Regina Scott (14 page)

Trevor wrapped his fingers around the wrist and yanked. Using the momentum, he rolled himself off the bed and onto his feet, dragging his opponent up onto the bed flat. His sore ankle protested, but he hung on and raised his free hand in a fist. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Stand down, for God’s sake!” Horace Allbridge cried in his rough voice. “I mean no harm!”

T
revor released his steward and bent to light the brass lamp on the table beside the bed. Allbridge struggled to his feet and stood panting, one gnarled finger tugging at the collar of his worn brown coat, cravat streaming down his chest.

“Explain yourself,” Trevor ordered as he straightened.

He nodded shakily. “Just wanted a proper look at the thing. Gwen told me about what happened earlier.”

“And you couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?” Trevor challenged.

He hung his graying head. “Tomorrow you’d be well enough to ride off, seeing as you’re set to leave. Couldn’t stand by and watch my girl’s heart break.”

Gwen, heartbroken? For Blackcliff or Trevor’s leaving? And why did the thought that Gwen Allbridge might have feelings for him set him to
grinning like a fool? He didn’t want to raise her expectations. He wasn’t a rake to seduce and abandon a woman.

He forced his face into a scowl. “I fail to see how my leaving should rush your hand. If you meant to steal the thing, you’d have a clearer chance with me gone.”

“Ah, but if I’m right, you’ve no need to go.” He raised his head, and, even in the dim light, Trevor could see the eagerness in his pale blue gaze. “I am convinced now that there’s money to be had in Blackcliff, Sir Trevor. I’d stake my life on it.”

“Money?” Trevor hated the excitement in his voice, even though he knew its cause. “How?”

Allbridge glanced over his shoulder at the statue, lying crooked on the covers. “Reckon that fellow knows the truth of it. That’s why someone’s out to steal him.”

“The statue?” Trevor reached out and dragged it upright. “I’ve already examined it twice. Is it older than it looks? Was it created by a master?”

Allbridge wrinkled his nose, reminding Trevor of Gwen. “No, worse luck. Brought it with him, Colonel Umbrey did, and never would he be parted from it.” He reached for the statue, brows up as if asking permission to touch it.

The story was much like the valet’s, but Trevor hesitated a moment before stepping aside and letting his steward lift the shepherd. Allbridge jiggled it up and down, head cocked as if listening.

“He won’t give up his secrets so easily,” Trevor warned. “I tried.”

Allbridge puffed out a sigh as he lowered the statue to the bed. “Perhaps it’s not in the statue, then. But there’s no mistaking the colonel’s legacy.”

He glanced toward the door he had left ajar, then lowered his voice. “Brought back all manner of curiosities from his time in India and the Ottoman Empire, the colonel did. This statue, that gold elephant chap in the library, the carved boxes in the dining room.” He took a step closer and met Trevor’s gaze. “And a fortune in jewels.”

“Jewels?” Trevor squelched the hope that sprang up. “There was nothing in the estate records about jewels.”

His steward nodded, almost feverishly. “There wouldn’t be, now, would there? Old Cornwallis, the Governor-General, he forbid them looting the conquered lands. The colonel must have smuggled them home, a raja’s ransom.”

The tale still had too many holes for Trevor’s liking. “And the solicitor knew nothing?”

Allbridge shook his head. “I feared he did, mind you. Went over the house for days, one room at a time and kept me out of it. I was sure he’d found them and carried them off himself. The fellow certainly put the place up for sale quick enough, and at half its value, I’d say.”

Then that’s how his father had bought it. A dis
tant estate, cheaply priced—what better way to dispose of an unwanted relative?

“So what makes you think otherwise now?” Trevor asked.

Allbridge pointed to the statue again. “Someone else has been searching the house, using him to hide the fact, most like.”

Could it be true? Did this house truly hold the fortune he needed? He couldn’t help clutching at the story like a drowning man reached for a dangling rope. “Why didn’t you explain all this when you made your initial report?”

“I told you— I thought the jewels were gone. And I never knew where they were kept. Never even knew they existed until the mine was shut down. The colonel had enough money before then that he didn’t need to use them.”

“Then how do you know he used them later?”

“Because he gave me one to sell in Carlisle.” He held up his fist. “Ruby it was, nearly this big. Caused quite a stir when I took it in, but it was enough to keep Blackcliff running for a full year. And there were more, he hinted as much.”

