Gareth
Gareth looked up and smiled. “Lord Chiverton. Glad to see you, sir. I hope you had some luck in Camelford finding a man to fix your phaeton?”
Chiverton swung a leg over and slid off the horse, landing gingerly. He must still be favoring his injured leg.
“I admit I haven’t had time to get to Camelford yet. I had some urgent business earlier and have just now gotten away.” He glanced at the spring iron in Gareth’s hand. “Are you planning on fixing it for me?” he said with a grin.
“Me? No. I’m not handy with mechanical things. I was just on my way home from Havencross and thought I’d gather up the pieces before they disappeared into the hands of wreckers.”
“Ah. That is good of you.” He stood silent for a moment, then said, “It’s very late. Did you stay for supper?”
“No. We just now finished delivering the remains of Mr. Cardinham’s son.”
“Oh yes. I’d forgotten about it. Piece of nasty business, that.”
How could he have forgotten the discovery of John Cardinham’s bones? “Yes. It was quite distressing to the ladies of the house.”
“Certainly. And rightly so. It is not in their constitution to see such things.”
Gareth wanted to swing the spring iron into the man’s gut. How could he be so irritatingly stupid?
“And how is Miss Cardinham holding up?”
Should that not be a question for Gareth to ask him—the man about to marry her? “It is not my place to know,” Gareth said. He tossed the iron into his wagon before he did something he might regret. Though he doubted there would actually be any regret.
Chiverton gave him a quick nod. “I’m off to Camelford in a bit of a hurry. I just came by to check on things.” He fished a folded pocketbook from his coat and held out a five-pound note. “For your trouble. I do appreciate it.”
Gareth would dance naked on the hedge tops before taking money from Lord Chiverton. “It’s no trouble,” he said.
Chiverton shrugged and replaced the note. He strode to the front of the rig and reached under the seat, then paused.
“Hm. That’s strange.” Chiverton had the pig sticker and was turning it in his hand.
“What?” Gareth asked with perhaps a little too much surprise.
“Nothing,” Chiverton said.
Gareth retrieved the folding head cover that had torn off and carried it to the wagon, wedging it under the wheel to keep it in place. “Well, I think that’s all I can salvage without tools. But if I were you, I wouldn’t leave the carriage body here unattended for long. There’s questionable men about.”
“Good advice,” Chiverton said, though he seemed a little preoccupied. “Uh, did you . . . I see my strongbox has come open, but I could have sworn it was still locked before I left.”
Gareth leaned in and studied the metal box with a good amount of concern. He shook his head in puzzlement. “There was no one about when I got here, and that was only a few moments before you showed up. As I said, questionable men in these parts. I hope nothing valuable is missing?”
Chiverton tossed the pig knife into the wrecked phaeton. “No. Nothing at all. Wasn’t anything of value in there to begin with.”
“Well, that’s lucky.” Gareth smiled. He pointed to his wagon. “I’ll have these part in my stables when you need them. Unless, of course, you want to take them with you now. Lowentop is not more than a few minutes’ walk from here.”
Chiverton was pawing at the base of the hedge with his foot, searching. In the dark, it was hard to see much of anything. Perhaps he might give up quickly and come back in the morning, but by then, who knew what the wind might have blown away.
“No, no. I appreciate your taking them,” Chiverton said. In the night, his face stood out in contrast to his dark clothing and the blackness of the hedge. He was looking at Gareth, watching him as he climbed onto the bench.
“Good night, then, sir.” Gareth snapped the reins, and the wagon rolled away.
When he lumbered into the Lowentop drive, he whistled for Tomas, instructing him to stow the broken phaeton parts in the stable.
Gareth clambered out of the driver’s seat. At last, he was home. What had started as a simple outing to the castle ruins had turned into . . . what? He couldn’t find words to describe the events of this day. May he never have a day like it again.
His mother came running out, her dainty feet skimming along the walkway. “Gareth, where have you been? I’ve been sick with worry. Utterly sick. I thought for sure you’d fallen into the cove and been washed out to sea. Or worse.” She choked back a sob.
His mother knew he’d gone out to Tintagel, but he’d not had a chance to explain to her why the long delay in getting home. He should have sent word, considering she always imagined the worst.
“Sorry. We had a bit of an emergency, and it took the whole day to work it out.” He put his arm around her and turned her back toward the house. “We found the body of John Cardinham.”
She gasped and stumbled on the threshold.
Gareth led them back to the kitchen because he was too dirty for the parlor. “It was Elai—Miss Cardinham. She discovered him. Naught but bones and tattered cloth. I think it quite unnerved her.”
“The poor girl.” She poured some water into a kettle. “Where?”
He shed his filthy coat, tossing it on the table. “In one of the sea caves not far from the castle ruins.”
