The Notorious Widow (10 page)

“The Earl of Rockhurst. Are you one of Rankin’s tenants?”

“Lord Seabrook’s, my lord.”

“I am his guest.”

“Jemmy’s pa works Rankin land,” said Harry, frowning.

“Then Jemmy is fortunate his punishment is no worse. His father would have no choice but to follow Jasper’s orders even if he believed Jemmy innocent.”

“That don’t seem right.”

“It is not.” He met Harry’s eyes, man to man. “But sometimes life is unfair. No one can fix all wrongs, though I will do my best to address this one. In the meantime, stay away from Jasper and don’t ask questions about him. He will hear, and be just as displeased as if you’d poked around his carriage.”

Bidding the lad farewell, he turned back toward the stables, content with the day’s outing. With luck, he could slip back to his room before Laura realized he had returned.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Catherine bit back an oath. This errand was proving far more difficult than she had expected. When Rockhurst had asked to speak with the other victims, she’d thought they would welcome his help. But they didn’t.

“I don’t know,” said Carruthers, keeping his eyes on the door. His fears were obvious. The last time someone had overheard him discussing Jasper, his daughter had suffered. She was now staying with a distant cousin in Somerset and would probably never return home.

“No one will know unless you tell them,” she insisted. “Rockhurst will keep your story secret, but he cannot stop Jasper from preying on others unless he understands his methods.”

“Can’t stop him anyways,” muttered the chandler. “He does whatever he wants. Lord Rankin don’t care. Jasper knows his pa won’t admit he’s guilty of wrongdoing, for that would besmirch the family name. It is easier to turn on anyone who complains.”

“Jasper might hurt you or Jenkins, but he can do nothing to Rockhurst. This is our chance for justice.”

“But Rockhurst won’t stay ’round Exeter. His seat is far away.” He waved vaguely toward London. “Don’t let him bedazzle you, Mrs. Parrish. He might owe Lord Seabrook a favor, but he cares nothing about us. Once he leaves, we’ll never see him again – which the Rankins know quite well. Lord Rankin will pretend shock when he hears of his son’s antics, but his interest will fade before Rockhurst is out of sight. And Jasper will retaliate against us for putting him through such embarrassment.”

“He won’t know that you said anything,” she insisted again. “Rockhurst will only demand redress for Jasper’s attack on me.” This wasn’t strictly true, for she did not believe he would file formal charges of any kind. His investigation would prove what she already knew – there was no way to show intent, so Jasper had broken no laws. Without a crime, there could be no punishment. But she could honestly promise that the tradesmen would not suffer.

Carruthers frowned. “If he needs my evidence before he can believe you, then how can he file charges without it?”

The man was sharp-witted, she admitted. But she dared not agree with him. How was she to explain that she wanted him to bare a painful episode in his life so that a pointless investigation would keep Rockhurst at Seabrook long enough to form an attachment to Laura? It was an unworthy goal, but she thrust down her self-loathing. This was Laura’s best chance to find a husband.

“Please, Mr. Carruthers,” she begged, touching his arm. “Talk to him. You can trust him to do what is right. He is an honorable man who would never harm you or your daughter.”

Carruthers hesitated, but finally nodded.

“Thank you.” She placed another order for wax candles – with Rockhurst in the house, they would need even more than usual – and took her leave.

Carruthers was not the only one who was reluctant to speak with Rockhurst. Everyone feared what Jasper would do if they revealed their experiences, and the fear ran even deeper than she had expected. Were there worse crimes than she knew? Her mind whirled at the possibility that Jasper had caused serious harm. But how could she tell when the victims remained silent?

Misfortune was part of life, rarely arising from more than a moment’s carelessness or blind fate. Harold had often bemoaned life’s cruelty – Mrs. Smith’s long illness, Ned Thomas’s death at age two, the fire that had destroyed the Hunt cottage, Mr. Barlow’s broken leg…

Jasper had caused none of those problems. Ned had been sickly from birth. The fire had clearly been an accident, witnessed by three people. And Mr. Barlow’s horse had thrown him when a buck burst out of a copse practically in its face.

