The sound of Crisp’s measured footsteps reached her, then he appeared in the sitting room doorway. Although he was carrying his salver, to her relief it bore only a card, no note.
Crisp advanced, bowed, and offered the card. “A solicitor from Taunton to see you, ma’am.”
Sarah lifted the card and read: Mr. Arnold Switherton, Switherton & Babcock, Solicitors, East Street, Taunton. She frowned. Charlie had, of course, noticed her concern and her extra trips to the orphanage; over the last days he’d developed the habit of informing her where he was going when he rode out. Today he was visiting Sinclair. She couldn’t imagine what Mr. Switherton wanted. She looked up at Crisp. “The gentleman asked to see me? Not the earl?”
“He specifically asked to see you, ma’am.”
Brows rising, she laid down the card. “Show him in.” With a bow, Crisp withdrew.
Sarah considered, but elected to remain seated before her escritoire. Was this about the orphanage again? But it was a different solicitor; a different office, too.
And the man Crisp ushered into her sitting room was cut from a distinctly different cloth than the hapless Haynes. Mr. Arnold Switherton had a long thin nose with pinched nostrils, and his face bore an expression of perpetual distaste. Sarah found it hard not to dislike him on sight, and his opening speech did nothing to endear him.
“Countess.” His bow was stultifyingly correct. “I am here to present an offer for a property to which I understand you still retain title.” His brows contracted. “Most unusual in light of your recent marriage. I would have preferred to discuss such matters with your husband, however, I have been instructed to lay the offer before you.”
Sarah did not invite him to sit. She waited, silent and unresponsive, while he fished in his leather satchel and drew out a slim sheaf of papers.
He glanced at them. “Yes—this is all in order.” He offered her the papers and she took them.
“As you will see here”—reaching over the top of the sheets, Switherton pointed—“the offer is for Quilley Farm, house and land, and the sum offered is here.” He pointed farther down the sheet.
Sarah looked at a sum that had grown significantly since Haynes’s offer. She scanned down the page, then turned over to the next, and the next, ignoring Switherton’s surprised frown. After scanning the last page, she looked up at him. “Who is your client?”
“Ah—that, my dear countess, is not something you need to know.”
“Indeed?” Her icy hauteur and the cold fury behind it made Switherton blink. “And I am not your dear anything, Mr. Switherton.”
He swallowed, carefully inclined his head in apology, but then rallied and drew himself up. “My client insists on complete anonymity. I comprehend you would, of course, have no experience in such matters, but such a stance is not unknown when buying land.”
“I daresay.” Sarah had had enough of Mr. Switherton. “Regardless, I have no interest in selling Quilley Farm. You may tell your anonymous client that.” She held out the papers.
Switherton stepped back, refusing to take them. “This offer is a very generous one, Lady Meredith. I strongly advise that you seek your husband’s counsel before you act rashly only to later repent. I’m sure the earl will see the sense in capitalizing on my client’s whimsical caprice in offering such a patently ridiculous sum for such a property. Ladies cannot be expected to understand such matters—I urge you to lay this matter before your husband. He will know what’s best.”
Sarah let a moment pass in utter silence, then quietly said, “Mr. Switherton, what is beyond my comprehension is that you have failed to perceive that the title to Quilley Farm remains in my hands for a reason. In part, that reason is so that I can refuse all such offers as this”—she flung the papers at Switherton; he gasped, clutched, and caught them to his chest—“saving my husband, the earl, from having to deal with the importunings of solicitors such as yourself. Such refusals are not rash—they are entirely deliberate. Quilley Farm will remain in my hands—for reasons that do not concern you, that will not change. And I assure you the only repenting I am likely to do is that the earl is not here to deal with you as, in my view, you deserve—there are, indeed, instances where being a lady is restricting.”
She held Switherton’s gaze for a pregnant minute, then calmly said, “Crisp—show Mr. Switherton out.”
