The Taste of Innocence (23 page)

Barnaby reached for his glass. “The persuasions escalated. Step by step, steadily more aggressive, punctuated by increasing offers, but the two appear unconnected. Indeed, in some cases, renewed offers were made in the spirit of assisting in a time of trouble. Often, the owners gave in and sold. However, there are at least seven cases where the persuasion progressed to injury, and at least three where the injury proved insufficient to move the owners to sell, and so the persuasion escalated to the ultimate level.” Barnaby met Charlie’s eyes. “Death.”

Charlie held his gaze for a long moment. A log cracked and hissed in the grate. “Who are these people?”

Barnaby replied, “That’s what I, and Stokes and my father, want to—and are determined to—find out. Because the reason behind the offers for the land was never obvious until so much later, even to this date the accidental injuries and even the supposedly accidental deaths haven’t been connected to the subsequent buyers of the land. Each case has only turned up on my list because of the railway companies’ directors’ ire, and the crimes only became obvious as crimes once I looked into the sequence of events.

“And this is not the usual investigation where I can follow someone’s trail. You’d think the new owners would be traceable, but I’ve tried, and very quickly got ensnared in a horrendous web of land companies and solicitors, and then more companies.” Barnaby set down his empty glass. “Only Gabriel might be able to see some way through the maze. However that may be, that’s not the principal reason I came to see you.”

“How can we help?” Now every bit as grim as Barnaby, Charlie drained his glass.

Barnaby studied his face. “Tell me if this makes sense. The only way we can catch these villains and charge them with any crime is if we catch them actively coercing someone to sell a parcel of land. Criminal coercion is the only legislated crime involved. But to catch them at it, for our particular villains we need to look—”

“In an area where a development hasn’t yet occurred, but is likely to in the next decade.” Charlie’s gaze grew momentarily distant, then he refocused on Barnaby’s face. “I assume you mean the railway line that will, at some point, be laid between Bristol and Taunton, and from there most likely to Exeter and Plymouth?”

Barnaby nodded. “I talked to some of the railway-company directors. Taunton may well end as something of a railhead, years from now.” Slumping back, he studied Charlie’s face. “This is your country—yours and Gabriel’s. What are the chances you’d hear if something untoward was afoot?”

Charlie thought, then grimaced. “Not as good as you might think. People don’t generally talk of offers for their property, not until after they sell—or unless they believe there’s real coercion involved. And as you’ve found, often not even then. Our villain hasn’t targeted land held by major landowners, or if he has, he’s been careful not to overly persuade them, and ordinary farmers don’t air their affairs. It’s likely neither Gabriel nor I would hear until long after the fact, and then most likely via the local gossip mill.”

Barnaby sighed. “I was afraid you might say that.”

Charlie held up a hand. “There might, however, be another way, or ways, we can learn more about these villains. And you’re right about this area being among the most likely to be targeted at some point—there’s lots of hills to navigate around. If we can find out more about our villains’ modus operandi so we’ll be able to search for their activity more effectively, then searching in this area is indeed a good bet.”

He looked at Barnaby. “We’ll need to speak with Gabriel…and the others.” He blinked. “I sent you a card—an invitation. Did you receive it?”

Barnaby shook his head. “I stopped in briefly at the pater’s—I haven’t been back to my lodgings. Why? What’s the event?”

Charlie grinned. “I’m getting married. In three days’ time. You’re invited. So are all the others.”

Barnaby’s smile dawned, sincere yet faintly taunting. “Congratulations! That’s Gerrard, Dillon, and now you—I’ll have danced at all your weddings.”

Charlie arched a brow. “No thoughts about joining us?”

“None what ever. I have other interests to pursue. Namely villains.”

“Indeed, but as it happens, attending my wedding will advance your cause. We’re expecting not just Gabriel, but Devil, Vane, and all the others, Demon and Dillon included. It’ll be the perfect opportunity to enlist our collective aid and pick our collective brains. Between us, we’ll find some way to trace your villains.”

