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Evie nodded. “I wish, one day, that you might share all this with Hunter. I feel it is something he should know. Not to excuse his father or my mother from their sin of adultery, but because I think he is currently uncertain what to believe or feel.”
“If the opportunity arises, or if he questions me on the matter, I will certainly tell him the truth.” Lady Margaret nodded. “But for now, I think we should leave the past where it belongs—in the past—and continue packing for our journey to London tomorrow,” she added briskly.
Evie eyed the half-packed trunk beside her bed, not sure she was going to need most the things she’d set out to be packed but intending to take as much with her as she could.
There was no guarantee she would ever come back here. The possibility was that Hunter, as her guardian, might arrange a marriage for her once they reached London. No doubt with a hefty dowry to sweeten the prospect, Hunter might be able to persuade a lawyer, a doctor, or some other lesser member of Society into taking his ward as their wife.
Even the thought of that was enough for Evie to no longer wish to go to London at all.
* * *
“Mr. Harker is here to see you, Your Grace.”
Hunter looked up to see his butler standing in the doorway of his study. “Show him in, please.” He placed his pen down on the desktop before standing. “Harker.” He greeted his new estate manager with a nod of his head. “How might I be of service to you?”
Harker’s appearance had definitely improved during this past week, helped by an advance of his wages from Hunter. His long hair had been trimmed to just above his shoulders, his clothes belonged to a laborer, but were no longer thin and ragged, and he had a new pair of heavy brown boots upon his feet. He and his family had also moved into the furnished estate manager’s cottage nearby.
Between the two of them, they had managed to find positions and homes for all the current and previous workers on the estate. Some of the men and their families had, as Evie had suggested, been persuaded into moving to one or another of Hunter’s other estates.
“It’s me as can be of ’elp to ye, sir.” The older man gave a discomforted grimace. “I’ve enjoyed working along side e’ this past week, and ye’ve been so good to me and mine that I cannot allow ’e ta leave tomorrow without tha knowing the truth. It were me what done it,” he burst out, his work-worn hands clenched together in front of him. “Me that killed him!”
CHAPTERTWELVE
To say Hunter was shocked by the admission would be a serious understatement. So shocked, he had to reach out and grasp hold of the front of his desk for fear his legs might collapse beneath him.
He had grown to like Paul Harker immensely this past week, found him not only capable, but honest and as hardworking as the people he was now in charge of. To hear him now confess… To learn thathehad killed Plymouth…
“Hutchings was nowt but a bully and a pervert,” the older man defended fiercely.
Hutchings?
LordRichardHutchings?
The man who was the subject of Hunter’s investigation into who had killed Plymouth?
What on earth did he have to do with this?
“Our Davie told ’im ’e’d ’ave nowt to do wi’ ’im,” Harker continued bleakly. “But ’e used to wait ’til tha boy were alone and then beat ’im ’til ’e could no longer defend ’imself.”
“Are you referring to Davie Armitage, the boy who was living in the woods with you and the other men?” Hunter was still trying to make sense of this conversation as to how it fit in with his friend’s murder.
Harker nodded. “’E’s me sister’s boy.”
A young man with blond curls and a boyish demeanor, as Hunter recalled. He had also seemed rather fond of Evie, an indication that he would not have welcomed Hutchings’s advances.
“Tha bastard almost killed Davie tha last time,” Harker recalled grimly. “’E weren’t tha first boy ’e’d used in that way neither.”
“Nor, if that was his inclination, would he have been the last,” Hunter predicted grimly.
Harker nodded. “So I waited until Hutchings were alone in his tent later that day an’ then I snuck in an’ killed ’im wi’ ’is own sword.”
“Good God, man, you might have been caught in the act!”
“I lifted ’is body onto ’is cot bed, covered ’im with a blanket, and splashed some of ’is whisky over ’im to give tha impression ’e were dead drunk rather than just dead,” the other man recalled with relish. “Me and some o’ tha lads waited until it were full dark before carrying ’im and dumping ’im in tha same woods close to where tha battle were to take place tha following day. We ’oped that way it would be assumed ’e died during tha battle.”
An indisputable truth struck Hunter squarely between the eyes. “You are saying that Hutchings was dead long before the battle at Waterloo even began?”
“I am,” the older man confirmed. “You told me as tha thought ’e might ’ave been responsible fa killing the Duke of Plymouth durin’ tha fightin’, and I’m ’ere to tell ’e that tha bastard were dead long afore it even began.”
