He dipped his head. “You can depend on me, my lady.”
The ending to that statement took her aback. “You don’t have to address me that way, Mr. Linley. We both know I am not a true lady, and I am not one to put on airs.”
“You certainly act the part. And you will soon be the wife of an earl. I am more than happy to give you the respect due your new station in life.”
She dipped her head to acknowledge his kindness. “That is truly generous of you. I hope the rest of the staff can accept me too, so we can all get on… comfortably.”
“Considering they will make the adjustment or work elsewhere, I do believe they won’t find it too difficult.”
He acted as if she had every right to expect their full cooperation. “I appreciate you trying to ease my concerns,” she said, “but I would hate for it to come to that.”
“I will see to the servants. Never you fear.” He used his cane as he came closer. “Now, this favor you wanted. What can I do for you?”
She was nervous to tell him. She was acting on instinct alone and had no real justification for what she was about to propose. “As I mentioned, you might find this a bit odd, but Lord Druridge isn’t here and I don’t want to miss what I feel could be important in proving him innocent of Katherine’s murder.”
“I will do anything, especially anything you deem important.”
In spite of that, she braced for his reaction. “I would like you to follow Mr. Stanhope this evening.”
He lowered his voice. “You mean… secretly?”
Rachel hated to reveal her distrust of the earl’s own cousin. But he had given her such an odd feeling a moment ago when she suggested he make arrangements for a search of the brothel. And she knew Elspeth had information, which had most likely come from Wythe. In her mind, it was entirely conceivable that, if the paintings were still in Creswell, she was hiding them in a locked attic or cellar. “Yes, secretly,” she confirmed. “I want to know where he goes and what he does.” Since Wythe knew her intentions were to search the brothel, he might try to move the paintings, if they were there in the first place. She planned to be ready for him if he did.
He propped both hands on top of his cane. “How do you feel this might prove his lordship’s innocence, my lady?”
“I believe Elspeth’s will be one of Mr. Stanhope’s stops.”
His thick eyebrows shot up. “Knowing Wythe, it will probably be his only stop. But I am rather certain we already know what he does there.”
Chuckling, she came to her feet. “Perhaps tonight will be different. I have asked him to secure Elspeth’s agreement so that we can search the brothel tomorrow and—”
“Excuse me, my lady. But you did say brothel?”
“I am afraid so, Mr. Linley.” Most decent folks wouldn’t go anywhere near a house of ill repute. She understood that. He probably wondered who would perform the search even if Wythe made it possible. No God-fearing Christian woman would want her husband in such a place. They couldn’t use the footmen or stable lads for fear of corrupting them, and the maids were out of the question. Just darkening the doorstep of a brothel could ruin a young girl. But Rachel was determined. She would do it herself, if need be. She had taken the risk of associating with Elspeth before. Whatever happened, they couldn’t leave it to Wythe. If they did, they might as well not search at all. “Those paintings have to be somewhere, Mr. Linley.”
Two deep grooves formed between his eyes. “What makes you think they might be there?”
“Elspeth knows something about the fire. I am convinced of it.”
“She claims she doesn’t. I have spoken to her many times.”
“I have spoken to her too. Although she once led me to believe she could name those who approached my father, she has since clammed up. I wonder why—what, specifically, she is afraid of.…”
“She would certainly have reason to fear if she has the paintings.”
“If Wythe took them in the first place, he had to have somewhere to put them.”
“The earl has offered a significant reward for their recovery. I would expect someone like Elspeth to come forward and claim it.”
“Unless she is afraid she won’t live long enough to enjoy the money.”
“You’re not suggesting Wythe would… kill her?”
It wasn’t an accusation she enjoyed making. She was probably crossing all kinds of lines when it came to the “hero” who had pulled Truman from the fire. But she had to do everything in her power to clear the earl’s name. And the Wythe she knew was capable of anything. I could throw your body into the ocean and tell my dear cousin that you ran away in the night. Although he had later recanted those words and claimed he hadn’t been serious, they had felt quite serious at the time. “Someone killed Katherine, did they not?”
“Indeed. Thank you for relying on me to handle this for you. I will take the matter from here.”
She felt a flicker of concern. “Are you sure you are up to going out this late? I know you must be tired. Maybe there is someone you trust—”
“Not with this. But never you worry. I am more than capable, my lady.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. He was no longer a young man, but she didn’t feel as if she had anyone else to turn to. “Thank you, Mr. Linley. I—”
The floor creaked in the entry, causing Rachel to fall silent.
Was someone there?
A shadow fell against the single door that stood open. She wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t heard that creak, but now that she had focused her attention that way, it looked to be in the shape of a person.…
“Hello?” she called. “Who is it?”
The shadow vanished as whoever cast it darted away, but Rachel managed to get out of the room quickly enough to see a flash of fabric—the hem of a skirt—disappear around the far corner.
Was it the housekeeper?
Rachel couldn’t be certain. She hurried to the steps leading to the kitchen and servants’ hall, but they were empty.
“Mrs. Poulson?” she called down, just in case.
There was no answer.
Wythe took a long swig from the flask in his pocket as he paced in his room at Cosgrove House. He had hated few women as much as he hated Rachel. He had managed to endure the conceit of his aristocratic relations—he had put up with being treated as the “lesser” cousin his whole life—but he could not endure a mere miner’s daughter acting as if she was better than him, too. How dare the earl pretend as if he could take a common villager into his bed and make her into anything he wanted, including his wife, when he hadn’t even tried to demand that his own cousin be treated with the proper respect. And how dare that woman assume she had a right to all she had been offered. Rachel wasn’t the mistress of Blackmoor Hall quite yet. Truman hadn’t even been home, yet she had dared step up and take over for him.