"It's for the best,"
she said, her voice sounding small and distant. "For both of us."
"Yes. It is." He
breathed deeply. The damp-wool smell of his cloak filled his nostrils. He
probably should do something with it—spread it out in front of the fire or hang
it up—but for some reason he couldn't stop staring at it. Damned rain. He
shivered, but he wasn't cold anymore. Not like he'd been last night, wet to his
skin and frozen to the bone. If Susanna hadn't relented, if he'd stayed all
night out there...
But she had and that was worth
something. Wasn't it?
She gently plucked the cloak from
his hands. He didn't know she'd come up beside him. "Most of your clothes
are still wet. You'll have to remain inside until they're dry." She laid
the cloak on the rushes while he retrieved two chairs from the parlor and set
them near the fire.
"That'll give you time to do
something for me," he said, arranging his jerkin over the back of one of
the chairs. "Two things, actually."
"Oh? Does this have
something to do with the list of London merchants? I still don't see what
relevance it has to who threw the knife at me yesterday."
"It may have no
relevance." Or it may have a lot.
"The names are in the casket
on my writing desk," she said. "I'll get them for you. What was the
second thing?"
"I need to see the plan for the
orange tree house."
She wrinkled her adorable little
nose. "Why?"
"Because I confronted Monk
yesterday and finally got some answers."
"You didn't hurt him, did
you?"
"Not much."
She gave him a crooked smile.
"Tell me what Monk said."
He did. He told her about the
connection between Whipple, Monk, and Jeffrey which led to her late husband's
involvement. It was easy to see the moment she realized the implications of it
all. Her face drained of color.
"Phillip? A traitor? I...I
don't believe it." She sat on the chair and shook her head over and over.
"He never displayed any tendency to treason. He wasn't even Catholic! Are
you sure he was involved?"
"Lord Whipple is sure and
the message written in lemon juice on the plans will probably prove it. That's
why Whipple wants it back, and why Jeffrey has agreed to give Whipple's man Monk
all the help he can."
She frowned. "Why does
Jeffrey want to help Whipple? If he's caught, it'll only throw suspicion on
himself when he wasn't part of the original plot."
"Because he'll lose Sutton
Hall if that letter falls into the hands of the authorities. Traitors have
their lands and property stripped from them. It can be done posthumously."
"Losing Sutton Hall would
devastate Jeffrey, as it would have devastated Phillip. So why did he become
involved with Lord Whipple at all? It doesn't make sense."
"Phillip was an ambitious
man by all account. If he thought Whipple had a good chance of succeeding with
his plot then anyone who helped him would receive considerable advancement
under a new monarch. It was quite a gamble, but he must have thought it one
worth taking."
"A pox on him! On all
men." Her glare was pointed. "You too."
"Me? Why?"
"Because you're just like
the rest of them. You've charmed me, bedded me, and lied to me. It is more or
less the same."
She might as well have run him
through with a rapier, the stabbing in his chest hurt so much. She was right.
He wasn't so different.
"You need to cover yourself,"
she muttered. "It's...distracting."
It took a moment for his mind to
grip onto the new topic. "I'm not the only naked person in this room and
you're not the only one who's distracted."
"I'm covered with a blanket
at least."
"I think you can see how
much that doesn't matter."
Her gaze shifted to his groin and
a light blush infused her cheeks. "Hmmmm." She rose. "I'll fetch
the plans then tell Bessie we need your pack from the stables for your dry
clothes."
She bid him to leave her so she
could dress and he wrapped a blanket around his waist and waited in the parlor
until she joined him. A little while later, she did, wearing women's clothing
again and he had to admit he preferred the sight of her in men's trousers than
the voluminous skirt.
"Here," she said,
handing him the plans. "See what you can make of it."
She left to speak to Bessie and
he set the plans on the desk while he lit a taper. Carefully waving the taper
beneath the paper, he watched as the lemon juice turned brown and revealed the
writing.
