Regina Scott (18 page)

G
wen woke to her father’s groan and brought the tonic to him straight away. He coughed and made a face as he handed the emptied cup back to her. “Vile concoction.”

“Vile habit,” she countered. “Now turn your head so I can get a good look at your bump.”

“Bump?” He turned with a frown, and Gwen removed the bandage she’d put on before retiring. The swelling had gone down a little with no sign of fresh blood.
Thank You, Lord!

“What do you remember of last night?” she asked, settling back beside him.

He tugged the covers closer. “Couldn’t stop thinking about your mother. One cup led to two.”

“Or six. I found the empty bottle before retiring.”

He rubbed a hand against his grizzled chin. “Funny, that. I don’t remember drinking so much. I was well enough to start my rounds.”

“How did you end up in the butler’s pantry?”

He frowned. “Butler’s pantry? I didn’t go into the house proper. I was coming around the kitchen when Dolly started pulling. I knew everyone was down at the assembly, so I thought I should discover what spooked her.”

Gwen leaned forward. “What did you find?”

He dropped his hand and shrugged. “Don’t remember. Things get hazy from there on. Sounds like I hit my head.”

Small wonder Trevor suspected him with a story like that. “Sir Trevor found you passed out in the butler’s pantry,” Gwen informed him, straightening, “with the house tore up and the silver all around you.”

Her father stiffened. “I’m no thief!”

“Well, someone wants us to think so!”

Her father’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Is Sir Trevor of a similar mind?”

“He remains unconvinced of your innocence,” Gwen said, rising. “You will need to beg him his forgiveness, and it wouldn’t hurt to do the same for Rob Winslow.”

Her father stuck out his lower lip. “A gentleman doesn’t beg.”

“An honorable gentleman doesn’t neglect his duty. Or crawl into a gin bottle because he pities himself.”

He raised his head. “Fine words to give your father.”

“I wouldn’t have needed to say them once. I intend to help Sir Trevor find the real troublemaker, Father, but I cannot help you save your job if you don’t help yourself.”

He collapsed sullenly against the headboard. “What do you want of me?”

“To begin with, I want you to pour every ounce of gin into the ground.”

“Wasted money! What if we need it for medicinal purposes?”

“I have an entire cupboard of tonics.”

“And no interest in making more.”

Gwen leveled a finger at him. “Do not think to blame this on me, sir. I’m going to dress for services. If you intend to go with me, I suggest you do the same.”

“Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he complained. But he threw back the covers and swung his legs off the bed. “Today you remind me too much of your mother.”

“Good,” Gwen said, heading for the door. “Then perhaps you’ll listen to me for once.”

Trevor had slept little. He could not like his behavior last night. He’d leaped to the conclusion that Allbridge was a villain, despite evidence that pointed to the man’s innocence. It hadn’t taken much thought to realize why. He’d felt betrayed. Allbridge had promised him the end of his trials, offering a fortune in jewels, and Trevor had latched
onto the idea like a cripple to a crutch. That it might all be a story designed to keep him off guard drove him mad.

No one spoke of the matter at St. Martin’s that morning. Trevor took his place in the Blackcliff pew to nods of greeting from his neighbors and a tremulous smile from Gwen. At least Casperson was no gossip. It seemed no one else knew about the trouble at Blackcliff last night.

As soon as Trevor returned to the Hall, however, he went looking for proof that the jewels existed. He read and reread the estate ledgers until the lines blurred and only succeeded in finding one discrepancy.

The year after the mine had closed, the expenses for the estate outpaced its income, yet the ledger balanced. Was that evidence that the colonel had used one of his jewels to pay the difference, as Allbridge had said, or simply an arithmetic error? It seemed a slim chance on which to pin his hopes.

Mrs. Bentley rapped on the open door of the library. “Excuse me, Sir Trevor, but Mr. Allbridge and Miss Allbridge would like to speak with you.”

“Send them in,” Trevor said, pushing the book away from him on the desk. That Gwen thought she needed to be announced told him that he wasn’t the only one with misgivings about last night.

Gwen was hesitant when she entered, as well, hovering to one side of her father as he came forward. Even her brown-wool coat looked subdued.
Her father turned his hat in his gnarled hands, gray head hanging, as he apologized for his behavior. Gwen’s gaze darted between him and Trevor as if she was trying to gauge the success of his performance.