“Indeed, ma’am. This way, sir.”
Sarah hid a smile at Crisp’s tone, one that effectively conveyed that, in the earl’s absence, should Switherton give him the slightest excuse, Crisp would be only too happy to demonstrate what she and her house hold deemed Switherton deserved.
The thought laid her temper to rest. She glanced at her escritoire, but there was nothing more to do there. Rising, she returned to the chaise; there was mending—as always—waiting, but…
She was contemplating a walk in the gardens when Crisp returned to report Switherton’s departure and to ask if, in the earl’s absence and as she’d eaten so little at the breakfast table that morning, she would like an early luncheon on a tray in the sitting room.
“Thank you, Crisp. That would be lovely.” She smiled as he departed; Crisp and Figgs, and indeed all the staff, were being very kind. Attentive but not intrusively so. They’d learned her routine and were fitting in with it, rather than imposing that of their last mistress, Serena, on her. That had made filling the position of Charlie’s countess much easier, at least on that score.
As for all the rest that the position entailed…thoughts of that occupied her mind while she ate. Revived by the succession of light dishes Cook had prepared—she’d been unable to stomach more than tea and toast over the last few mornings—she decided a walk in the rose garden would complete her restoration.
Pacing along the paved paths, insensibly heartened by the sight of buds—real buds—pushing out along the sides of otherwise dead-looking sticks, she’d completely put aside the vexed question of the strange occurrences at the orphanage, and quite banished Switherton and his offer from her mind, when a horrible, unexpected, unlooked for thought slipped into her head, and connected them.
“Good God.” Halting, she stared unseeing across the lawns. What if…?
What if there really was a connection? If after being refused once—no, twice; after they’d married, someone had approached Charlie to buy the farm, and it was after that that the accidents at the orphanage had started. What if the anonymous buyer had decided to make life difficult for the orphange and her, to irritate and aggravate her and even Charlie, and then offer a “patently ridiculous” amount to prompt her to wash her hands of the place and sell?
Surely not. She shook herself; her mind was playing morbid tricks.
Yet once the notion had taken root, it wouldn’t die. She paced on, examining the idea; it was only the relative timing of the accidents and the offers that suggested such a heinous connection—and the timing of the offers could be explained perfectly innocently. Anyone not acquainted with her might well imagine that after a few weeks of wedded bliss her interest in her “hobby” would wane, and she’d be more amenable to selling.
There was, she told herself, no per se reason to link the accidents with the offers to buy the orphanage.
16
Except…she couldn’t get the possibility out of her mind.
Saturday afternoon found her back in the rose garden. The place was quiet, with no one to see her as she paced and occasionally muttered to herself. In her sitting room there was always the chance that Charlie, Crisp, or one of the footmen or maids would pass by and see her—and grow even more concerned for her than they already were.
Since her horrible thought the previous day she’d been distracted, consumed with trying to disprove and thus dismiss the notion of a link between the accidents and the offers. Despite her best efforts, she’d yet to succeed.
Indeed, she’d given up, and was now trying to decide what to do—from whom to seek advice. Her father? Despite all he knew of her, he would probably th
ink—as in some part of her mind she herself still thought—that she was drawing far too long a bow and worrying herself for no reason.
Gabriel Cynster? While with his business background he no doubt would accept that such things might occur, he didn’t know her personally all that well, and her account of the accidents and her suspicions might sound…well, a trifle hysterical. And he would certainly wonder why she was speaking with him and not Charlie.
Which left her with one obvious person to approach—Charlie. She’d snubbed his earlier inquiry when she’d believed she’d succeeded in dealing with the “ghost.” Since then matters had gone downhill, but he hadn’t asked again and his earlier disavowal of all interest in the orphanage still echoed in her mind, still cut. So she’d avoided saying anything, but…he knew something was preying on her peace, just not what.
And he did want to know. Indeed, he seemed absolutely tormented that he didn’t know.