His mother spun around. “Smugglers! I knew it.” She sloshed some water as she swung the kettle over the fire. “Probably the same filthy scoundrels who took your poor father. It’s not safe here anymore, Gareth. Not safe at all. I can’t even walk into Camelford without fearing for my life. Mrs. Dawlish agrees, especially after her own son was mysteriously killed not more than a fortnight ago.”
He shook his head. “Mother. That was a mining accident, and everyone knows it.”
She shrugged. “That’s what they want you to believe, but Mrs. Dawlish is not so sure. She says—”
“I’m very sorry for Mrs. Dawlish. Really, I am. But there is no question about her son’s death. He fell in the mine. He was trying to save money and work off the light of other men’s candles and fell fifteen feet down a new shaft. No mystery. Only foolishness.”
“That’s not what Mrs. Dawlish says.” She had her hands on her hips now, staring him down.
He didn’t want to argue with her. He could easily understand why Mrs. Dawlish would have difficulty accepting that her son had died at the hands of his own poor judgment. She was likely the one urging him to cut costs. It would ease her mind to blame the smugglers, but Gareth wished she would not fill his mother’s head with more cause to worry.
He dropped into a chair near the fire and tugged off his boots. As he bent over, the letter from Chiverton’s strongbox fell out of his waistcoat pocket.
“What is that? Have you received a letter?” She picked it up off the floor with a soft grunt.
Blast. This inane conversation with his mother had stripped it from his mind.
“It’s nothing. Just some details about the mine I need to attend to.” He took it from her hands. “Call me when the bath is ready.” He left and traipsed up the stairs to his room.
Gareth closed his door and slipped the letter out of his pocket. He read the direction again. T. S. It could be anyone and was obviously prepared for hand delivery, as there was no town or otherwise to direct a postman.
It was probably nothing. People corresponded daily with all sorts of matters. Chiverton had ships in Plymouth, so a business letter would be apropos. In fact, he had mentioned a run-in with smugglers who’d helped themselves to some of his cargo, so perhaps a pig sticker was not so far from expected.
To be perfectly honest with himself—something Gareth ardently tried to avoid—his feelings for Elaine might be clouding his judgment. His own brother could be marrying her and he would be under equal suspicion—if he had a brother. He should have left the letter where he’d found it.
There was nothing for it now. It was too late to return it. He’d already dug his pit by lying to Chiverton about it. He couldn’t very well go tromping back saying, Surprise, I actually did have your letter.
He might as well read it. It was not his business, and he had a strong feeling he should keep himself out of it. And he would have if it weren’t for Elaine.
He tipped his head back and stared at the black timbers of his ceiling. Why could he not let her go?
For five laborious years, he’d thought about her. Dreamed about her. Watched and waited for the stinging news he knew would come. And come it had. He’d nearly ripped his prayer book in half when the banns were first announced. Elaine Cardinham, daughter of Mr. Francis Cardinham, to marry Edmund Crawley, Earl of Chiverton.
Over the last week or so, he’d dug into the books to find out as much as he could about Chiverton. Real facts, not the hearsay babble he’d been getting. He’d found next to nothing. Good name. Ancient family. Apparently they’d had a little trouble, steadfastly sticking to their Catholicism during the reign of Henry VIII, but since then had seen the light and were now converted. Other than that, he’d found very little.
So why couldn’t he let it alone? He would shed this need to watch over her, to keep her close, if he could. But the passing of five years had taught him he could not. And when he saw her that day, standing on the edge of the world with the wind stroking her hair . . .
Enough. She was engaged to another man. An engagement that seemed by all appearances mutually agreeable to both parties. He had no right to interfere. He should turn and walk away. And by St. Just, he would. As soon as he got his way into this letter.
He pried open the wafer and unfolded it. One glance told him he’d not be reading it. It was written in French.
Was Chiverton a spy for Napoleon’s army? Well, this just kept getting better and better. Gareth would put a stop to this whole thing if he thought Elaine was getting herself entangled with a turncoat. He’d not see her swing from the gallows. Not for that fop.
He searched the contents for any word he might recognize—a name or a place—but he found none.
He could ask Elaine to read it. There was nothing on the page to implicate Chiverton, leastways not as far as he could tell. But if the contents did contain something that incriminated him, it might be enough to make Elaine change her mind about marrying him.
Listen to himself.
He was being absurd.
The engagement between Chiverton and Elaine was official. Three weeks of banns had been read. No going back. And what in the name of black pilchards made him so sure Chiverton was involved in anything? So he had a strongbox. So he had a pig sticker. So he had a letter in French. Odd, to be sure. But not so very out of the ordinary that it proved any kind of wrongdoing.
Elaine was not stupid. She would not get herself involved with a man she didn’t trust or who was mixed up in something he shouldn’t be. Yes, there was that scandal clouding the name of Cardinham. Many would lose interest because of that. Gareth hadn’t, so why must he assume the worst of Chiverton? If Chiverton saw half as much in Elaine as he did, of course he would still want her.