“Sit down, Allbridge,” Trevor said when her father wound to a stop. “I have some questions for you.”

His steward perched on a chair before the desk. Trevor was certain Gwen would busy herself elsewhere in the room to eavesdrop as she always did, but instead she sat in a chair near her father as if to keep an eye on him. Trevor had seen more kindly looks on the faces of affronted tutors when he’d been hauled in for some infraction.

“He says he doesn’t remember anything about last night,” she told Trevor before he could question her father. “Dolly reacted to something in the kitchen. He went in to investigate and blacked out.”

“I was hit,” her father protested, bending and twisting his head so Trevor could see the lump.

“And you never saw your attacker?” Trevor pressed.

“No, sir,” Allbridge said, straightening. “But I’d like to.”

Trevor smiled grimly. “So would I.”

“What did Mr. Casperson find?” Gwen put in. “Was anything actually stolen?”

“Not that we can determine. But I have another mystery for you, Allbridge.” He turned the book
so that it faced Gwen’s father and pointed to the column. “What do you make of that?”

His steward rose and leaned over the book as if he thought Trevor meant to trap him. His blue eyes moved back and forth as he scanned down the page, then widened. “That’s when he had me sell the ruby,” he said, gaze rising to meet Trevor’s.

Trevor leaned back in the chair. “You still insist the jewels exist? Last night you sounded as if it was all a story.”

He waved a hand. “Last night I was in my cups!”

“Father, what is this?” Gwen asked. “You never told me about any jewels.”

He kept his gaze on Trevor, as if trying to convince him. “I was sworn to secrecy. Besides, you were busy with your mother.” He pointed to the page. “But this proves Umbrey had access to funds he didn’t consider part of the estate.”

Trevor wanted to bottle the man’s confidence and drink it down. Before he could respond, however, Gwen spoke up.

“Who else knows?”

Her father turned to eye her. “No one, as far as I know.”

She shook her head and rose to sweep up to the desk. “I think you’re wrong. Someone else knows. He was here last night, and he’s been here for weeks, searching. Last night he tried to blame it on you, Father. We have to find those jewels before he does!”

Trevor wasn’t sure whether to groan or cheer. Gwen Allbridge was a force to be reckoned with, but he had a feeling she was taking on more than she knew.

“No one would argue with you on that score,” he told her. “But your father and I have already searched the lower floors to no avail.”

“Then we’ll simply start with the upper,” she replied, raising her head.

Horace Allbridge gave Trevor a glance that said he, too, thought they were both in trouble. “It’s not so easy, girl.”

She ignored him. “They can’t be in an obvious place,” she said, gaze on the ceiling as if she were trying to see through the plaster to where the jewels had been stashed. “He would have found them before now.” Her gaze snapped down to Trevor’s. “I know—we should question the staff!”

“Miss Allbridge,” Trevor said and had the satisfaction of seeing her still. “I’ve conducted a few investigations. While I agree that questioning the staff is generally useful, no one on the staff has been here long enough to know anything about how the colonel chose to live. I’d suggest questioning someone who knew the man well.”

She nodded eagerly. “John Cord! Of course! Surely he’d know where the colonel would hide his valuables. I’ve been meaning to bring him some of Mrs. Bentley’s beef soup. That should give us an excellent reason to call.”

She was heading for the door before Trevor could agree.

“Best you go with her,” her father murmured, watching her. “Keep her out of trouble.”

“Is that possible?” Trevor asked, but he rose and strode after her. If John Cord knew nothing of the jewels, Trevor still might learn something from him. And if he did know about the jewels, he could be dangerous.

With her bonnet on her head and her basket on her arm, Gwen set out with Trevor for John Cord’s cottage at the opposite end of the village. “We won’t mention the jewels,” she promised as they left the grounds. “Just ask him some questions.”

“Perhaps you could leave the questioning to me.”

She cast him a glance. His greatcoat streamed behind him as he strode along, the hem whisking about his boots. She wasn’t entirely sure of him this morning, but it seemed the attentive gentleman from last night was more in evidence. “I thought we agreed people trust me more.”

“All the more reason for me to be seen as the difficult one.”

