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“Come in, Miss McTavish.”
Rachel shook her head. “No. I have to get back. I only came—”
“I know why you came. But I offered you a trade, remember?”
The wind swirled through the open door behind her, blowing his hair. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Then surely you won’t mind indulging my curiosity.”
Rachel gathered her cloak more tightly about her. The moment had come, yet the thought of breaking her promise to her mother was no more palatable for its expediency. She would answer his questions, but she would volunteer nothing of her own accord. “I have every intention of keeping my word, my lord. Ask me what you will, and let us be on our way.”
Druridge nodded at the icy flakes falling from a black sky. “I intend to do just that, Miss McTavish, but must we do so here?”
“I dare not dally.”
“I will be brief.”
It seemed she had no choice. “If it pleases you.”
“It pleases me.”
Held fast by the chains of hope, Rachel hovered at the portal while the man the earl had called Arthur tucked his pistol away and Mrs. Poulson lit several lamps. Blackmoor Hall was beginning to look more hospitable, but Rachel could not escape her anxiety.
“We must hurry—”
“You will lose no time, I assure you.” The earl took her by the elbow and guided her farther inside. “I will send Arthur to alert Dr. Jacobsen, so that when we are finished with our little chat, he will be ready to accompany us to your home.”
He also told Arthur to have his coach prepared. Then he led her into a room situated off the large, vaulted entry. Furnished with a pianoforte, velvet drapes, polished mahogany tables, Louis XIV settees and Turkish rugs, the room’s rich textures immediately cocooned Rachel against the blustering storm outside.
The earl strode to the marble fireplace and stirred the golden embers that smoldered there, bringing them back to a semblance of life. As he added more kindling and coal from a brass bucket, Rachel struggled to keep her teeth from chattering. What would he ask her? Would he be satisfied with her answers? Would he follow through with his end of the bargain as quickly as he’d indicated?
She pretended to study the high ceilings and paneling of the room while she tried to stop shivering. The hand-carved, arched double doors at the entry were beautiful, as was the detail above the windows. On the ceiling she saw a painting of clouds and angels and harps.
“Your mother has taken a turn for the worse?” Lord Druridge broke the silence as he pulled a chair closer to the fire and motioned her into it.
Eager to bathe in the warmth of the flames that were beginning to lick at their new fodder, Rachel moved forward, surprised when the earl reached out to take her cloak.
“I will keep it, thank you. As soon as we are finished here, I will start out and wait for you at home—”
“What good will it do for you to go ahead of us? Doubtless we would pass you on the road. The doctor will need a moment, so you might as well relax.”
“But I have my neighbor’s donkey—”
“Which we will tie behind.”
The thought of riding in a carriage, protected from the elements, was certainly more inviting than fighting Mrs. Tate’s stubborn ass.…
He reached for her cloak again, and this time Rachel relinquished it into his hands so she wouldn’t continue to drip on the rug.
The rattle of a tea service came from the direction of the door. Mrs. Poulson entered, laden with a silver tray filled with tea, cakes, scones, fresh butter and clotted cream.
Rachel hadn’t realized until that moment how terribly hungry she was. She had been so exhausted when she left the bookshop, and so concerned for her mother, that fatigue had overwhelmed her before she could eat any supper.
The housekeeper seemed to sense her interest in the food. Mrs. Poulson gave her a sidelong, piercing gaze that made it quite apparent she resented having to serve a commoner, someone no better than herself. But when the earl turned, she lowered her eyes to the floor. “Will that be all, my lord?”
“Yes. Please bring me word the moment the doctor is ready.”
She curtsied. “As you say.”
The door thudded shut behind the bony woman, and Rachel swallowed, trying to ease the dryness of her throat.
“Won’t you have something to eat, Miss McTavish?” The earl indicated the food at her elbow. “You look as though you might faint.”
The smell of the freshly heated scones rose to Rachel’s nostrils, causing her mutinous stomach to clamor for sustenance, despite her preoccupation and worry. Careful not to reveal her near starvation by cramming it into her mouth, she took a cranberry scone.
The earl touched nothing on the tray but watched her intently. Rachel couldn’t raise her gaze without encountering his thoughtful golden eyes, eyes that held the promise of the interrogation to come.
A twinge of conscience caused her to push the tray away long before she had satisfied her hunger. Betraying her mother’s most heartfelt wishes, and the memory of her poor dead father, didn’t come easily. Like Persephone, she was making a deal with the devil. She was warming herself at his fire, dining on his food—
He cleared his throat, and she glanced up.
“Who set the fire that killed my wife, Miss McTavish?” On the surface, his voice remained unchanged, dispassionate, but a strong undercurrent revealed his eagerness for her answer.
“If you think I can tell you that, my lord, you are sure to be disappointed.”
“Someone knows what happened that day.” The flames cast moving shadows on the side of his face. “According to my sources, your father received a large sum of money two weeks before the fire. I would like to know where it came from.”
This was the question Rachel had expected, yet defensiveness, in place of honest answers, rose to her lips. “Would it be too difficult to believe he received some sort of inheritance? My grandfather’s patronage is, after all, how my mother came into possession of the bookshop, is it not?”
“Did he?” The earl’s eyes glowed with the same tawny light as the fire.
Rachel wondered if he could see right through her. “Receiving a large sum of money doesn’t necessarily make him guilty of anything.”
“Especially if you can prove its origins.”
The hiss of the fire grew louder. Suddenly, Rachel felt scorched by its heat. Her father had hated the earl as far back as she could remember, even before Tommy’s death.
