Regina Scott (16 page)

T
revor was hard-pressed to remember such a fine evening. Oh, he’d visited assembly rooms before. The cotton bunting and old wood floor were no match for the classical elegance of Almack’s in London. The food on the other hand, was far superior, and he thought he’d surely eaten his weight in pastries that night alone.

Certainly he’d been to balls before, some of which held far more people with enough flashes of silk and jewels to blind him. Conversations, however, were shallow, wit piled on wit with little substance to sustain it. The Blackcliff assembly had wit aplenty, but conversation inevitably wound around to who was missing from the previous quarter, how to help and what must be done to bring everyone safely through to the next assembly. The dance, it seemed, was one of the few places where the lead
ers of the valley gathered, and far more than dancing went on.

Certainly he’d met his share of notables: princes, royal dukes, the titled and the wealthy. For all but a few, he’d been the oddity, someone to puzzle over at best and dismiss with scorn at worst. But in Blackcliff, he was the royalty, his opinion sought and heeded, his character praised.

Certainly he’d danced with beautiful women before, their husky laughter and sweet perfume teasing him. None of them made him feel the way Gwen Allbridge did—alive, awakened, appreciated. She truly had captured his heart.

He simply didn’t know what to do about it.

She was quiet as they drove home, the light from the lanterns outside making streaks of fire in her hair. He wanted to reach out, to stroke his hands down the satiny strands to see if they felt as warm as they looked. But he feared he’d overstepped his bounds already tonight with his declaration, and the squire was present although nodding off in the corner.

Still, it was all he could do not to gather her in his arms when he helped her down at the gatehouse. He tried to satisfy himself by holding her hand far longer than was necessary. “Thank you, Gwen, for a wonderful evening.”

“Thank you,” she insisted. “That was the best assembly ever held in Blackcliff!”

“Only because of you,” he said. He might not
have had the right to kiss her lips, but he brought her hand up and pressed a kiss against her glove. A noticeable tremor ran up her arm; he felt as if it ran through him, as well.

“Good night, Gwen,” he murmured, meeting her sweet gaze.

“Good night, Trevor.”

He watched until she was safely inside.

“Bellows to mend, eh, old fellow?” the squire said as Trevor climbed back into the carriage for the ride up the drive.

Trevor sighed. “Miss Allbridge would make a fine wife, but I never intended to make Blackcliff my home.”

“Indeed?” Lockhart leaned forward. The light from the coach’s lanterns gleamed on his silver hair. “Your father gave me the impression you intended to settle here.”

Trevor did not want to feel angry, not tonight. “You speak with my father far more frequently than I do, I’m sure.”

The squire nodded. “Less than you think. Not much of a correspondent, your father, but he can make himself known when he wishes.”

Bitterness was clawing its way up his throat, and Trevor struggled to contain it. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“His actions may seem harsh,” the squire said. “But you must understand. He was young, scarcely ten and seven when he met your mother. And she
was not the first with whom he’d fancied himself in love.”

Or the last. London was rife with gossip about his father and the actress with whom he was now living. “He paid for my education,” Trevor said, face feeling stiff. “For that I owe him a debt. But I cannot like that he exiled me to Blackcliff.”

The squire leaned back against the squabs. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind in time. But if you are determined to return to London, you’d do worse than to take Miss Allbridge as your bride. She’d do well in the capital, I think.”

He had felt the same, but he knew the impediments. “Only if she’d consent to leave the valley.”

“Ah. She is rather devoted to the place, isn’t she? But wives follow their husbands. That is the way of the world.”

The squire couldn’t know that Blackcliff was Gwen’s world. Her life, her heart, belonged here. Like an exotic flower, would she bloom anywhere else? Or wither and die?

Lockhart let Trevor off in front of Blackcliff Hall and had his driver wheel the coach and head into the night. Trevor climbed the stairs slowly, still thinking about Gwen. She wasn’t indifferent to him; her warm smiles and blushes told him as much. Would she be willing to leave the valley and all she knew behind for him? Was he willing to ask it of her? How could he afford a wife if they never found the jewels?