But Harold had known more than he’d shared with her. He’d often warned her to stay away from Jasper and to keep Sarah well away. And there were many misfortunes that might be more than bad luck. Like Squire Pott’s daughter, who had found herself with child two years ago. Threats had not elicited the father’s name. Nor had beatings. Speculation ranged from her father’s steward to a married lover to an escapee from Dartmoor Prison. No one had suggested Jasper, but now she had to wonder. Daisy had often made cutting remarks about him. Perhaps her antagonism had hidden an affair, or maybe had he repaid her disrespect by forcing her. But it was too late to ask. Her father had sent her to a spinster aunt, where she had died in childbirth five months later.

Then there was the blacksmith’s son, who had run into a press gang. Bad luck or Jasper? It was impossible to tell. Though less prevalent since Trafalgar had reduced the threat of a French invasion, press gangs still worked the area.

And what about the night Tom Daily had drowned? No one had considered it aught but an accident, for he’d imbibed freely in the taproom before falling into the river. But he’d never liked Jasper.

That was the problem with Jasper. His victims knew better than to cross him by complaining about his crimes. The rest remained ignorant of his nature. What had Harold known? She searched her memory, trying to recall a look or gesture that might have hinted that Jasper had been responsible for a particular misfortune. But she could recall nothing. Harold had protected her too well.

* * * *

Blake remained in the stable for over an hour, rubbing down his horses and talking to his groom. He had never enjoyed a similar camaraderie with his coachman, but Ted had taught him to ride and drive, and it had been Ted who had told him about his father’s death in a riding accident. Everyone else had glossed over the details, but Ted had known that he needed the unvarnished truth. His father had been arrogantly stupid, paying for drunken carelessness with his life.

“I need information about Jasper Rankin,” he said now, having made certain that they could not be overheard. “I know about his status as heir to Lord Rankin, and I know that the local gossips dote on him. That is his public side. What I want are his secrets. Who has he hurt and why? And is there anyone who has annoyed him lately?”

“That won’t be easy. People don’t share secrets with strangers.”

“Then make some friends. Seabrook expects me to rescue his sister’s reputation from Rankin’s lies. I can’t do it without information. But be careful. If he discovers your interest, he will find a way to hurt you.”

“How?”

“He would start with lies, hoping I would turn you off. When that failed, he might attack directly.”

Ted nodded.

Satisfied, Blake returned to the house, where he helped himself to several biscuits to explain why he’d entered through the kitchen. Savoring their tart sweetness, he took the servants’ stairs toward his room. Midway up the last flight he found the narrow steps blocked.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Sarah politely, then giggled when she spotted the biscuits in his hand and the crumbs on his greatcoat. “Look, Aunt Mary. Even earls sneak treats.”

He smiled. “Indeed, we do. What is the point of having a title if I cannot break a rule now and then?”

“But only now and then,” put in Mary firmly. “And decorum is very important for those of us who lack titles.”

“But an occasional lark does no harm – within reason,” he pointed out.

“Like the time Aunt Mary spent half the night watching the barn owls hatch?” asked Sarah.

Mary blushed, but kept her voice firm. “And that visit to the dairy last week when you should have been practicing your stitchery.”

“As I said, within reason,” he repeated. “There are rules for breaking the rules – it can only be done occasionally, and it must never cause harm.” A smile tugged at his lips. He was hardly in a position to condemn mischief after perpetrating so much of it himself.

Sarah tugged Mary’s hand. “Can he come with us?” she asked before turning to Blake. “We are having a history lesson in the gallery.”

Mary tried to shush her. “I don’t think—”

But Blake nodded. “I would be delighted to accompany you, Miss Parrish. I will even share my spoils.” He handed her a pilfered biscuit, then popped the last one into his mouth and led the way back to the gallery floor.

“You can call me Sarah,” she said, nibbling happily.

“Thank you. I will cherish the privilege.” He had little interest in a seven-year-old’s history lesson, but it would keep him occupied for the next hour. As he reached for the door handle, he glanced back at Mary. “Sarah says that you teach her about other countries. Is one of them Russia? I had a delightful conversation with the Russian ambassador not long ago. He claims that they build a ceremonial palace for the tsar each winter, entirely of ice.”

“You are back!” exclaimed Laura as he emerged from the stairway. But her smile collapsed when she beheld Sarah’s hand clasped in his.

