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“It might seem strange to you, Mr. Stanhope. But my husband is a good man. He has his faults, like anyone else. Caring too much is one of them. Trying to save the world when he’d be better off leaving it alone is another. Jillian was lonely, and she was beautiful.” Her gaze lowered along with her voice. “Far more beautiful than I.”
“That depends on how you define beauty,” Truman said. “I personally find loyalty at least as attractive as a pretty face.”
It took her a moment to realize he’d paid her a compliment. When she caught on, she gave him a quick, shy smile. “Thank you, my lord. But I’m well aware of the vast difference between Jillian and me in that regard. If you don’t remember her, Rachel’s the spitting image of her. That should give you some idea of what my husband was up against.”
She’d chosen a good way to make her point. Rachel was all he could think about. “How much did your husband give the McTavishes each month?” he asked, hoping to match the amount with that mysterious entry in the bookshop’s ledgers.
“I never asked.” She glanced around as if concerned as to who might see them. “I don’t care to talk about Jonas when he’s not here. Could we perhaps wait—?”
“You’re doing a fair job of possibly saving your husband’s job,” Truman told her. “Could he do any better at convincing me?”
“I doubt it,” she said with a skeptical laugh. “I fear the passion he feels for his many causes would only make matters worse.”
Truman smiled. “I appreciate your honesty.”
“I know you can’t be pleased with my husband’s choices where the union is concerned, my lord. Where Jillian McTavish is concerned, either. God knows I find that one difficult.” She pulled her shawl tighter. “But I can admire what he was trying to do. And I hope you will at least try to understand why he has made some of the choices he has.”
Was Cutberth a visionary? A hero to the poor working class, as his wife portrayed him? Or was he a simple crook? “Have you ever heard of Pieter Bruegel, Mrs. Cutberth?”
“Of course.”
Her response made Truman catch his breath. He’d never expected her to admit to knowing of Mr. Bruegel. He’d merely wanted to witness her expression when he mentioned the artist’s name, to see if he could ascertain some familiarity. He was looking for Wythe’s reaction too. But he could ascertain no sudden nervousness.
“Your father had an extensive collection of his paintings that was lost in the fire,” she said. “My husband has mentioned it many times. He says losing such rare art is as much a tragedy as the rest of it. Why do you ask?”
“Because at least one of those paintings wasn’t lost in the fire.”
It was her turn to be surprised. Wythe was shocked too. His cousin’s gaze locked onto him as if he’d just bolted it there.
“Landscape with the Fall of Icarus went missing before the fire ever broke out,” Truman told her.
“Why is this the first I’ve heard of it?” The pique in Wythe’s voice suggested he was offended, and Truman couldn’t blame him. Their relationship had all but disintegrated the past six months—ever since he started searching for Katherine’s killer a little closer to home.
“Why did they go missing? How?” Mrs. Cutberth asked.
He could address Wythe’s reaction once they left; he answered the clerk’s wife. “That’s what I intend to find out.”
“You weren’t going to tell me about the paintings?” Wythe asked after Mrs. Cutberth went inside and they climbed astride their horses.
Truman glanced behind him. The place where Rachel was staying wasn’t far, just a few blocks closer to the center of town. He wanted to check on her, see how she was faring. But he had Wythe with him. And he’d purposely upset him to see what might come of it.
“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” he responded.
“In something that might help you solve the mystery of Katherine’s death? When I know it’s been eating you up inside?”
“The Abbotts are growing angrier by the day,” he explained. “I need to provide them with some answers, and I need to do it soon.”
“Then we will. Because you didn’t set that fire. No matter how angry you were, you would never destroy Blackmoor Hall. You love it too much. That old place is in your blood.”
Truman wished he found that monologue convincing, that he could believe his cousin was as innocent and supportive as he pretended to be. “I hope you’re right. But I can’t help wondering… where were you when the fire broke out, Wythe?”
“I’ve told you. I was on a ride.”
“Alone.”
“Yes, alone! I didn’t do it.” Wythe pulled his horse to a stop, causing Truman to slow up if he didn’t want to leave him behind. “If I wanted what you’ve got, I would’ve let you burn.”
Truman winced. Blaming Wythe didn’t make sense, and yet he couldn’t conquer that terrible doubt. “I’m sorry. I know you haven’t received the gratitude you probably deserve. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ve grown suspicious of everyone.”
“Except the forever devoted Linley.”
“Is Mrs. Poulson any less devoted?”
Wythe didn’t answer the question, but he came up alongside Truman. “How can I convince you?” he asked. “How can I finally prove myself and make things right between us?”
He seemed intent, sincere. “You could find Landscape with the Fall of Icarus,” Truman said.
The gelding Wythe rode snorted and swished its tail. “Haven’t you tried?”
“I have men searching, in England and abroad, but they’ve been doing so for more than a month—all to no avail. Which makes me wonder—have I gotten ahead of whoever took them?”
“Ahead?”
“Maybe they’re still here. Maybe they haven’t gone to market.”
“After two years?”
His cousin’s skepticism was more convincing than he’d expected it to be. “The culprit could be lying low, waiting for the perfect opportunity. It’s even possible he didn’t mean to kill Katherine. She should’ve been in church with everyone else but wasn’t feeling well that day. No one would’ve known except the servants.”
“I remember. But where could the paintings be?”
