Regina Scott (8 page)

Crossing for the bureau to retrieve his spare shirt, he nearly tripped over the statue.

Trevor pulled up and stared at it. Sitting calmly on the carpet, the little shepherd stared straight ahead, looking for his sheep. Who’d carried it up the stairs? Why put it in his bedchamber?

Are You trying to tell me something, Lord?

He recoiled at the thought. Why ask such a question, as if expecting an answer? God didn’t speak to people like him, men of uncertain birth, consigned to the shadows. If his own father couldn’t be bothered to speak to him directly, why would a heavenly Father care?

For I know the thoughts I think toward you, saith the Lord. Thoughts of peace and not calamity, to give you a future and a hope.

What an odd mood he was in to remember verses from the few times he’d attended church. Trevor carried the statue to the door and set it carefully along the wall in the corridor outside his bedchamber, where the ancient suits of armor stared down at it. His visit with the Newtons must have dredged up the memory of God’s promise. And as for thoughts of peace, the Lord had to have an odd sense of humor if he saw any future or hope in Blackcliff.

Trevor returned to the room and eyed the worn
leather travel bag, sitting on the down coverlet of the bed. Could something be made from Blackcliff? The mine seemed the most likely possibility. He hadn’t seen this surveyor’s report yet. It might give him some ideas. And he wasn’t the type of gentleman to run away from difficulties.

He sighed and returned the case to the wardrobe. He’d give Blackcliff a few more days, see what he could learn. With any luck, he could still leave by the end of the week, if not sooner.

He did not count on Gwen Allbridge giving him reasons to stay.

T
he very next day, before Trevor had even finished the excellent breakfast Mrs. Bentley cooked him with ham and coddled eggs and buttery rolls so light he thought they could reach the top of Blackcliff Fell on their own, Gwen Allbridge appeared in the doorway. She was not an unwelcome sight, with her satiny matte-brown coat cinched under her bosom, a smoky veil draping her pale straw bonnet and coppery curls peeking out from under the brim. Trevor smiled a greeting as he swallowed the roll.

She grinned back. “I thought you might like some company on the walk to services this morning.”

The roll caught in his throat, and he grabbed the cup of tea beside him and gulped down the warmth. Services? She meant church?

“How thoughtful of you,” he said, lowering the cup carefully to its pale bone china saucer, trying
to think of a way to answer. “But I would not want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s no inconvenience,” she promised. “I’m sure everyone will be eager to see the Blackcliff pew filled once more.”

So he even had his own pew. And, of course, they’d notice if it went empty. As a gentleman, he should escort her. He offered her a polite smile and called for his coat.

He wasn’t sure what to expect of St. Martin’s at Blackcliff. He’d never found any comfort in church. He’d done his best to sleep through the required services at school. The few times he’d attended St. George’s Hanover Square in London had been more for show than anything else. He’d wanted to prove he had a right to be there. He’d scarcely listened to the readings; he’d been casting covert glances at the wealthy parishioners, waiting for them to turn and notice him, wondering if they would throw him out.

But the good people of Blackcliff were the ones craning their necks and casting him glances when he took his place at the front of the chapel. St. Martin’s was more welcoming inside than out. Pale stone arches held up the heavily beamed ceiling. The narrow windows let in rays of light that etched the dark wood pews with lines of gold. Warmth seemed to curl from the candles; compassion echoed in the upraised voices that chanted the proper replies to David Newton’s lead. Again that feeling of peace stole over Trevor.

Yet he could not believe they would want him worshiping with them if they truly knew him. In fact, he was fairly certain that if he was unable to open the mine, he would be wise to mount Icarus and escape to Carlisle at the first opportunity.

He had exited to the churchyard, where many of the congregation were loitering to exchange greetings after service, when Gwen brought a gentleman to meet him. Squire Lockhart was a tall, rugged fellow, with silver hair and a growing paunch that stretched his fine paisley waistcoat.

“Determined to make your acquaintance,” he assured Trevor, wringing Trevor’s hand in his meaty grip.

“Squire Lockhart has an impressive estate beyond Blackcliff,” Gwen explained. Her wide smile said she thought she’d brought something akin to an Eastern potentate to Trevor’s side.

Trevor was used to moving in the highest circles, if only on the edges of their august lives. Meeting a squire with an estate, no matter how impressive, did not discomfort him.

“And do you spend the entire year on your estate?” Trevor asked.

“Generally,” the squire allowed. “Though I expect I’ll need to go up to London once my granddaughter is in long skirts. Best place to catch a husband, my dear wife used to say, God rest her soul.”

Trevor eyed Gwen. Though he thought her cheeks had darkened inside her veiled bonnet, she kept her
gaze on the squire. Nothing about the fellow discomfited her, either, but then Trevor thought not even his exalted father would have discomfited Gwen.

