Authors: Linda Ford
Chapter Three
T
he next morning, Edmund found only Lady Meriweather seated at the table in the breakfast parlor. She put down the newspaper she had been reading.
“Good morning, Edmund,” she said with the warmth that suggested he was her son rather than her late husband's distant cousin.
“And to you, my lady. Do not let me interrupt your reading.”
She laughed. “This newspaper was sent from London. It is nearly a week old, so waiting longer to read it is no problem.”
Helping himself to eggs and sausages, he placed his plate at the seat across from the baroness. She poured him a steaming cup of coffee from the silver pot that had been left on a ceramic tile by her right hand. He reached for a muffin from the basket that was set beside him by one of the well-trained footmen.
He buttered it as he said, “I have not had a chance to thank you for making arrangements for Mr. Fenwick and his sister to stay at Meriweather Hall.”
“It was my pleasure. Dear Vera has been a steadfast friend to my daughters, and it is not as if we don't have the room.” Her laugh sparkled through the space. “She tells me that you have agreed to help with rebuilding the church.”
“It is my place.”
“To provide the funds, yes, but Vera suggested you were going to provide more than that.”
He poured cream into his cup and stirred it. Setting the pitcher on the table, he wondered when the two women had talked. No doubt, it had been after he had scurried away like a hurt child from Sir Nigel's barbed comments. He snuck a glance at the lady across the table from him. Had Miss Fenwick told her about that conversation? If so, he saw no sign of pity on her face.
“You know of my work before I came to Meriweather Hall,” he said when he realized the lady expected him to answer. “I know something of building projects.”
“Quite a bit, according to my new son-in-law.” She chuckled. “Jonathan mentioned something about seeking your advice for the larger house he plans to build for him and Cat.”
“He said nothing about that to me.”
“Because he knew you would help when the time came. You, Jonathan and Charles learned to depend on each other's skills in the army, and that will never change.” She picked up her coffee cup. “You have been given a great gift, Edmund. Such friends do not come along often.”
“I realize that.”
“Have you heard more about the tunnel that led into the church?” She must be as curious as he was to learn how and when the smugglers had gotten into the church.
“Sims brought me a report this morning. The tunnel appears to have been collapsed completely. We cannot guess where it might go.”
“Nothing aboveground suggests its direction or destination?”
He was impressed with the baroness's question, though he should not have been. All the Meriweather women had sharp minds and cared deeply about the estate and the people of Sanctuary Bay.
With a shake of his head, he said, “The smugglers are too careful to allow that. Otherwise they would have been found out years ago.”
“I see.” After Lady Meriweather took a sip of her coffee, she changed the subject to her plans for the gardens once the weather was warm enough to plant flowers among the hedges and perennials. He listened with half an ear as he thought of what she had said. He and Northbridge and Bradby had been melded together in the crucible of war. That bond had been strengthened as they had faced the smugglers' treachery since he had first arrived in Sanctuary Bay. He could depend on their assistance again, if necessary.
He hoped it would not be, because Bradby was on his honeymoon and Northbridge and his family were settling into his ancestral estate in the south of England. But it was good to remember that, if he needed them, they would come.
Maybe fulfilling Miss Fenwick's request to help rebuild the church would not be impossible, after all.
* * *
When Foggin came to announce a guest later that morning, Edmund assumed either the vicar or Miss Fenwick wished to discuss the plans for rebuilding the church. Instead, a dark-haired man with an air of arrogance strode into the room as if he were lord of the estate and Edmund his least minion. Edmund suspected women would find Lord Ashland handsome, but his sharp features and hollow cheeks reminded Edmund of how disdainful the viscount had been when Edmund went to his estate in hopes of obtaining help in halting the smugglers.
“Ashland!” Edmund pushed himself to his feet. “I had not expected you to call.”
“This is no social visit.” He drew off his gloves and tossed them in the direction of Foggin.