"What have you
discovered?" she asked upon returning. The sweet, heady scent she added to
her bathing water enveloped him, and it took a moment before he could focus
again.
"It's as Monk said. It's a
correspondence from an Englishman now living in France and addressed to Lord
Whipple. It includes some words of a treasonous nature, but no actual details
of a plot as such. It would be enough to put Whipple in danger if it was
discovered, and anyone else associated with the correspondence."
"Phillip."
Orlando nodded. "I suspect
your orange grower, like you, was unaware his letters were being used in such a
way."
"Claims of innocence
wouldn't have been enough to exonerate us in the eyes of the authorities."
"Perhaps not."
She sank heavily to the floor and
put her head in her hands. He crouched beside her but dared only touch her
elbow. "How could Phillip do such a thing?" she whispered. "How
could he endanger me so, and himself, for the promise of advancement?"
Orlando didn't have an answer for
that. He'd never understood the need of some men to further themselves, or
become richer. How could those things fulfill a man? They were just an extra
noose.
"He was a fool, your
husband." Orlando had no desire to throw away a perfectly good life in the
hope of improving it. Not at the expense of the people he loved.
Love. Bloody hell.
"So you don't think Monk was
the one trying to kill me?" she asked.
He helped her to her feet. "No.
Jeffrey had no reason to want you dead."
"I don't know why he didn't
just ask me to look at the letters. If he'd explained the situation, I would
have given him free access to all my correspondence."
Orlando watched her as she opened
one of the caskets on the writing desk and sifted through some papers. There
was much to admire, and not just in her form. She had quickly rallied herself
after her disappointments. She was not one to dwell on matters, or feel regret
and hatred for the wrongs done to her. She appeared determined, however, not to
make the same mistakes. He couldn't blame her for that.
Yet it didn't stop him from
wanting to hold her, kiss her.
"Here it is," she said,
handing him a list of names. "Those are the merchants I wrote to in London."
He scanned the names. He didn't
recognize a single one. "These are not London merchants," he said, giving
the list back to her.
"But Walter Cowdrey gave me
those. He's had dealings with them in the past."
"Then Walter Cowdrey has
lied to you. And I'm going to find out why."
CHAPTER 16
Susanna's couldn't believe it. Walter
had lied to her.
Another one.
John, Phillip, Orlando, and now
Walter. Was there any man she could truly trust?
"Why?" she whispered.
"Why would he do it?"
Orlando pressed a hand to her
back and directed her to sit in the chair at her writing desk. "I don't
know," he hedged, "but I think it was to keep you poor."
"W-what? Why would he do
that?"
"To force you into
marriage."
"Force me?" No, Walter
was much too sweet, too good. He had never done anything wrong or cruel in his
life. He was reliable, his reputation beyond reproach.
To think he was no better than
the others...
Orlando's hands wrung hers, his
fingers kneading the knuckles. "Susanna, think about it a moment. You are
on the brink of ruin here at Stoneleigh. Any poorer and your situation would be
desperate. As it is, you have hope while you still have your marmalades and succades
to sell. Destroy that hope and you're left with nothing. He wants you to turn
to him in your need, and wed him."
"But even if I didn't find
any buyers for my orange stuffs, I wouldn't marry him. I don't care enough for
him and I've never married for money. Not once. Poor foolish Walter," she muttered.
"You feel sympathy for
him?"
"A little. I certainly can't
hate him."
He dropped her hands.
"No?" he rasped. "After he deceived you in such a way?"
"
You
deceived me. And
I don't hate you."
He folded his arms over his broad
chest, still so wonderfully naked. "It was not done willingly, I assure
you."
"Unless your life was in
danger for revealing your secret, you were willing."
He barked a laugh and turned
away. Her heart plunged to her toes as a sinister thought embedded itself in
her mind. "It's not, is it?"
"Hughe is my friend,"
he said without facing her. "Don't worry about me."
It wasn't an answer.