Martha knocked on his door. “Your bath is ready, sir.”
Good. This was just what he needed—to wash the dust and filth and past away and start over.
He folded the letter and tucked it on his desk under the chunk of raw tin he used as a paperweight. He was done assuming the worst. Elaine had chosen someone else, and the least he could do was respect that choice and be civil.
He stripped off his shirt. Miss Tippet was a good soul, kind and generous. What she lacked in education he could supply with some books, perhaps a tutor, and a good helping of common sense.
If Miss Tippet’s father had taken up with the smugglers, that would be a problem. Gareth wanted no association with the free traders. As yet, he could prove nothing.
There was a knock on the front door. Gareth glanced at the small clock on his mantel. Past ten o’clock. Who would be calling so late?
He opened his door and listened. It was a man’s voice. Chiverton. He must have come by to see why his ears were burning.
Bath or earl first?
He took under advisement his own counsel from only moments ago and decided to be civil. Better to not keep the earl waiting. He found a clean pair of breeches and stepped into them, then tossed on a shirt. That was as far as his civility went. Bare footed and in nothing more than breeches and shirtsleeves, he descended the stairs.
“Oh, sir. I was just coming to get you,” Martha said as she was coming up. “Lord Chiverton is here in the parlor to see you.”
“Thank you.”
She paused, and her eyes widened as he went past her, heading to the parlor in such a state of undress. He didn’t care. Enough had happened today that he gave very little thought to his attire—especially at this hour.
Perhaps in London they kept late nights, but here, when one must be up at dawn to see to the stock and the mines, one went to bed with the sun.
His mother perched on the sofa, and across from her, near the hearth, sat Chiverton. She had stoked the fire to near smelting levels, and Chiverton’s face was bright red.
Again, Gareth had to admit that he’d unfairly judged the man. Rather than offend his mother, he endured the fires of Hades.
“Oh, there you are,” she said, her eyes gleaming for having an earl in the house. Or perhaps it was simply the heat. “Lord Chiverton has called.” She would have a mouthful to brag about tomorrow.
“Thank you, Mother,” Gareth said, motioning her to the door.
“Really, Gareth.” She shook her head as she passed. “You’re barely dressed.”
The door closed behind her, and Gareth opened a window. “Sorry about that; she gets a little overzealous with her hospitality sometimes.”
Chiverton crossed the room to stand by the open window. “Forgive my lateness; this was my first chance to get away.”
“It’s all right.”
Chiverton stared for a few moments into the inferno. “Polkreath must keep you very busy.”
“Yes. It takes a good deal of my time.”
“Your mother tells me even at this late hour you were occupied reading a letter.”
Blast his mother. She little knew what information she was giving over. Gareth smiled. “Yes. Did she tell you we are sinking another shaft? I’ve got more miners clamoring to buy a work space off it than I have room to fit them in. It’s a good lode, and every miner in the district wants a piece of it.”
“They pay you to mine?”
“The men buy their piece to mine, yes. And they make their money based on how much they pull up. A family working together can do quite well.” Gareth leaned forward. “I have a feeling, Lord Chiverton, you are not here to discuss the business of tin mining.”
“You are correct. I know it’s late, but I was hoping I might sift through the pieces of my high flyer. I seem to be missing something.”
Gareth lifted his eyebrows in a show of surprise. “Absolutely. What is it you are missing?” He rose to his feet, and Chiverton followed.
“Well, it’s a little embarrassing,” Chiverton said, and he did turn a fair shade of pink, though that could also be from the fire. “A letter. Like a besotted fool, Mr. Kemp, I penned a love letter to Miss Cardinham. I don’t want it floating the countryside. It’s personal. And ridiculous. But so it is.”
“I hope you didn’t go so far as to include poetry,” Gareth said.
Chiverton laughed. “I fear there may be.” He followed Gareth to the back of the house. “I thought, why not give the pieces you retrieved one last look. It would be worth it to keep the letter from falling into the wrong hands.”
Gareth fitted a candle into a lantern and closed the glass. “Wrong hands?”
Chiverton cringed a little. “I suppose any hands besides the intended are the wrong hands.”
Gareth stuffed his bare feet into a pair of boots. He was a good actor, this earl from Chiverton. Either that or he really had written a love letter to Elaine in French. In no way did the letters T. S. make sense when applied to Elaine. Gareth couldn’t even think of a loving epithet. Tender Sweetling? Treasured Sundew? Still, he supposed there was the possibility that the letter was meant for Elaine. T. S. could mean something entirely different in French.
He nearly asked Chiverton what language he’d written in but didn’t. Too close to the truth.
Gareth opened the back door and led them out into the night. “I’ve had the broken parts moved to the stable. This way.”