A chill went through her. This was a side of him she’d only begun to see since her mother died. But she couldn’t lie. For her own dignity—and for the sake of those miners who were simply looking to improve their terrible lot by banding together—she felt she had to tell the truth. Maybe it was time everyone did. “The earl knows about the union, Mr. Cutberth, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He grabbed her arm. “Does he know I’m behind it?”
“Ouch!” She tried to wiggle away, but his fingers dug in deeper.
“Does he?” he demanded, giving her a shake.
“Yes!” she cried. “Let go of—”
Rachel didn’t have time to finish her sentence, didn’t even have a chance to brace for the slap that left her ears ringing. She stood, stunned and even slightly disoriented after he hit her, while he continued to rail. “You little bitch! Do you know what you’ve done? Do you know what a disappointment you would be to your dear mother, if she were here to see how far you’ve fallen?”
Strengthened by her own anger, Rachel jerked away. “How dare you bring my mother into this! You have no right to even mention her name!”
“That shows how much you know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Forget it. If you’ve cost me my job, you’ll be sorry. Do you hear? I won’t allow some stupid whore to destroy what I’ve worked so hard to accomplish.”
Rachel wished Mrs. Tate or someone else would interrupt. Her cheek was stinging, her stomach was upset—and she feared Cutberth wasn’t finished with her yet. “And what is it, exactly, that you’ve worked so hard to accomplish? Is it what you’ve always told me you wanted? Better conditions and better pay for the miners? Or a way to make yourself rich?”
This seemed to take him aback. “What are you talking about?”
She wanted to mention the paintings but dared not give away the fact that the earl had found a thread he could possibly use to unravel the whole mystery, in case Cutberth could somehow counter him. “What were you looking for when you broke in here? What were you looking for when you broke into my home?”
His eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
She arched her eyebrows. “Was it the ledgers?”
He froze. “Where are they?”
“Where did the money come from, Mr. Cutberth?”
He tried to grab her again, but she managed to put a table between them.
“Give them to me before I wring your neck!” he said.
“Threatening me won’t do you any good. I couldn’t turn them over even if I wanted to. I left them at Blackmoor Hall.”
Putting a hand to his chest, he briefly closed his eyes and shook his head. “You have no idea of the damage you’re doing.”
“Feel free to explain so that I will understand.”
“Why would I bother? After the past several months, you’re the last person I trust,” he said and stormed out.
Once she felt confident that he wasn’t coming back, Rachel stumbled over to a chair so she could sit down. Her cheek hurt from when he’d hit her, and her legs felt like rubber, but she was more excited than upset. He’d all but admitted to breaking into her house and the shop, admitted that he’d been searching for the ledger books. That meant he knew something about the money.
She had to get word to Lord Druridge. But how? After what’d just happened, she dared not traverse the five miles to Blackmoor Hall. She’d be far too vulnerable. For all she knew, Cutberth would follow her and toss her over the cliff.
Truman passed a long, miserable night. He tried to convince himself not to let Rachel’s absence bother him, but it was no good. Blackmoor Hall had never seemed so empty.
He walked around in her room, even felt the fabric of the dresses she’d left behind, and wished she’d waited. His guests hadn’t arrived and could still be another day or two.
Grateful when the sun finally rose, he dressed with the intention of visiting Mrs. Cutberth at her home. By the time he arrived, her husband would be at work, giving him an opportunity to speak to her without him. But Wythe showed up, catching him before he could go anywhere.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
“You’re not supposed to even be here.”
“This is important.”
Wythe had been upset ever since Truman insisted he move to Cosgrove House. They’d barely spoken since, which made Truman feel conflicted. His mother’s dying wish was that he be good to his cousin. And this was the same cousin who’d subsequently rescued him from certain death—all the more reason to honor those wishes. But he wasn’t ready to let Wythe back into his good graces. Although he’d spent years trying to take the high road where his cousin was concerned, he was consistently disappointed in Wythe. How he’d treated Rachel was just one reason. Truman wasn’t ready to have his cousin return to Blackmoor Hall. He didn’t want to be apologizing for Wythe’s drinking and inelegant behavior when the duke and Lady Penelope were here.
So if Wythe had come to plead his case, Truman was hardly eager to listen. He’d heard it all before. How Wythe hadn’t known what he was saying when he threatened Rachel. How he never would have entered her room if he’d had his wits about him. How he wouldn’t have really hurt her, regardless. But Wythe started up the stairs toward the study, presumably because he wanted to speak in private, before Truman could demand he leave.
Truman cursed the delay this would cause—but he followed. He figured he might as well listen before His Grace and Lady Penelope arrived.
“What is it?” he asked as he closed the door.
Wythe turned to face him. “There’s something happening at the mine.”
This sounded ominous. Wythe usually pretended to have the colliery well in hand. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“It feels serious.”
Truman swallowed a sigh. Didn’t he have enough problems for one winter? “I’m listening.”
Wythe’s eyes were red-rimmed and his face pale but at least he was sober. “There’s been a shift in sentiment among the workers. It was subtle at first, but Cutberth tells me—”
“Cutberth,” Truman broke in.
“Yes.”
“That’s where you’re getting your information?”
Wythe spread out his hands. “Why not? He’s always been reliable in the past.”