The moment he opened the door, he knew something was wrong. The carpet in the entryway had been pulled up and tossed aside. Decorative tables in the withdrawing room had been toppled, their contents spilling onto the floor or missing entirely.

“Mrs. Bentley?” Trevor called, moving toward the butler’s pantry and the door to the kitchen. “Allbridge?”

Someone groaned.

Trevor tore into the pantry and skidded to a stop. The drawers holding the flatware lay open, the silver littering the floor and the body of a man spread out on the stones. The articles missing from the withdrawing room lay scattered about. Worst of all was the smell, as if someone had opened a gin shop in the room.

Horace Allbridge opened an eye and sighted on Trevor. “Ah, Sir Trevor.” His croaky voice was slurred. “Back so soon?”

“Not soon enough, apparently,” Trevor said, crouching beside him. “What happened here?”

Allbridge waved a hand. “We’ve been had, Sir Trevor. Life is nothing but misery. We might as well get used to it.” He closed both eyes again and sagged against the cabinets.

“Allbridge!” Trevor put his ear to his steward’s chest and was relieved to hear the steady beat of his heart. Rising, he glanced around again. How had Horace Allbridge come to be in the pantry? Had he
surprised a thief? Or had he, in a drunken stupor, decided to steal from his master?

He didn’t want to think of his steward as a thief. The past few days, they’d become partners of a sort. He’d come to appreciate the man’s dry humor, his insights. Trevor wanted to trust him, to believe the best of him, but doubts kept raising their heads, like crows awakening, and Trevor could not shake them.

Allbridge had been missing the night Trevor had arrived. Had he been drunk or hiding evidence of previous thefts? Trevor had never been given an inventory of the house. How could he know what else might have been in Blackcliff before he arrived?

When Allbridge had made his first report, he’d advised Trevor to leave for London. Had he been trying to get Trevor out of the house before Trevor discovered other thefts? As the steward with full access to Blackcliff, Horace Allbridge had many opportunities to move the statue. Could he have been trying to scare Trevor away? And when Trevor had caught him that night in the bedchamber, the man could have made up the story of the jewels to save himself from Trevor’s wrath.

Whichever way Trevor looked at it, his steward had a lot of explaining to do. But how was Trevor to explain that to Gwen?

Gwen was having a difficult time heading for bed again. Still gowned in her fine dress, she sat on the little wooden stool in front of the mirror on her
dressing table, brush in hand, staring at her reflection but not really seeing it. Her mind kept turning on the events of the evening: how handsome Trevor had looked, how attentive he’d been, how he’d gazed at her when he had brought her home, so tenderly. She’d thought he meant to kiss her at last.

She’d wanted him to kiss her.

Father, what a blessing it would be for Trevor to love me!

Over the years, she’d had any number of suitors, all young men from the valley. Rob Winslow had been hanging after her since they were twelve. At first, she had refused to take them seriously because they seemed like puppies playing in the farmyard, all noise and affection. Once her mother had become ill, Gwen had focused on helping around the house, on trying to cure her, on keeping the disease from spreading.

Then her mother had died, and her father had crawled inside a gin bottle, and she’d turned her attentions to him. And just as he began to improve, Colonel Umbrey had passed on, plunging the village into despair. She couldn’t stand by and do nothing. She had to help. But all that helping left little time to fall in love, until now.

Lord, show me what You want me to do. It’s so easy to be drawn to Trevor. But is he the one You meant for me?

She had scarcely finished the prayer when someone knocked on the door. Oh, not a sickness, tonight
of all nights! Yet how many times had her mother answered that knock, cures in hand, ready to leave hearth and family when needed? Gwen could do no less. She dropped the brush on the table and hurried to answer.

Rob Winslow stood on the step, his face drawn.

Gwen felt as if the breath had stopped in her chest. “Is it Sir Trevor? Did he fall again?”

He shook his head. “It’s your father. Sir Trevor found him in the house in a terrible state.”

Her stomach roiled. “I’ll get Mother’s cures.”

He grabbed her arm to keep her from moving. “They won’t help him now. Sir Trevor’s sent me for the constable.”

“What?” Gwen shook herself, trying to focus. “Why?”

He dropped his gaze and his hand. “Your father was found in the butler’s pantry with the silver in his hands.”