“And didn’t you tell me, sir,” she said to the squire now, “that you had an express purpose in wanting to meet Sir Trevor?”

The squire, who had tipped his tall hat to Ruth Newton as she passed, set it back on his head with a flourish and eyed Trevor congenially. “Indeed I did. We expect a large party up from London tomorrow for a week of hunting. Perhaps you’d care to join us.”

He was expected to agree; both Gwen’s eager look and the squire’s inquisitive blue gaze said so. Trevor enjoyed a good hunt the same as the next fellow, but he wasn’t sure he should raise Gwen’s expectations any further. He wasn’t going to stay; he couldn’t afford to stay. Still, what was a day?

“You are too kind,” Trevor said. “But won’t your other guests mind a stranger joining them?”

“Not such a stranger,” Lockhart insisted. “I spent twenty years in the navy before retiring to the family estate after my older brother passed on. Several of those who are coming could tell similar tales. My last berth was the
Pegasus
in the Caribbean.”

His gaze met Trevor’s, sharper suddenly, assessing. Trevor refused to let him see that he’d hit a vein. “I know little about the navy, I fear. I would only bore your guests. Perhaps another time.”

He thought the squire might press him, but Lockhart allowed the conversation to wander into predictions of harvest and the weather for the upcoming winter and commonplaces far less troubling than the name of the ship Trevor’s father had captained. He was merely thankful the squire was a gentleman and would not demand that Trevor act in kind.

Gwen was highly tempted to stomp her foot or utter a shriek to voice her frustration. Unfortunately, St. Martin’s churchyard was no place for such dramatic demonstrations of pique.

Yet how could she remain calm? Squire Lockhart was as close to royalty as she knew in the upper valley—a retired captain of the Royal Navy with friends in high places and a prominent landowner with an estate to rival Blackcliff. Sir Trevor should be delighted to make his acquaintance, to be rubbing shoulders with him and his London guests.

But she’d seen the moment Sir Trevor’s face had tightened into that mask of politeness that snuffed all character. His reaction had something to do with the navy. He claimed he hadn’t served in the army, that he’d found some administrative error to earn his baronetcy. Had it something to do with the HMS
Pegasus?
A dozen questions danced on her tongue, but she didn’t think he’d answer a single one.

So she tried the squire when David Newton bespoke a moment of Sir Trevor’s time to discuss the lack of an organ in the church.

“I am not familiar with the
Pegasus,
sir,” she said, walking with the squire to where his carriage and the rest of his family were waiting. The squire boasted a fine son who was now a widower and attracting the attention of many of the young ladies in the village. The fact that he had an adorable baby daughter that sorely needed a mother was only icing on the cake.

“A fine twenty-eight-gun sixth-rate frigate,” the squire said, rattling off terms that had no meaning to her. “Served under Nelson at one time. Grand gentleman. There will never be his like.”

She remembered enough of her education at the vicarage school to know that the grand gentleman Admiral Horatio Nelson had died in 1805. Trevor certainly hadn’t helped him sometime in 1811. Then who?

“A hero to be sure,” she replied to the squire. “And I thank you for your kindness to Sir Trevor. A shame he couldn’t join you.”

His gaze drifted off across the churchyard to where the baronet stood listening politely while David Newton made his case. Even in the lacy shadows of the trees, the minister’s face looked as red as his sister’s. Apparently Sir Trevor was not in agreement about the need for more elaborate music.

“He’ll find his place in Blackcliff,” the squire mused. “I expect it will take some time. When a man isn’t used to being welcomed, he may not recognize friendship when it’s offered.”

Gwen frowned at him, ready to ask what he meant, but the squire seemed to realize he might have said too much. He hurriedly excused himself and joined his family, lifting his granddaughter into his arms with a warm grin. All Gwen could do was return to Sir Trevor’s side and puzzle over the matter.

Why would Sir Trevor not have been welcomed? He was handsome, he could be charming when he set his mind to it and he was certainly strong enough to do all the things Gwen thought a young gentleman might be expected to do: riding, boxing, hunting, fencing, dancing. He’d held some position of responsibility to have identified the administrative error and been awarded a baronetcy. Someone thought enough of him to purchase Blackcliff for him. He certainly seemed an honorable gentleman.

So, how could she make sure he felt welcome at Blackcliff?

Trevor was glad to return to the house. He did not like the disappointment in David Newton’s eyes when Trevor had refused to purchase an organ for St. Martin’s. It seemed the vicar had approached everyone of note in the congregation, and none had been willing to offer the funds. Trevor had been his last hope. Trevor had no idea whether music would improve the service at St. Martin’s. He was just getting used to the idea of attending service at all. But he knew he had no funds to offer.

