Wythe thought about the many things he had planned for Miss McTavish after the earl was hanged. She would be sorry then, he told himself.
Planning his revenge helped ease his anger but did nothing to solve the problem at hand. He had to get the paintings out of Elspeth’s right away, before the earl could organize a search. If they were found, he would lose everything he was about to inherit. There was even a chance he would be hanged instead of his cousin.
But how would he get them out? He couldn’t carry them on horseback, couldn’t even ask for a wagon this late—not without good reason. And where would he put the paintings once he rescued them from the brothel?
He took another pull from his flask. The mine. He would put them in the mine. No one would look there because it had already been searched. He could hide them in Number 15 stall, where everyone was too afraid to go, until he could sell them.
But he wasn’t sure moving them would warrant the risk or the effort. They were worth a great deal, but things had changed. When he wound up with everything Truman had, he wouldn’t miss the money from the Bruegels, so they were no longer important.
What had been unthinkable just a few days before now seemed like his best option. He should destroy them. Immediately. That way they could never come between him and the future that was within his grasp. He wouldn’t have to secret them out of the brothel in order to do it. He would merely have to chop them in pieces and burn them in the grate.
“Mr. Stanhope?”
Tyndale. The old windbag was calling up to him from below. What did he want now?
“What is it?” he snapped.
“You have a visitor.”
He refilled his flask. “Who?”
“Mrs. Poulson.”
Good. The only person he could trust. He needed to talk to her.
He poked his head out of his room so that Tyndale could easily hear him. “Send her up.”
The rotund Fore-Overman gaped at him from the bottom of the stairs. “You want her to come to your bedroom, sir?”
Yes. He definitely wanted that. He wasn’t about to let Tyndale overhear a word they said. And he wasn’t about to go out in the rain to avoid that. “If you are afraid it might compromise her reputation, Mr. Tyndale, please don’t worry. Knowing you to be an honorable man, I trust you will not tell a soul.”
He straightened his waistcoat. He fidgeted with that thing so often, Wythe wondered why he bothered wearing one—or why he didn’t get one that fit properly. “I would never create gossip, Mr. Stanhope.”
“You see? We have nothing to fear. Send her up.”
“Now?” he stalled as if he were trying to think of another argument against it.
“Of course now. There is no point in keeping her waiting. And rest assured that I will not act the least bit inappropriate with the housekeeper of Blackmoor Hall.” He wouldn’t sleep with her if she were the last woman on earth—and there was good reason for that.
Linley hung back in the trees surrounding Cosgrove House. He had been fairly certain that Mrs. Poulson had overheard him speaking with Rachel, that she might know what they had planned. So he had been waiting to see if she would come along and, sure enough, she had. She’d hurried down the path as if her life had depended on reaching Wythe as soon as possible.
He watched her pass. Then he watched her knock at the door and go in.
“Are you telling him what I think you are telling him?” he murmured to himself. She had to be. Why else had she come out in this inclement weather? She hadn’t even bothered to be discreet about it. That is what concerned him. She knew he would be watching—had heard as much when she’d been hovering outside the drawing room—yet that didn’t stop her.
Was it because Rachel had stumbled upon the truth? Were those paintings at Elspeth Soward’s? And did Mrs. Poulson know it?
The earl should have sacked her long ago, Linley thought. She had been a thorn in everyone’s side since she came to Blackmoor Hall. But Druridge wouldn’t put her out. Every time the subject came up, he would reference a promise made to his parents and excuse her loyalty to Wythe by saying she had been his wet nurse.
Evidently that had created a strong bond indeed, if she was going to risk her position at Blackmoor Hall to help him.
“What should I do about you?” Having her involved complicated everything. Maybe he wouldn’t wait and follow Wythe. What was the point? If he had been warned, he would do nothing that could get him in any trouble.
Linley shifted in his saddle to ease the pain in his bad leg. He would go straight to Elspeth’s and demand to search, he decided—get to her before Wythe could.
But first… he wanted to speak with Mrs. Poulson.
He waited until Blackmoor Hall’s housekeeper came out and intercepted her as soon as she started down the path. “What did you tell him?” he demanded.
She lifted her hand to her heart as if he had startled her, but he could tell she felt no real surprise. She’d expected him to be watching; she just hadn’t expected him to confront her.
“I wanted a word with Mr. Stanhope.”
“About… ?”
“Cook makes a special dish he likes. He asked if I could bring it tomorrow. I was letting him know that she has been unable to locate one of the ingredients.”
“And what dish is that?” he asked.
There was a long silence. But she eventually came up with an answer. “Kidney pie.”
“Which requires the simplest of ingredients.”
“Providing one remembers to order the kidney from the butcher.”
“Surely Cook could do that tomorrow morning?”
“I’m afraid she will be far too busy. Now that Lord Druridge is betrothed, she wants to focus on impressing our new mistress.”
Linley moved the reins of his horse to the other hand and nudged his horse forward. “Ah, Rachel. You like her so.”
“I don’t have to like her to serve her, Mr. Linley.”
“No, you don’t. But you do have to be employed at Blackmoor Hall.”
A wary look entered her eyes. “You’re not planning to get me sacked for trying to give Mr. Stanhope word of his favorite dish.…”
“No, I am planning to get you sacked for betrayal.”
She lifted her chin as if she was ready for the challenge his words presented. “The earl will never go along with it. He promised his poor mum he’d look after Wythe, and Wythe loves me. Maybe it would be different if you could prove something against me, but you can’t.”