She nodded. “Yes, I can see you in that role.”

She meant to tease him, but he immediately sobered. “I must apologize for last night,” he said as they reached the nearest edge of the village. “You obviously have a burden to bear. I should not have added to it.”

His kindness fell over her like a warm blanket on a cold night. “I keep hoping nights like that are at an end,” she said with a sigh. “I pray for him, a lot.”

He was quiet a moment as they passed the George. Mrs. Billings was out sweeping the front step. Gwen raised a hand in greeting.

“Does God answer when you pray?”

She turned to him in surprise. “Of course! He answers you, doesn’t He?”

He gazed off over the dark rooftops to where the fells rose purple in the distance. “Perhaps I haven’t had as many opportunities to pray.”

The more she knew of him, the more she suspected that his life had not been as privileged as she’d originally supposed. Yet even if he had been wealthy, surely he’d had petitions—illness, deaths of friends or family, loneliness. Had he never prayed about those?

“How did you pray when you were young?” she asked, taking his arm and steering him around a waiting wagon in front of Mr. Casperson’s shop. “Mother always heard my prayers before bed and guided me if I strayed too far afield.” And the memory no longer hurt as much as it had a few months ago.

“Which of these cottages belongs to Cord?” he asked.

“That one,” Gwen said, pointing with her basket at the smallest of the group. She led him to it and
only later realized he had never answered her question.

Unfortunately, their trip did little good. John Cord welcomed them nicely enough, as if eager for company, but he couldn’t tell them much about the colonel’s last days.

“A very ill man,” he said in his slow voice as they sat in the main room of his cottage. The stone house held only two rooms, one for living and one for sleeping. A fireplace in the center managed to warm the place, but the soot on the ceiling told Gwen it did so badly. Dust flecked the worn floor-boards, and the three chairs around the center table did not match. A shame the colonel had not seen fit to leave something to his former valet in his will as most masters did.

“The colonel truly wasn’t ill,” Gwen told Mr. Cord and Trevor, who dwarfed the spindly chair he’d been given. “I think he worried himself to death.”

“He had a lot of fears at the end,” Mr. Cord agreed, running his hands along his breeches. He cast Trevor a quick glance. “Living alone will do that to a man. He even set me loose, as if he knew he would shortly have no need for a valet.”

“Perhaps he ran out of funds once the mine was closed,” Trevor ventured, watching him.

John Cord coughed into his hand before answering. “I have wondered the same. He never paid me my last wages.”

“We’ll certainly see to that,” Gwen promised.

“Very likely the matter is noted in the estate books,” Trevor said smoothly. “Of course, the old fellow might have hidden the money.”

“Not the colonel,” Mr. Cord protested. “If he had anything of value, he kept it in sight. Look how he doted on that statue.”

Trevor tried a few more questions, but the answers must not have satisfied him, for he quickly concluded the visit and bid the valet adieu. Gwen made sure to leave Mr. Cord the soup Mrs. Bentley had sent. Remembering his pride about charity, she waited until he was shaking Trevor’s hand, then set it near the hearth where he’d find it after they’d gone.

As soon as they’d started back toward Blackcliff, however, she turned to Trevor. “You don’t believe he wasn’t paid. You think he’s trying to steal your money.”

“His pay was carefully noted in the estate books,” he said with a certain stubbornness. “Your father saw to it. If anything, the man was overpaid. French valets with experience serving kings are paid less.”

“But you can see he needs it,” she tried. “He’s ill. He cannot work.”

“Then he should apply to the poorhouse.”

Gwen frowned at him. “That isn’t amusing.”

“I didn’t intend it to be. My point was that there are provisions to support the poor. He would be wise to make use of them instead of trying to take advantage of me.”

Gwen stopped in the road. “My word! I’d never have taken you for a miser. Or it is that you dislike John Cord so much?”

He glanced back at her, but he kept walking. “He has given me no reason to like him.”

Gwen hurried to catch up with him. “Are you still upset about Icarus? Or do you think he knows more about the jewels? You cannot expect him to volunteer information you don’t request.”

“Actually, I’m known for being rather good at learning information I didn’t request. My skills seem to have floundered here at Blackcliff. I wonder why.” He cast her a pointed look.