Gwen Allbridge had looked nearly as disappointed when he’d left her at the gatehouse. She’d gazed at him as if trying to picture him with two heads. Was she still wondering about his reaction to the squire? With any luck, she’d think it was merely because he intended to leave soon. He did not like to think of trying to fend off her questions. She would be a far more difficult adversary than David Newton.

He thought to spend the afternoon looking into the estate books in more depth, but his steward appeared at two, insisting that Trevor take up the ancient tradition of touring the boundary. Apparently the master of Blackcliff was expected to walk or ride along every edge of the estate on a regular basis, and a tour was long overdue.

Trevor hid his reluctance. Gwen had already pointed out that he could see every inch of his boundary from the top of Blackcliff Fell. As Rob Winslow and Horace Allbridge watched with obvious approval, Trevor mounted his horse and set off on the circuit his steward indicated.

Sitting on Icarus, trotting down the river bottoms with the hills rising all around him, the crisp autumn air streaming past, Trevor expected to feel the tug toward London. That was where his heart lay, after all. His entire life he’d worked to be accepted there, to be included among the aristocracy. With his baronetcy and an estate, he had never been closer to achieving his goal.

Instead, he had an overwhelming urge to gallop straight up the hill and launch Icarus into the sky as if they both might fly. He returned from his ride invigorated and relaxed, and Mrs. Bentley beamed at the way he attacked the venison she served him for dinner.

His thoughts were swiftly grounded the next day. Allbridge had finally located the surveyor’s report, and Trevor read it eagerly as they sat in the library, a welcoming fire heating the dark room. Unfortunately, his steward was correct in his assessment. Colonel Umbrey had failed to make routine repairs on the mine, and now the timbers were sagging and the lower depths flooded. Without a significant investment, the Blackcliff Mine could not be reopened.

“Was he mad?” Trevor ranted, dropping the parchment onto the desk.

“Some thought so,” Allbridge replied, lip out thoughtfully. “Claimed he was being hunted at the end. Locked himself in his room and refused to come out even to eat. Gwen found him dead one morning.”

Trevor frowned. “Your daughter found him? What was she doing in the house?”

Allbridge shrugged. “Considers Blackcliff her home, Gwen does. You’ve seen it. Nothing happens in this house that she hasn’t managed. She was one of the few the colonel trusted at the end, her and Mr. Newton.”

Trevor could certainly understand why a man might want to lean on Gwen Allbridge. He’d never met anyone more determined or more capable. Every day she found something else to show him about his estate; just this morning she’d pulled him into the corridor to praise the magnificent oak paneling that covered every room in the Hall.

“You see how it’s veined?” she had said, tracing the line with her hand, her dark eyes alight with appreciation. “And where each panel joins, a medallion.” She’d grinned at him. “You won’t find that in many houses.”

He wouldn’t find someone like Gwen Allbridge, either. He wanted to see the world through her eyes, where simple things like oak paneling and stone bridges were marvels. Yet he couldn’t help wondering whether he’d end up like the previous master of Blackcliff—locked in his room, dying alone and raving. And he didn’t relish the thought of explaining to the villagers that he wouldn’t be reopening the mine, after all.

If his feelings toward Blackcliff weren’t puzzling enough, there was the mystery of the little shepherd. Every time Trevor stepped out of the house for more than an hour, he’d return to find it missing from its station in the entryway. Once it had been located in the music room, another time in the dining room.

He’d gone so far as to ask Mrs. Bentley about it, but his housekeeper had turned as white as her hair and stared at Trevor so fixedly that he almost
thought
he
was a ghost. After that, he caught her tiptoeing past the statue as she crossed the entryway.

Trevor was certain there had to be a logical explanation. Someone in the house seemed to think the statue belonged elsewhere. As it had moved before Mrs. Bentley, Rob Winslow and the maid, Dorie, had taken their posts, he could only wonder about his steward. Had Horace Allbridge been in the house the night Trevor had arrived? Was that why Gwen felt comfortable facing him with only an old pistol and the mastiff at her side? Yet Allbridge had had months with the empty house. He could have rearranged all the furnishings if he chose, and Trevor would never have been the wiser!

He was thinking about the puzzle again as he retired to bed his fourth night in Blackcliff. He was reaching for the handle on his bedchamber door when a flash of movement caught his eye. Hair rose along his arms as he turned. Dorie had already gone to bed. Rob Winslow slept over the stables. Mrs. Bentley had been in the butler’s pantry; he’d called to her before retiring. No one else should be above stairs except Trevor.

Yet he swore that was a shadow disappearing down the stairs.