“Amen to that,” Barnaby replied. “One thing—keep all this firmly under your hat. At this point, we have no idea who our villains might be.”

Sarah returned to Conningham Manor in the carriage with her mother, her sisters, and Twitters early on Monday afternoon.

She’d found the long journey a trial, enlivened as it had been by Clary’s and Gloria’s innocent but unnecessary speculations on the morrow. The instant they were indoors and had greeted the various relatives and connections who’d arrived for the wedding, she seized on the orphanage as her excuse, and escaped.

Galloping north on Blacktail’s back, she dragged in a huge breath—it felt like her first free breath in days. She rode quickly, conscious that her time was limited, that she would have not much more than an hour in which to accomplish all she normally did over a whole day.

After tomorrow, she’d have farther to travel to reach the farm; she would have to allow more time for the ride up from the Park, two miles south of the manor. After tomorrow…she hoped that would be the extent of the change, that all else would remain more or less the same.

Reaching the farm, she tied Blacktail up by the door, smiled and waved to the children playing in the front yard, then hurried inside. She went straight to the office to look over the books and arrange any payments or orders that were urgent. Katy found her there, and laconically brought her up to date on the doings of their small world.

Sarah discovered that the staff had rallied around, and there were only the books to quickly check, and Skeggs’s and Mrs. Duncliffe’s decisions of the morning to approve.

“Thank you!” She smiled gratefully at Katy as she shut the main ledger.

“Aye, well—we all thought that you should start married life without anything dragging on your mind.” Katy grinned.

Quince appeared at the doorway. She met Katy’s eyes, then looked at Sarah. “There’s something here you ought to see.”

“Oh?” Rising, Sarah joined Katy and together with Quince they went out into the hall.

“Congratulations, miss!” The assembled inmates of the orphanage, lined up neatly in the hall, chorused their message with the hugest of smiles.

Ginny, the eldest girl, stepped forward, a package wrapped in brown paper in her hands. Beaming, she dipped a curtsy and offered the package to Sarah. “For you, miss. We hope your wedding goes smashingly!”

Sarah looked around at the platoon of bright faces; she’d been the recipient of many such wishes over the last days, but this was unquestionably the most touching. “Thank you.” She blinked rapidly, then smiling, took the parcel; it was surprisingly heavy and solid.

The children’s expectations rose another notch; they jigged, waiting for her to open their gift. Sarah noted that Maggs was uncharacteristically sober, gnawing at his lower lip.

Looking down, she pulled apart the wrappings—revealing a nearly foot-high gnome with a frog, attentive, at his feet. “It’s…lovely.” And it truly was; there was a certain worldly wisdom in the gnome’s expression as he considered the frog; the piece demonstrated remarkable attention to detail.

Maggs edged closer, checking her face. What he saw there reassured. “I made it,” he confessed. “We had it fired at the potter’s over Stogumber way, and Ginny painted it mostly. We thought you could take it to your new home and put it in your garden so you’d think of us when you saw it.”

Sarah glowed and briefly hugged him, then Ginny. “I will. It’s perfect.” She made a mental note to make inquiries among the local potters for a place for Maggs when it came time for him to leave. She looked at the other children. “I’ll always treasure…Mr. Quilley.”

She held up the gnome and the older children cheered, delighted with the name; the younger ones stared round-eyed and jigged. It was time for tea; the staff herded the group into the dining room, where a special tea was laid out in honor of Miss Conningham’s marriage.

Sarah spent the next half hour celebrating with the children and staff. Once the children reluctantly returned to their lessons, she thanked the staff warmly, accepting their personal congratulations, then tied Mr. Quilley securely to her saddle, mounted Blacktail and headed home.

There was still such a lot to do, yet she deliberately put all thoughts of gowns, flowers, ribbons, and garters out of her head, and looked around her as she rode. Let the countryside soothe her as it always did. Let her thoughts settle, let her mind refocus on the important things.