Trevor glanced around the room. Somewhere—in a wall? Behind a painting? In a false drawer at the bottom of a wardrobe? In this very room might lie a fortune in jewels, perhaps enough to allow him to achieve his dreams at last. It might be a fool’s quest, but how could he walk away without trying?

He grinned at his steward. “Mr. Allbridge, you’ve
just given me an excellent reason to tarry in Blackcliff.”

Allbridge matched his grin. “We can start looking in the morning.”

“Why wait?” Trevor countered, heading for the wardrobe. “If there’s a fortune in Blackcliff, I mean to find it.” He glanced over his shoulder at his steward. “But let’s keep this between the two of us. The last thing we need is another fortune hunter.”

Gwen hurried up the drive for Blackcliff Hall the next morning, her brown coat heavy about her legs. She’d spent much of the night tossing and turning, worrying about what might be and finding no answers on how she could prevent it. She’d prayed for guidance, for deliverance, for help, but the Lord seemed strangely quiet, and she could not find His peace. She had risen hopeful she might have better luck at services this morning.

But something was up. Her father had come in too late last night and left again early this morning, and with the flimsiest of excuses.

“Estate business,” she muttered to Dolly. The mastiff trotted along beside her, head lowered, tail swinging against Gwen’s coat. “With Trevor leaving, what business could he have, and on a Sunday morning?”

Dolly woofed as if in agreement. More likely it was the moist scent of the decaying leaves along the drive. It had rained last night, turning the gravel to
black and stripping more leaves from the trees to litter the ground with color. Winter was coming. It would be a poor Christmas this year with Blackcliff Hall closed.

She climbed the stairs to the front door and reached for the handle. She should probably go around and come in through the butler’s pantry like a proper member of the staff, but she’d never felt like a member of the staff. The colonel had told her not to stand on ceremony, and she didn’t see the need to change that now.

Yet the door refused to budge. Locked? Had Trevor left already?

Panic coursed through her, and she pounded on the door. The hard wood stung her hand even through her gloves, and her breath caught in her throat. Dolly began howling at Gwen’s agitation. But Gwen couldn’t stop. He couldn’t leave! He wouldn’t abandon her! She needed to say goodbye!

Mrs. Bentley opened the door and gasped as Gwen pushed past her, Dolly at her heels. “Where’s Sir Trevor?”

Dolly was already tracking about the floor, nose sniffing against the thick carpet. She set off down the corridor even as Mrs. Bentley said, “In the library with your father, Miss Allbridge.”

Gwen nodded her thanks and followed her dog.

Dolly was waiting on her haunches at the library door, tail sweeping across the stone floor. Gwen took a deep breath. She could hear the murmur
of voices inside, short and swift. He was here. He hadn’t left her. She felt as if she could breathe again. Yet what were they doing? She pushed on the door, but it too was locked.

“Sir Trevor?” she called through the panel. “Father? Is everything all right?”

For a moment, she heard nothing, as if all movement, all speech had frozen. Then came a flurry of sound—thumps, rustlings, scrapes and grunts. “Sir Trevor?” she called again.

The door snicked open, and her father looked out, face red and perspiration beading along his receding hairline.

“All fine here, my girl. Did you have need of me?”

Gwen tried to look beyond him, but he was positioned so that she could see only a thin slice of the library: a corner of the hearth and part of the mantel above it. The painting had been removed; she could spy the empty satin cord dangling from the picture rail above. Why would Trevor redecorate now?

“Are you attending services this morning?” she asked her father. “Or is Sir Trevor planning to travel on the Sabbath?”

“Oh, no need for that,” her father said cheerfully. “He’s decided to stay a bit longer.”

Gwen stared at him, joy rising up until she thought she might lift straight off the stone floor.
Thank You, Lord!
“Oh, Father, truly?”

He winked at her, happier than she’d seen him in
months. “Didn’t think your old father had it in him, did you? We’ll be out shortly. I’d forgotten about it being Sunday, but we should go to church. We’ll soon have cause to be thankful.”

“I’ll take Dolly back to the gatehouse and wait for you there,” Gwen said. But as far as she was concerned, she had cause to be thankful right now.

