glass on the table. “Sometimes we are called to serve, and sometimes others are called to serve us. Come back to the kitchen when you’re finished here. I’m sure Mrs. Bentley has something to spare.”

He stood and drew the cloak around him as if it were his pride. “No need for charity, Miss Allbridge. I’ve always been able to take care of myself.” He bowed his head to Trevor. “If you have no other questions, sir?”

Trevor’s eyes remained narrowed as he looked up at the fellow. “What do you know of a shepherd statue?”

Mr. Cord coughed into his fist before answering. “The Shepherd of Nice? Colonel Umbrey purchased it in France, I believe, during a time when we weren’t at war. He was inordinately fond of the piece and moved it from room to room so he could always keep it in view.”

Gwen felt as if the breath of winter had blown down the corridor. No! She did not believe in ghosts! But could someone else be moving the statue in the colonel’s memory? The only one besides John Cord who had served him was her father.

“Thank you,” Trevor said, leaning on his cane to stand. “If I have further questions, I’ll let you know.”

Cord nodded. “I hope you’ll consider what I said, Sir Trevor. Blackcliff Hall can be an unforgiving place. Good day.”

Gwen could only watch as he made his way to the door, cough trailing in his wake.

“Something isn’t right,” Trevor said, watching him, as well.

Gwen quite agreed. “You could have been kinder,”
she said, gathering up the glass and pitcher. “He’s obviously unwell.”

“Exactly what I want in a valet,” he quipped.

Gwen made a face. “Well, I didn’t know that before I sent word to him about the interview.” She hugged the pitcher close. She should help John Cord, but she feared she knew what would do the most good. “I’ll see if Mrs. Wheaton has any of the horehound syrup to spare. It’s proven helpful for consumption.”

Trevor frowned. “Consumption? That’s a leap from a cough, isn’t it?”

“A cough, blood on his handkerchief, wasting away. Mother always said those were telltale signs.” Gwen felt hollow, remembering. “She had them all in the end.”

“Forgive me,” he said, and his voice had lost that cutting quality that sometimes infused it. “Of course you would recognize the symptoms.”

She sighed. “Only too well. And, of course, you’d recognize the man who took Icarus. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he meant any harm.”

“No,” he agreed, eyes narrowing once more, “but someone does. He said the house was cursed.”

She was surprised how easily the laugh bubbled up. “That’s ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with Blackcliff that a little hard work won’t fix.”

“And you’ve noticed nothing odd about the place?”

“Not since you arrived. Before then, we had some trouble with vagrants.”

“Ah, yes, so you said. Could one or more of them have stayed on, perhaps hidden in the house?”

The room was only getting colder. She set down the glass and pitcher and marched back to the fire to lay on more coal. “Certainly not,” she said as she worked. “I told you—we scrubbed from the schoolroom to the laundry.”

“But not the cellar,” he reminded her.

Why couldn’t she get warm? “I see why you wanted that blanket,” she said. “It’s unreasonably cold in here.” She watched the flames turn blue. “There. That’s better.”

“Someone is moving that shepherd statue,” he said quietly. “I won’t believe it moves on its own. And I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Neither do I,” she said, turning to face him. Their gazes met, his thoughtful. He offered her a smile, and the room was finally warm.

“That statue stood in the middle of this room the night we met,” Gwen said. “I didn’t move it, and neither did you. So you’re right—someone else was in the house that night.”

“Besides Dolly?”

He was teasing her, all charm, yet she thought she knew why. He must have seen he was frightening her and was trying to make light of it. But the thought of someone hiding in the house, watching them, unnerved her.

“Definitely besides Dolly,” she said, returning to his side. “But it strikes me that Dolly may be the solution to the problem. She doesn’t like strangers. Perhaps we should give her the run of the house, see if she notices anything.”

“Excellent idea.” He fingered the cane as if eager for a fight. “When can we start?”

Gwen picked up the glass and pitcher once more and started for the door. “I’ll ask Father to bring her up as soon as the last interview is over.”

“Gwen.” The sound of her given name as well as the gentle tone, soft as a caress, pulled her up short. She glanced back to find him regarding her sadly.

“That was the last interview,” he said. When she opened her mouth to protest, he held up one hand. “I appreciate your help, but I have no need to hire a staff. As soon as I can settle things to my liking, I mean to return to London.”

She wanted to scream, to throw the glass in her hand against the wall, to rail at the ceiling. She would never be as perfect as her mother, but she couldn’t have failed. She’d worked so hard!

“Why?” she asked. “I thought you were coming to enjoy Blackcliff.”

He shifted on his feet, but she didn’t think it was his ankle that pained him. “I have come to appreciate Blackcliff in many ways. I simply need to return to London.”

A man like him must journey to the capital from
time to time, she supposed. Hadn’t the squire said as much?