For the past three days, uncertainty had gnawed at her. Had she made the right decision? When she’d been with Charlie, she’d felt confident, convinced that marrying him was the right thing to do, that becoming his wife was her correct path forward. That when she married him love would be there, underneath all, the cornerstone of their union.

Love had been her price, and he’d convinced her that love was theirs for the taking…or rather, she’d convinced herself, which was the root cause of her present unsettled state.

What if she’d imagined it? What if she’d simply convinced herself that she’d seen what she’d wanted to see—the promise of love in his touch, in his caring? What if all she’d seen was in truth nothing more than a figment of her imagination?

He hadn’t said the words, but she hadn’t, and still didn’t, expect him to. He wasn’t the sort of gentleman given to flowery phrases, to poetry and the like; passionately declaring “I love you” aloud just wasn’t him.

She’d known and accepted that, so she’d looked for other, more certain signs—actions, his reactions—and found them. Or so she’d thought.

Over the last days, away from his presence and plagued by uncertainty, she’d relived all the moments they’d shared in the summerhouse and elsewhere, all she’d seen and learned of him, and still wasn’t sure; she’d ended with a headache and an upset stomach.

But she couldn’t step back from the altar, not now. She’d accepted his proposal, agreed to be his wife, and the whole world knew it.

And marrying him might be the right thing to do. Perhaps seeing her decision through was the aspect Madame Garnaut had referred to as “complicated”?

The manor came into sight; Sarah looked at the house, and sighed. From tomorrow it would no longer be her home.

Perhaps all brides felt this unsure?

10

Unsurprisingly, she couldn’t sleep. Donning her old gown, Sarah slipped out of the house, reflecting that this time, her prepared excuse—that, unable to sleep, she’d decided on a walk in the gardens—was true. She and Charlie had made no arrangements to meet to night; tradition held that they shouldn’t meet again until they came together before the altar.

Tomorrow, at noon, she’d become his wife. A suffocating sense of uncertainty swamped her. She tried to put the entire subject from her mind, tried to focus on the here and now, on the gardens in the dark, on the still chill of the night, on the shadows that appeared denser and more encroaching in the weak illumination of the waning moon, yet her feet took her, unresisting, to the path along the stream, to the weir and the summer house.

The white structure appeared solid and stark against the dark backdrop of the trees. Perhaps there she would find reassurance, some lingering trace of what her memories insisted had been present, would still be present, between her and Charlie.

Walking to the steps, she went up, stepped into the dimness, and saw him. Seated on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, hands loosely clasped between his knees, he looked at her through the shadows; she felt his gaze, hot and wanting, instantaneously heating.

She paused, then slowly, deliberately, walked to him.

Charlie straightened as she neared. He hadn’t expected her; for one instant when she’d stood on the threshold limned in faint moonlight, he’d wondered whether his mind was playing tricks and she was a phantom, a figment of his dreams.

But it was no specter who halted before him. His gaze on her face, he reached and took her hand, felt the delicate bones between his fingers.

Through the dimness, she met his gaze. He tensed to rise, but, moving with steady deliberation, she placed her free hand on his shoulder and held him back, then she stooped and kissed him.

He kissed her back, not as ravenously as he wished but as he sensed she wanted. Hungrily yet not hurriedly, taking time to explore anew, to taste, to savor. For long moments they communed with lips and mouths and stroking tongues, with wanting and heated yearning on display, openly acknowledged, yet for the moment held at bay.

Familiar, yet different. The desire, the hunger, the passion were there, ready to flare at their call, yet, it seemed, that wasn’t all they had to share.

Her hand on his shoulder gripped, pushed; obediently he leaned back until his shoulders met the back of the sofa. She followed, not ready to break their kiss, then she released his shoulder and raised her skirts so she could place first one knee, then the other, alongside his thighs, nudging them closer together. Then she sat, flicked her fingers free of his as she slid slowly, languorously, closer, and brazenly straddled him.