Trevor found it hard to sit in services that day. For one thing, he itched to keep searching for the jewels. For another, he had decided that he had to say something to the villagers about the Blackcliff Mine. If he found the jewels, he could afford to keep the house open, perhaps even invest in improving the mine so that it would produce a profit again. If he didn’t find the jewels, the villagers needed to know that they must look elsewhere for work.

A word in David Newton’s ear was enough to earn Trevor a few moments before the congregation was dismissed.

“I want to thank you all for your warm welcome,” he started, standing at the front of St. Martin’s with the pale stone arches rising on either side of him. Faces gazed back at him, and he recognized many of them: the powerfully built Mr. Casperson, who he’d confirmed as constable; Mr. Agnew the wheelwright, who had perked up the moment Trevor had stepped forward; Squire Lockhart, who looked at Trevor with something approaching respect; Ruth
Newton; and Gwen and her father. Gwen’s look of approval buoyed him, and he pushed ahead.

“I know how important the Blackcliff Mine is to this village,” he told them all. “I made you a promise when I first arrived about reopening it. Since then, I’ve had a chance to learn more about the mine. The timbers are in worse shape than I realized. We will need a considerable amount of funds to make the mine safe for you to work in it again. I do not have access to those funds at the present, but I’m working to rectify that matter.”

Disappointment flittered across a few faces, but for the most part they nodded as if appreciating his predicament. Trevor took a deep breath.

“If I fail to find those funds, the mine will not reopen. I will let you all know as soon as I know more. Thank you for your time.”

He waited for a moment, expecting complaints, shouts of frustration and blame. Instead, the good people of Blackcliff looked at each other, then turned their faces to the cross. As Trevor returned to his seat, David Newton led them in a final prayer. Their voices rose in thanks and praise, and everyone filed out in good humor. Trevor had never seen anything like it.

“Well done, lad,” the squire said, passing him outside the church. “Your father would be proud.”

For some reason, the reminder of his father did not sting as much as it had in the past.

The next few days flew by. Trevor and Horace
Allbridge took one room at a time. They rapped every wall, checked behind all paintings, moved furniture and rugs, opened each decorative box and peered into individual silver and porcelain vases. They found any number of interesting things, from a gold button with a paste diamond in the center to an odd-shaped hook Allbridge claimed women used to crochet doilies. Unfortunately, they failed to locate any cache of jewels on the main floor.

More tricky, however, was hiding their work. Mrs. Bentley was concerned they weren’t eating enough, so she could appear at any time with a tray of biscuits and tea or some sliced cheese. Trevor was getting quite adept at turning her away. His steward suggested searching at night, but Trevor wanted more light to make sure they overlooked nothing. So, Allbridge let it be known they were inventorying the Hall, which gave them every reason to closet themselves away during the day.

However, it also gave Gwen reason to offer her help, and she wasn’t easy to dissuade. At first Trevor sent her on this errand and that—for parchment from the village to make lists, for more ointment for his ankle. But she was far too efficient and always returned, successful, in far too short a time to do him any good.

It would have been easier if Trevor could have confided in her. The urge to do so was strong. He could imagine the glow in her dark eyes, her pretty mouth pursed in an O of appreciation when she
learned the house might hold a fortune in jewels. But he could also imagine the light fading, her face puckering, if her father’s tale proved false. She put such faith in Blackcliff; he could not see her disappointed again. No, until he knew he had the jewels, he had to keep Gwen in the dark.

By the third day, all his gambits seemed too feeble, and he knew the best way to keep Gwen from learning the truth was to distract her himself. When she arrived with her father, he immediately drew her aside.

“I wonder if you might assist me this morning, Miss Allbridge.”

She dimpled up at him, and he hated that he’d given her no true cause. “Certainly, sir.”

He tapped the cane against the side of his boot. He didn’t need the crutch anymore; his ankle rarely pained him. But there was something distinguished about swinging that ebony stick.

“I find myself tired of these walls. Would you be available this morning for a tour of the village? I don’t believe we saw all its glories the day we confirmed everyone.”

She agreed readily, and a short time later, they were strolling down the lane to the village.

He hadn’t really looked at the place any of the times he’d journeyed through it, but he wasn’t surprised to find it consisted of several rough stone buildings clustered along a main street and snug two-story houses behind and at either end. Some of
the buildings had been whitewashed, but most still bore the mottled look of the gray-and-black stones from the fell.