A Matter of Grave Concern (31 page)

Presenting: Brenda Novak’s 2013 National Readers’ Choice Award–Winning Historical Romance,
Through the Smoke
Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Creswell, England
February 1840

Something tickled. Rachel McTavish squirmed, trying to reach the spot just beneath her left breast that itched so mercilessly, but the layers of her shift, corset and wool dress nullified the efforts of her fingers.

Perched on a ladder propped against the shelves of her mother’s bookshop, she glanced around the empty shop and through the front windows. It was early yet. No carts or carriages rumbled past.

Plunging one hand down the neck of her dress, she closed her eyes and scratched.
Ahhh . . . blessed relief!

The bell tinkled over the door. Rachel’s eyelids flew open to find a man standing just inside the entrance, staring up at her with a mocking smile on his lips. Only it wasn’t just any man—it was the Earl of Druridge. Although Rachel had never seen him at such close proximity before, she would have recognized him anywhere. She had feared he might come to call. His solicitor had visited her thrice already.

Her scalp tingled with apprehension and embarrassment as she extricated her hand from inside her bodice.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Miss McTavish.” His voice was a deep baritone, thicker and richer than honey. “I can see you are quite busy, but I think you know why I am here.”

Ignoring the subtle taunt, Rachel descended the ladder, half-wishing she could stay where she was, well out of his reach. She felt like a bird unwisely abandoning the safety of its cage to flit about the nose of a cat.

But she knew the relative security of the ladder was an illusion. The earl was nothing like his small, bespectacled solicitor, in looks or in manner, and would not be so easily routed.

“I have nothing to say to you, sir. I’ve told Mr. Lewis and your butler, Linley, so before, and on more than one occasion.”

“So you have.” He smiled but no kindness entered his amber-colored eyes. “Perhaps they didn’t mention that I am willing to make your cooperation well worth the effort.”

Lord Druridge possessed a full head of dark, wavy hair and stood several inches taller than most men. Once on an equal footing with him, Rachel had to tilt her head back to look into his face, a visage hard and lean enough to remind her of the hungry wolves fabled to have roamed the countryside. Although he had probably just shaved, the shadow of a heavy beard darkened his jaw. And he was wearing gloves, but she’d heard that scars from the fire at Blackmoor Hall two years ago marked his left hand, extending as far up his sleeve as one could see.

“Your man mentioned a large purse, but I am not interested. My father is dead. I have nothing to say to you.”

“Your father may be dead, but by the narrowest of margins, I am not.” The earl took a step toward her, his face losing all pretense of civility. “I won’t rest until I learn what happened the day the fire killed my wife and the child she carried—”

“Someone else’s babe, by all reports.” Rachel uttered the words before she could check them, but once they were out, she refused to feel the least penitent, despite the sudden clenching of Lord Druridge’s jaw. Most likely no one had ever dared say such a thing to his face, although the villagers, even his own servants, gossiped about his late wife’s many dalliances and anything else that had to do with him or his family.

“Already I see you know more than you led my solicitor to believe,” he said, catching her in her own words. “Please, continue to speak freely.”

“I know nothing. Only that you had as much reason to set the fire at Blackmoor Hall as anyone,” she said. “Mr. Lewis told me what Linley claims to have found, but I don’t believe it. And I am not so impressed with your power or your money as some might be. I will not let you intimidate me.”

The earl’s hand snaked out to grab her elbow. “If you are not intimidated, you should be,” he said. “I hold the lease on this building as well as your home. I could turn you and your family out, and will do so if I must. I will have my answers, one way or another.”

Fear raised the hair on Rachel’s arms as she tried, unsuccessfully, to pull away. She wanted to put some distance between them, to escape the subtle smell of soap that clung to his body. “Isn’t it enough that you had my father sacked when you knew—had to know—he was dying?”

He released her, but his body remained taut, like a tightly coiled spring. “I sent your father away from the colliery because he was a blustering drunk with a penchant for starting trouble. He’d been warned before.” The earl made an impatient gesture with his hand. “But I haven’t come to justify my actions. Believe what you will of me, Miss McTavish, only speak the truth. What do you know about the fire at Blackmoor Hall?”

“My father had nothing to do with it.”

“More than one man has pointed me in his direction.”

“Because Lewis and Linley go around plying various miners with their insidious questions, and my father is a likely scapegoat. He had just lost his job; he was angry. He said some things he shouldn’t have, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.”

The earl’s eyes seemed to glow with an inner light. “Neither does it give him much to lose.”

Rachel lifted her chin. “He had his family. He wouldn’t have wanted us to suffer because of his actions—”

“From what I know of Jack McTavish, he rarely took the suffering of others into consideration,” he broke in. “Regardless, I am not looking to falsely accuse anyone, even a ghost.”

“Then look elsewhere for your murderer, my lord.”

“I will go where my questions lead me. Unfortunately for both of us, they have brought me here.”

“A waste of your time, surely.”

“Not if you hope to retain your home.”

She swallowed hard. “More threats, my lord? Well, consider this: If you turn us out, you will never get your answers.”

Rachel looked past him through the window, hoping someone would enter the shop so she wouldn’t have to be alone with him any longer. But she saw, for the first time, that a liveried footman stood outside. No doubt he worked for Druridge and had been set there to ensure his master’s privacy, as if the presence of the Druridge carriage wasn’t enough to discourage all but the boldest of souls from entering.