She took a step closer, fingers tightening on the glass. “But you’ll return, perhaps in the spring.”

“The Season starts in the spring.”

And, of course, he couldn’t miss that. She knew about the Season, the months between Easter and the summer recess of Parliament. Men went up to make laws; women went up to find husbands. She was certain any number of ladies would be watching for his return. Perhaps the next time she saw him he’d be married to one. The thought only depressed her spirits further.

“You need have no concerns,” he said as if he could see her distress. “I plan to close up the house, but Mrs. Bentley will stay on over the kitchen. You and your father are welcome to stay in the gatehouse. If you and Dolly keep an eye on the place, I’ll consider it a fair trade for rent.”

His offer was more than fair; it was generous. Yet it wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted her father working, Blackcliff renovated, the village rescued. She wanted things to run the way they always had, before her mother and Colonel Umbrey had passed on. And, like John Cord, she hated living on charity.

“I’ll just go tell Mrs. Bentley there will be no call for tea,” she murmured. “And I’ll send word you’re through with interviews. I won’t mention yet you’re
leaving. Father and I can let the village know about that and the mine after you’ve gone.”

“I won’t leave you to bear their discontent,” he said. “I’ll make the announcement before I go.”

Thoughtful to the end. Gwen felt a tear forming and purposefully turned away from him. “As you wish.”

But none of this was as she wished.

Trevor watched Gwen walk out the door. Her shoulders were slumped, her head turned away from him. He felt as if he’d snuffed out the last candle in the house. He tried to tell himself it was better this way—she should know the truth, and sooner rather than later. But the truth did not seem so noble when it brought her such pain.

As for John Cord, Trevor could not help but wonder whether he had been the shadow disappearing down the stairs the night Trevor had tripped. Yet how could the valet get into the house unseen? And that cough would surely give him away.

No, someone else must wish for Trevor to leave Blackcliff. Even though Trevor knew he was about to make that wish come true, he could not rest until he’d uncovered the mystery. Doing otherwise felt too much like leaving Gwen in danger.

True to her word, she brought Dolly back with her a short time later. The mastiff seemed to have caught her mistress’s melancholy, for she whined and tugged at her leash as Gwen led her into the
withdrawing room. He thought surely she’d knock Gwen off her feet, but Gwen ordered the dog down and Dolly lay obediently, if with accusing eyes, on the floor next to Trevor’s chair.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Gwen told him, taking a seat next to him. Her hand reached out and stroked Dolly’s massive head. “Everyone in the village will be heartbroken you’re leaving.”

That he very much doubted. At the very least David Newton would heave a sigh of relief that Trevor no longer plagued him with odd questions. “I think you give Blackcliff Hall too much importance,” he replied as gently as he could.

Her hand stayed a moment, then continued its rhythmic motion. Dolly’s head slowly drooped to the carpet and out of Gwen’s reach.

“And you make too little of it,” Gwen said in as kind a tone. “Is there nothing I can do to encourage you to stay?”

She could not know she was the one reason he hesitated. What man would be immune to her beauty, her energy, her compassion? Yet he could not offer her a place in his life. He could not afford to marry Gwen Allbridge any more than he could afford to keep Blackcliff. “There’s nothing to be done, not unless you have a few hundred pounds of sterling stashed away.”

He meant it as a joke, but her head came up as if
she’d caught the scent. “But you’re a baronet. Surely you have funds at your disposal.”

He should lie. He’d always lied, evaded or otherwise turned the conversation when it came to money. “Oddly enough, the Crown does not see fit to pass out guineas with titles,” he joked, and he was rather pleased by the lack of bitterness in the statement.

“But Icarus, your belongings,” she protested. She cocked her head and eyed him. “You do not look impoverished, Trevor.”

And that was to his credit. She had no idea how hard it was to maintain the facade some days. Icarus he had won in a wager. His friends thought he refused to name his tailor because he hoped the fellow wouldn’t be overrun with traffic. He couldn’t tell them his clothes were all secondhand, bought from a discrete shop near the waterfront and tailored by a seamstress who had worked for his mother. The new pair of boots on his feet were the first to truly fit him in years.

“I am not impoverished,” he told her. “But neither am I so plump in the pocket that I can afford to lavish money on this estate. Besides, I was born and raised in London. That is my home.”

She met his gaze. “People change their homes, when they find something better.”

“Then why have you and your father never left?” he challenged, leaning closer. “Why stay here?”

She smiled. “Because it seems you and I disagree
on the term ‘better,’ sir. I cannot see any place as better than Blackcliff.”

“Truly?” He regarded her, mystified. “Have you no ambitions for a better position for your father? Perhaps your own family one day?”

Her gaze skittered away from his to where her fingers toyed with the end of Dolly’s leash. “I thought I might find that here.”