Page 56 of The Cornish Inheritance

Chapter Twenty-Three

Yves was sleeping soundly, his golden curls spread across his pillow, one thumb close to his mouth as though he might have been sucking it, not something Caroline would tell him she’d seen. The tatty stuffed rabbit lying on the bed reminded her of how young he was. She sniffed the air. Had Bridget augmented the fake medicine in the bottle and if so, was it possible to tell by smell? Or was this just a natural, childish, deep sleep? Caroline had no way of knowing. She tucked the blankets in around him more closely and tiptoed out of the room.

She had a lot to think about tonight, despite the tiredness that weighed her down like an oppressive shroud.

Back in her room, she changed into her nightdress and hung her evening gown in her wardrobe. A quick wash followed by a diligent brush of her teeth with her Bott’s Toothpowder, and she was in bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Despite it being July, this house with its high ceilings and drafty corridors was not of the warmest.

But she couldn’t sleep. Again.

The moon had risen, a little fatter than it had been on the night of the ball, visible through her window where it was silhouetting the leafy branches of the trees in the garden. She tried shutting it out by closing her eyes, but instead, Nat’s scarred face rose before her, half of it managing to smile as he held her close in the waltz.

How good looking he must have been before his wound had damaged not just his features but also his self-confidence and his soul. If you ignored the scarred side of his face, he was still a handsome man, but unlike beauty, his wound was more than superficial. His whole persona seemed to have been deeply affected by what had happened to him. Whose wouldn’t be? He’d gone through so much, and it had left an indelible mark on him.

There’d been a moment out there in the gardens with him when she’d thought he might take her in his arms and kiss her. She’d seen it in his eyes. And she’d shocked herself by wanting him to, and by being disappointed when he didn’t. What would it have been like to have felt his lips on hers? To have had him press his powerful body against hers… What on earth was she doing? Behaving the way she’d expect of Hetty, that was what. She should know better than to nurture fanciful dreams of handsome suitors at her age. She was indeed an old maid and should remember it.

She rolled over in bed, her back to the window. No doubt Nat would be horrified to learn she was feeling sorry for him. Not the sort of man to wallow in the pity of others, nor in his own pity for himself. More the sort to walk away and never talk to you again if you showed compassion. She would need to tread carefully around him.

Which brought her back to Yves and whether Nat might be complicit in what she saw as an attempt on his young cousin’s life. Every part of her wanted to exonerate Nat, to clear him of all suspicion. But the fact remained that he was second in the line of inheritance and would get Roskilly if Yves were somehow removed.

Irritated by her inability to clear her mind of her suspicions, or of Nat, she rolled back over again, glaring at the fat sliver of the moon. What he’d confided in her tonight might well be something that could indeed mark him as innocent in all of this. He was not Ruth Treloar’s son. The woman had been an ordinary housekeeper who had taken advantage of her position to inveigle a grieving, recently widowed man to marry her, thereby gaining for herself a social position and the money to sustain it.

Or had she? Just because Caroline didn’t like the woman didn’t mean she was as black as she fancied painting her. Did it? She might once have been a kind and beautiful woman, to whom Nat’s unhappy father had turned for comfort, not the seductress Caroline wanted her to have been. However, that sounded over generous. Surely no one could start out kind and gentle and end up as bitter and twisted as Mrs. Treloar seemed. Hetty said she only remembered her parents fighting. So, they could never have loved one another, could they? Only that wasn’t true either. People did fight even if they loved one another. Her own mother had often tried to prevent her father’s rash ways with money, but failed, and Caroline had overheard some of their heated arguments.

When had Nat’s father died? It had to be a long time ago for Hetty’s memories to be so vague. Ten years since perhaps? No, it had to be longer, because it had happened before Nat had left to take up his commission and that was eleven years ago. Miss Hawkins had said he’d been a schoolboy. But, to go down the mine with his father, he couldn’t have been too young. Over twelve, at least. Maybe she could ask him about it tomorrow. Using care and tact to avoid having him retreat into angry silence.

Another face swam into focus. Trefusis. Old Sir Hugh, whom she must remember to go and see tomorrow, had suffered his apoplexy two years since, and Mrs. Treloar must have promptly brought in Trefusis to take over the running of the estate and mines. Had she had him lurking in the wings, ready for the takeover? Were they lovers then and now, or just partners in crime? Or was she stringing him along? Mrs. Treloar didn’t have the look of a woman ruled by her passions, but Caroline had to acknowledge she herself was not a great judge of passions, so, despite her employer’s austere exterior, she might be.

It seemed obvious, now, that Trefusis was playing the long game. If she had him right, he didn’t intend to rest content with the middle-aged Mrs. Treloar, who would necessarily lose her inheritance to one of her children as soon as Sir Hugh and Yves were out of the way. He had his roving, insolent eye on Hetty. But, even if Yves were to be disposed of, there would still be Nat, standing squarely now between Trefusis and Roskilly, and all the riches that entailed.

Fear clutched her heart as the import of this washed over her. Yves and Hetty were not the only ones in danger here. Nat was too. Trefusis had probably thought Nat would never come home. So many soldiers died in Europe, it seemed likely Nat would as well. Maybe he’d even thought Nat had already perished. Miss Hawkins had. And now Nat was home, and the campaign to remove Yves had commenced, surely Trefusis, who could be complicit with Mrs. Treloar over the laudanum, would want to remove this unexpected obstacle.

Caroline’s skin prickled with cold terror.

Of course. That was it. Trefusis intended to remove both heirs and marry Hetty. Mrs. Treloar would be sidelined, despite thinking herself his chosen one. Fear for Hetty burgeoned. That she was afraid of Trefusis was obvious; repulsed by his occasional look of lust when he thought no one was looking.

That made three people she had to save.

Sleep was not going to come easily tonight.

*

The next morning,when Caroline went into the nursery to suggest they go down together to the kitchens for breakfast, she found Yves still sound asleep. A gentle shake produced only a muffled groan. Her heart pounding with fear, she shook him again, more forcefully this time, and his eyes creaked open, unfocused and sleepy.

She didn’t need telling. Bridget must have added more laudanum to the medicine bottle in the corner cupboard.

“Wake up, Yves,” Caroline hissed, glancing across at the closed door to Bridget’s room. “Breakfast time.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Can’t I stay in bed a bit longer? I’m sooo tired.”

“No, you can’t. Get up.” She pulled him into a sitting position. “You need some fresh air to blow away the cobwebs. Come on. I’ll find your clothes.”

Bridget, or it might have been Patience to whom Bridget seemed to delegate most of the work, had laid out his clothes for the day on the chair by the bed, but it took some bullying to get him into his breeches, stockings, shirt, and jacket.

“Downstairs,” Caroline said when he was finally ready. As there was still no sign of Bridget, she gave Yves’s hand a tug and he followed her with unaccustomed meekness, and trailing feet, down the corridor, out into the gallery and down the stairs in the direction of the kitchen.

Mrs. Teague was busy at the stove and the little kitchen maid, Molly, was peeling vegetables for dinner, a resigned expression on her face.

Yves slumped onto a chair, folded his arms on the table and put his head down to rest on them. “I’m going back to sleep.”