“It would seem we have reached an impasse,” he said.

Feeling helpless in the face of his persistence, Rachel eyed him. The earl could send his solicitor or his trusted butler to press her or appear any number of times himself, and he could stay as long as he liked. She could do nothing about it. To make matters worse, her mother was bedridden with a raging fever. If he turned them out, they’d have nowhere to go.

“Please, let us be,” she said, lowering her voice. “My mother is ill, I have a young brother to care for, and I have much to do here. I cannot help you.”

He skewered her with a pointed stare. “Believe me when I say I am sorry for your misfortune, Miss McTavish. But I think you can help me, and if you know what is good for you, you will. You may have no interest in money, although it appears you sorely need it”—his gaze ranged over her simple dress, making her doubly aware of its threadbare state—“but I have something of much greater value to offer.”

“I don’t care what you have, my lord. You can evict us if you want, but my answer will not change.”
Brave words, for a coward
.

“Even for a competent physician to attend your mother?”

Rachel’s breath caught and held. A physician? Besides an old drunk called Smedlin, Creswell had no expert in the healing arts. And thanks to the terrible weather over the previous two weeks, she had been unable to convince anyone more capable to traverse the long road from Newcastle.

“I doubt a doctor could do anything more than I have—”

“You don’t know that, do you?”

She’d been bluffing when she’d thumbed her nose at his threat to toss them into the street. She could never allow him to do that. The promise of a doctor baited the hook better still. . . .

“Dr. Jacobsen is a fine physician,” the earl continued as though sensing her weakness. “He is staying at Blackmoor Hall this very instant. I need only send my carriage to bring him to your cottage.” He raised his eyebrows while absently massaging his left hand—his scarred hand.

Fleetingly, Rachel wondered if it pained him. Any scarring would be a pity, considering it blemished a manly form as close to perfection as she had ever seen. Maybe Druridge’s face was a bit too exaggerated in its planes and angles, a bit too hard-edged to be considered handsome. But a woman could never complain about the rest of him. Thanks to his broad shoulders, lean waist and long legs, she couldn’t help feeling a bit . . . dazzled in spite of her feelings where he was concerned. It didn’t help that he wore his expensive clothing—a calf-length, green cape, beige trousers and a black coat with matching waistcoat—with an indifferent air that suggested he’d just as soon be garbed in something simple as something so obviously rich. His physique, and how fluidly he moved, set him apart from any other man she’d ever met, especially when she compared him to the stooped miners that comprised the better part of the village.

“No.” Ignoring the raw magnetism that emanated from him like steam rising from a lake, she crossed her arms in a decisive manner. “My mother will be fine. She merely needs her rest.”

“Certainly the three of you will rest easier once Dr. Jacobsen has taken a look at her. . . .”

Not if Jillian knew what she had to trade for the visit. And her mother would guess at first sight of a gentleman doctor. Accepting help from the earl, the one man Jillian blamed for the death of her eldest son and, less directly, her husband, would be enough to send her to the grave. Besides, after all Rachel had secretly done to unite the coal workers against Druridge, her sense of honor wouldn’t tolerate any kind of alliance with him.

“You have received my answer. She will recover,” she said and prayed she spoke the truth.

The earl studied her for several seconds. Then he said, “I will allow you some time to think about my offer. I ask only that you answer a few questions in exchange for Dr. Jacobsen’s visit.” He gave her a stiff, mocking bow. “I hope you will reconsider before it’s too late,” he added. Then he strode through the door and disappeared into the dark interior of his large coach.

Rachel hovered over her mother’s bed. “How do you feel?” she whispered.

The wasted figure that was Jillian McTavish nodded weakly. Her skin was as waxy and pale as a yellow moon; her eyes looked like huge pits in her sunken face. “Well enough, daughter.”

“I’ll see ye in the mornin’,” called a soft feminine voice from the other room, and Rachel realized that she hadn’t said good-bye to Mrs. Tate, the neighbor who sat with her mother and younger brother while she minded the shop.

She caught the older woman as she was stepping outside. “Thank you. I know it’s not an easy thing,” she said, her voice faltering.

“’Tis better me watchin’ it than ye,” Mrs. Tate responded. “You’re sufferin’ right along with ’er, that ye are.”

A tear trickled down Rachel’s face, but she swiped at it. “We cannot always choose what happens to us. But we can choose how we handle what does.” She echoed her mother’s oft-repeated words with more conviction than she felt. At the moment, she wondered if she could bear to be alone with Jillian. Surely it was only a matter of time. How much longer could her mother cling to that gossamer strand of life that kept her among the living?

Mrs. Tate lowered her voice as she clasped Rachel’s hands in her own. “She will likely pass tonight. Ye need to be prepared, luv. She’s been like this for nearly a week.”

“Part of me prays that she can be released from the pain,” Rachel whispered. “Watching her suffer is . . . it’s so terrible. But the other part . . .” She hesitated, and Mrs. Tate spared her the effort of continuing.

“I know. We’ll all miss ’er. She’s been a pillar of strength to this village for years, teachin’ so many of us our letters.” The rotund woman shook her head
and, with a squeeze of Rachel’s hands, let go. “You should know that Geordie tried to wait up for ye, but sleep got the better of ’im, poor lad.”