"When your clothes are dry,
we'll confront Walter together," she said.
He spun round. "
I
will confront him. It's too dangerous for you to leave the house. You must keep
all the doors and windows locked in my absence."
"I should be the one to
speak to him, Orlando. Your methods might be a little...strong for the likes of
Walter. He's a gentle man."
"Is he?"
"What do you mean?"
He rested his hands on his hips
and looked to the ceiling. "Susanna, you need to prepare yourself for the
fact that Walter is the one who hired the Guild."
"No. No!" It wasn't
possible. Not dull-witted, safe, reliable Walter Cowdrey. "He claims to
love me, why would he want to kill me?"
"It's possible he commissioned
us in order to intervene and look like he'd saved you. What woman can resist a
hero?" he said, wryly.
"You think
he
threw the
knife at me just to make me think I'm still in danger?"
"Perhaps," he said,
carefully.
"But it could have struck
me."
He said nothing. Nor did he keep
eye contact. The churning in her stomach became a painful twist. "Orlando,
what is it? What are you thinking?"
"You won't want to hear
it."
"Tell me anyway. I
need
to know."
He conceded with a brief nod. "I
think that it's possible he truly wanted to go through with the act. So no one
else could have you," he added quietly.
"No one else...?" Oh
God. Oh God, not Walter. "But...but he has always been so good to me. So helpful."
She buried her face in her hands, but she did not shed a tear. She couldn't
believe Walter would want her dead, yet he had tried to ruin her chance of
financial freedom. That alone was deceitful. He deserved no tears.
"Whether or not it was
Cowdrey, I do think the person who employed the Guild to assassinate you threw
the knife," Orlando said. "He grew frustrated with our lack of action
and took the task into his own hands. Walter Cowdrey appears to have a motive,
of sorts. I'm sorry, Susanna. I know you consider him a friend."
There was a knock on the door and
Orlando answered it. Bessie gasped and covered her eyes. "Mr. Holt! Put on
some clothes." She held out his pack.
"Thank you," he said,
taking it.
Bessie peeked through the gap
between her fingers. "I'll fetch your breakfast."
She shuffled off and Orlando shut
the door. "Susanna, I'm sorry your faith in Walter has been destroyed, but
I can't pretend that I care. He may or may not have tried to kill you, but he
has
steered you in the wrong direction regarding those merchants."
"Just as you have steered me
wrong?" But that wasn't fair and she knew it. Orlando had not tried to
block her in order to keep her tied to him. "I'm sorry," she
muttered. "I'm...overwrought."
He stepped toward her but stopped
and crossed his arms, his hands high up under his armpits. "I'm going to
make it better for you," he said. "I promise."
She nodded. "Just don't kill
anyone."
"I'll try not to."
***
It's always the quiet ones who
prove the most dangerous. So Orlando often found. The flamboyant and loud may
boast of their deeds, but they rarely turned out to be as terrible as they
claimed. The average and unassuming were different. They didn't boast and they
appeared pleasant enough on the outside, helpful even, yet they could do the
cruelest things. Walter Cowdrey was one of those types. He was a good man, so
Susanna had said. But Orlando disagreed. Cowdrey was definitely a liar, and
perhaps a killer. It was time to find out for sure.
He rode Silver to Cowdrey Farm.
His dry clothes didn't stay dry for long thanks to the light sprinkling of
rain. He'd suffered no ill effects from the previous night's banishment, not
even a sneeze, although the nagging doubt that Susanna may not let him back in
upon his return remained with him the entire journey.
Cowdrey Farm was a sturdy rectangular
stone house with little in the way of garden out the front. There was no lawn,
border hedges, or raised beds. Indeed, the only plants were a few clumps of hawthorn
that held no pattern whatsoever and a scraggly patch of flowers under one of
the ground floor windows. The house itself appeared to be surrounded by more
mud than gravel and Orlando's boots were thick with it by the time he walked
around to the stables.