She grimaced; arms folded, she turned and paced on. If she walked into his library and said she needed his opinion on problems with the orphanage, she’d immediately have his full attention. He wouldn’t mention his earlier words, or hers. It would all be so terribly polite but, to her mind, also terribly unsatisfactory.
It was all so stupid. In their bedchamber, no matter the constraint between them—his careful wariness, her irritation—neither of them could deny what happened there, that no matter his feelings or hers, love ruled—absolutely and completely, without quarter. But the instant they left that room, a wall went up between them, and she’d yet to find any way under, over, or around it, much less through it.
She wanted to knock it down, to shake its foundations so it came tumbling down and it was impossible for him to rebuild it. She still had no idea how to accomplish that, but giving him a way to soothe his increasingly abraded protectiveness without acknowledging that said protectiveness was there, so painfully present, because he loved her seemed a very bad move, a seriously backward step.
If she did such a thing, he would see it, and cling to it, as evidence that his way—with his daytime wall intact—could, and in time would, work. It couldn’t, it wouldn’t, but he was a man, and almost as stubborn as she was.
Yet if she didn’t seek his help, help he could and would give…?
What if she were right, and the accidents and offers for the orphanage were linked?
“Damn!” She halted, wrestling with the notion that she owed it to the orphanage staff and the children to swallow her pride and seek Charlie’s help now, immediately, before anything more happened, before anyone else got hurt. Yes, approaching him would harm her personal position, but…she was stubborn, more stubborn than he. She would come about.
Jaw setting, she breathed in and lifted her head, looking toward the library. A movement at the other end of the terrace, near her sitting room, caught her eye.
Barnaby Adair, coming up from the stables.
Everything she’d heard about Barnaby raced across her mind—all Charlie had said of him, all Jacqueline, Pris, and others had let fall. Penelope’s questions. She didn’t give herself time to question her judgment, but hailed him and waved.
He heard, then saw her. When she picked up her skirts and hurried across the lawn, he halted and waited.
“Sarah.” He took the hand she offered and bowed over it.
Disregarding all formality, she clutched his hand. “I need your opinion—it’s quite urgent. Can you spare a few minutes?”
Intelligent blue eyes searched her face. “However many you need.”
She gestured to her sitting room. “Come in and sit down.”
They went in; at her wave, he sat on the chaise. She stood before the hearth, pressed her hands together, then drew in a breath and commenced. “I own a farm—Quilley Farm—just outside Crowcombe, a little way north of here. The farm’s just a house with a few fields, not large, but it’s run as an orphanage.” Briefly she explained about her godmother’s legacy, then went on, “Early last month, a solicitor called on me at the orphanage to present an offer from an unnamed client to buy the farm. I refused. That seemed to be that, but later, after we married, a similar approach was made to Charlie—they, whoever they are, knew the farm’s title had passed to him on our marriage, but although it did, he passed it immediately back via the marriage settlements.”
Barnaby’s blue eyes were fixed on her face, his expression a testimony to utter concentration. He nodded, the lines about his mouth a trifle tight. “Then what?”
“Then…” She drew in a deep breath. “Accidents started happening.” She began to pace, and succinctly described each incident in order.
“So you see, things seem to be escalating. I can’t believe, as the staff do, that these are just the acts of some unhinged man. And then.” Halting, she fixed her eyes on Barnaby’s face. “Another solicitor called on me here yesterday morning. Charlie was out, and the man asked to see me specifically. He brought another offer—an even larger offer, one even he admitted was patently ridiculous—for the farm. He was high-handed and arrogant, but before I turned him away, I demanded the name of his client, but he insisted that was confidential.”
Barnaby had proved a good listener, yet as Sarah paused and looked more closely at him, she realized his eyes had grown round, that he was sitting amazingly upright, utterly still, that his blue gaze had grown distant, as if he were seeing something she couldn’t.