He cursed his luck. Of all the stairs in the house, why had she been lurking near this one?

“An ice palace?” Mary said as she followed them. “Fascinating. Are the furnishings also made of ic— Oh!” Laura’s piercing glare cut off her words.

“There is no need to waste time on these children,” said Laura, laying a hand on his arm and attempting to slide between him and Sarah. “You will prefer a glass of wine in the library. And Cook has just finished a batch of cakes.”

“I am the best judge of my preferences, Miss Seabrook,” he said stonily, sidestepping. His hand kept a firm hold on Sarah’s. “If you will excuse us – or would you care to join us for a history lesson?”

“Hardly.” He could have sworn she sniffed, though no sound emerged. Turning on her heel, she stalked away.

He filled the uncomfortable silence by answering Mary’s truncated question. “I didn’t think to ask about furnishings, though I doubt ice would be particularly useful. The ambassador claims that state functions are actually held there.” He then turned to Sarah, forestalling any comment on Laura’s lack of manners. “What sort of history are you studying today? Family or English?”

“Both.” Her voice had lost its laughter.

“One complements the other,” explained Mary, “for our family is quite ancient. But we’ve only held a few lessons on the subject.”

“Old families are the best sort to have,” he told Sarah. “I learned many of my own lessons in just that way. So who have you talked about?” They entered the gallery.

Sarah’s free hand waved at the walls. “These men are all my grandfathers, and the ladies are all grandmothers, except for her.” She pointed to a dour-faced woman in republic black. “She’s an aunt.” Her voice was back to normal as Laura’s unpleasantness faded into the past.

“Cousin,” said Mary.

“A nasty cousin,” added Sarah, then giggled at Mary’s frown. “Uncle William said so.”

“Every family has a few of those,” said Blake with a smile. “My own great-great-grandfather was as big a scoundrel as you can find. If he hadn’t been an earl, no one would have spoken to him.”

“No need to exaggerate,” murmured Mary.

“I’m not,” he murmured back. “He very nearly lost his head.”

Sarah ignored the by-play, leading him to a gentleman clad in Tudor dress. “This was the first baron. He won the title for helping Henry solve the monsters.”

“Dis
-solve the
monasteries
,” said Mary, her face pink with embarrassment. “It was the eighth Henry who founded the Church of England – the same church your father served so well. Edmund Seabrook rendered great assistance to his king.”

Blake looked into the eyes of a dyspeptic old man and could easily imagine him looting and pillaging – not out of religious fervor or even because of Henry’s orders, but for the sheer joy of it.

“Dissolve the monasteries,” repeated Sarah dutifully, but he could tell that her mind was not on the lesson. Her own version was more fun. She skipped ahead to a later portrait. “Grandfather Christopher was too old and sick to fight against Cromwell, so he stayed home when his grandson joined the king. But Christopher didn’t die until Charles came back, so we didn’t lose anything.”

Mary choked.

Blake grinned. Those families who had survived war, Parliament, and the Restoration with fortune and title intact had every right to be grateful. Sarah would learn to gloat less as she aged. But it was important for children to know how their families had fared in England’s various upheavals. It was part of their heritage.

Mary led Sarah to a more recent portrait. “This is my great-grandfather, Edwin Seabrook – your great-great-grandfather, Sarah. You may call him Grandfather Edwin. He was the luckiest man to ever break a leg.”

She explained that Edwin had been determined to join Bonnie Prince Charlie in the last Jacobite rebellion. But as he rode north to raise his standard beside the false prince, his horse stepped in a hole, throwing him against a wall and breaking his leg. Thus he was confined to bed in great pain when Charles and his supporters met their end at the Battle of Culloden. And he had escaped losing his head for treason when the surviving Jacobite lords were executed.

The Seabrooks had mellowed since the first baron, Blake decided, but they were still fighters – William had campaigned against a particularly vicious tutor at Eton. Had Catherine inherited their feistiness? She would need it to vanquish Jasper Rankin.

Sarah was caught up in the tale of the Jacobite Seabrook’s exploits, so he quietly wandered off to study the other portraits. None were by the hand of a master, but most were quite good. Catherine’s features appeared on several faces and her coloring on others, though most lacked her intensity. Then there was the tilt of her chin, the slender neck, the tapered fingers…