No! Her father wouldn’t steal. “There must be a reason.”

Rob’s look was sad, as if he pitied her. “Perhaps, but it doesn’t look good. I thought you should know.” He took a step back.

“Wait!” Gwen snatched her cloak off the hook by the door. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll talk to Sir Trevor.”

“I’ve got to do my duty,” Rob protested. “This job is too important to my family. I want to give the master reason to hire me permanently.”

“I know.” Gwen followed him out the door. “Just slow your steps a little. That’s all I ask.”

Rob nodded, smile turning up. “I can do that. Watch yourself, now. And I hope you know that if you need anything…”

Gwen squeezed his arm. “I know. Thank you.”

She hesitated only long enough to assure herself that her father’s lantern wasn’t in its usual place by the front door. She hadn’t noticed it when she’d returned, either; she’d assumed he and Dolly were out on their rounds about the estate. How had he come to be in the butler’s pantry? And where was Dolly?

There was enough moon, riding high among scudding clouds, for her to pick her way up the drive to the front of the Hall. The gravel crunched against her shoes, but the sounds were not as loud as her thoughts. Her father had been acting strangely lately—hiding away in various rooms of the Hall, refusing to go to the assembly tonight when he’d promised her weeks ago he would accompany her. Yet stealing? Never!

Lamps burned on either side of Blackcliff’s door as she approached, and light blazed from the withdrawing-room window. Perhaps Trevor had already realized his mistake, and she could take her father home to his bed.

She climbed the stairs and opened the door. “Sir Trevor?” she called as she moved into the entryway.

Somewhere to her right a word was bitten back in frustration. Trevor strode into the entryway from
the withdrawing room. He still wore his greatcoat, and his shoulders seemed to fill the doorway. His face was tight, his lips compressed.

“Go home, Gwen,” he said, and it was an order.

Gwen’s heart sank even as her spine stiffened. “Rob said you had my father.”

He puffed out a breath. “Of course Rob told you. You command loyalties, even mine.”

He sounded saddened by that fact. “You command loyalties, as well. Everyone welcomed you at the assembly tonight.”

“Everyone except your father. It seems he had something else in mind.”

His voice was flat, yet the words hit like stones, leaving a dull ache. “My father would never steal from Blackcliff. What happened?”

He eyed her a moment as if choosing his words carefully. “Did you know your father has trouble holding his drink?”

The question caught her off guard. “Not anymore!”

He raised a brow. “Indeed.” He turned aside and motioned to the withdrawing room. “Perhaps you would care to explain, then.”

Gwen was almost afraid of what she’d find in the room, but she forced herself to cross in front of him and peer inside. Her father sat slumped in one of the leather-bound chairs, eyes closed, clothes rumpled. Once more she felt as if the air had been knocked
from her. She rushed to his side and bent over him. The stench of gin singed her nostrils.

Tears burned. “Oh, Father.”

His eyes opened, bloodshot and puffy. “Now, now. S’not so bad.” His voice was thick. “Only had cup or two to ward off the chill.” His eyes fluttered closed again.

“I should never have left him.” She wiped damp hair off his moist face with her fingers. “He’d been doing so well. He hasn’t had a night like this in weeks.”

“You are not his keeper,” Trevor said behind her, and she realized his tone had gentled.

“I should have guessed.” She turned to look at Trevor. His face was still drawn, haunted. Why did her father’s condition hurt him? “He was in despair tonight,” she explained. “The dance reminded him of Mother. She loved to dance.”

“This isn’t just melancholy.” He was struggling with something; his mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Tell me, Gwen. Why did you accompany me to the assembly tonight?”

Gwen frowned. “You ask the oddest questions.”

He took a step closer, gaze drilling down into hers as if he needed to see inside her. “I ask questions that need to be answered. Why did you want me at the assembly? Did your father encourage you to go?”

“Certainly. He wanted me to enjoy the evening.”

He stiffened as if she’d struck him. What was
wrong with him? Where was the kind, caring man who’d been loath to leave her side all evening? Had she mistaken him even then?

She had done everything to make Trevor the master of Blackcliff. Now it seemed her father was to pay the price for her efforts.