Then he blinked and met her eyes. “Ah—sorry. I just…” Again his eyes got that glazed, dazed look. “You said the orphanage was to the north…did you mean in this valley—between Watchet and Taunton?”
She frowned. “Yes.”
He suddenly stood up—so abruptly she took an involuntary step back. He held up his hands placatingly. “Just wait.”
She realized it was excitement—excitement so intense he was all but vibrating with it—that choked his voice.
“I need to check something with Charlie. Just stay there—I’ll be back in a moment—and then we’ll decide what to do.”
Astonished, Sarah watched him rush from the room. His footsteps strode—almost running—down the corridor; she heard the library door open, then shut.
“Well.” She stared at the open doorway for a moment, then moved to the chaise. He’d said “stay there,” but presumably she could sit.
At his desk in the library, Charlie stared at the pen poised between his fingers. The ink had dried on the nib. On the blotter lay a concise, as-yet-incomplete summary of all he’d learned regarding railway finances from Malcolm Sinclair. He’d started writing it as something he could actually do that might be useful, to distract himself from what he wasn’t able to do—ease what ever burden Sarah was laboring under.
The fact that he couldn’t—that courtesy of their current situation, he was unable to protect her, his wife, as every instinct he possessed insisted he should—wasn’t just a source of unease. His inability to act was eating at the foundation of who he was, of the man he knew he should be.
Underneath all, of the man he wanted to be.
His push to lock her, and all he felt for her, out of his daily life had resulted in his being locked out of her life. He hadn’t foreseen that, hadn’t considered what it would mean. How it would cut him off from something he now realized was vital.
Jaw clenching, he tapped the nib on the page, leaving small, smudged dots. This—their life as he’d scripted it—wasn’t working; there was too much that was wrong, too many emotions weighing on him. He had to find some way to change things…but how?
He had no idea. Especially as, when it came down to it, he was still, despite all, unwilling to allow love free rein in his life.
He heard hurrying footsteps outside the door an instant before Barnaby burst into the room. A transformed Barnaby; Charlie blinked at the glow in Barnaby’s face as he rushed to the desk.
“I’ve just been speaking with Sarah—tell me it’s real?” Leaning on the desk, Barnaby fixed his eyes on Charlie’s, excitement po
uring from him. “After all our searching, I can barely believe it’s been under our noses all along. And what better case to flush out our villain?”
A chill swept through Charlie. He stared at Barnaby, uncomprehending but with premonition solidifying second by second to icy certainty in his veins.
Seeing his blankness, Barnaby paused. “But perhaps I’m leaping to conclusions. Is this farm a target? Will it be crucial to a railway line?”
What farm? But Charlie knew. Slowly, he laid aside his pen. “Quilley Farm.”
Barnaby registered his odd tone, tried to read his eyes and failed. “Sarah just told me about the accidents. They sound like the work of our villain, and combined with the offers for the property—”
“Offers? Plural?”
Lips tightening, Barnaby nodded. “But it all hinges on whether this farm is critical to a future railway line. Is it?”
It took effort to suppress his emotions enough to think. He drew in a breath. His control was shaky, tenuous, but he knew the land, the topography. It took only a second’s consideration to see it. “Yes.” His jaw clenched. “Absolutely. Once the Bristol-Taunton line is in, a spur from Taunton to Watchet would be not just obvious, but a commercial gold mine. And the valley narrows where the farm is—the property includes all of a shelf of land over which the railway would have to go.”
His mind already elsewhere, he rose, went to a set of drawers and opened the lowest. “Have a look at the map. The land beyond Crowcombe rises sharply and there’s nowhere—no space—to put in curves. The rail line would have to rise earlier, from before Crowcombe via the long upward slope south of the farm house, then go straight across the ledge and on through the fields to the north. That would be a clear run, easy engineering.”
Dragging a large map from the drawer, he turned and flicked it out over the desk. “Running a line along the valley bottom, you could get as far as just past Crowcombe, but there’s no way to go farther.”