The footman scrambled to catch them both along with the greatcoat the viscount shrugged off. The poor footman looked so dismayed that Edmund wanted to assure him that Ashland treated everyone with the same contempt.
“I heard,” Ashland went on, as if he had not taken note of the footman, “about the fire at the Sanctuary Bay church, and I thought I should come and discover how bad it was.”
“It was very bad.” He hid his surprise. The viscount had never shown the least bit of interest about anything in the village. A hint of suspicion bubbled through him. If the viscount were the man the smugglers called
his qualityship,
he would be curious if anything pointing to the smugglers had been discovered in the ruins. “The building is completely destroyed.”
“I am sorry to hear that confirmed. Rumors reach one's ears all the time, but I prefer to discover the truth for myself. If you have no objections, I would like to ride into the village and see what remains.”
“There is not much to see.”
“Even so, I would like to see it with my own two eyes.”
“Certainly.” He paused, then said, “As you have removed your outer coat, I assume there is more you wish to discuss with me before we leave for the village.” He gestured toward a chair near the hearth. “We may as well be comfortable by the fire before we venture out into the cold.”
“Quite so.” Ashland selected a chair as if he were doing Edmund a great favor.
How did one come to possess such hauteur? Ashland's bearing suggested that his place was at the center in the universe and that everyone should acknowledge it. Did that mien come from being raised as a peer from birth? Could it be learned later in life? Not that he wanted to act as self-important as Ashland, but he could use the confidence such comportment inspired.
Another item to put on his list for his next conversation with Northbridge. He could ask his friend and former military commander such questions without the ridicule he would face if he addressed those questions to Ashland. That lesson he had learned all too well when he had asked Lady Eloisa about life among the
ton.
She had answered him, but later made a jest about it at his expense. The Beau Monde could be scathing to outsiders too eager to join the elite of the elite. They labeled those people encroaching mushrooms, but he had not expected, as a new baron, to be described in such terms.
Not until he had overheard Lady Eloisa use that exact term along with his name.
Edmund sat after offering to ring for a cup of something warm for the viscount. When Ashland said that was unnecessary, Edmund asked, “What did you want to discuss?”
“Rumors.”
“You will need to be more specific. Sanctuary Bay is always rife with rumors.” He allowed himself a cool smile. “Some are true. The trick, as I learned during my time in the army, was to determine which are true and which are simple conjecture fueled by repetition.”
Ashland's eyes narrowed, and Edmund knew that the viscount had not anticipated such a retort from him. If Ashland thought him nothing but a harebrained newcomer to the Polite World, reminding the viscount that Edmund had seen battle on the Continent was not a bad thing.
“That is true,” Ashland said, continuing to appraise Edmund. Was he surprised by what he saw? No hint of his thoughts were revealed on his carefully schooled face.
“Are there particular rumors that you wish to discuss?”
“Rumors about the smugglers who work out of Sanctuary Bay.”
Edmund kept his fingers from digging into the upholstery and his shoulders from stiffening. The viscount's words disclosed more than his face did, and Edmund suspected his cool composure was a pose. Two could play that game, so he sank back in his chair, crossing one foot over the opposite knee.
“Again,” he said, “I need you to be more specific. Smugglers and their exploits are a major source of rumors throughout Britain.”
“True. I shall be specific.” He pyramided his fingers in front of his face. “Rumor says that the vicar and his sister are now living here at Meriweather Hall. Is that true?”
“Yes.” He was shocked by the abrupt turn in the conversation. Why would Ashland be interested in where the Fenwicks were staying in the wake of the fire? “I thought we were talking about rumors of the smugglers.”
“We are. Other rumors have reached my ears. Rumors of smugglers using the church as a place to store their shipments.”
It took every ounce of his control to ask in a placid voice, “Are you accusing the Fenwicks of assisting the smugglers?”
“The facts speak for themselves.”
“Do they?” He lowered his foot to the floor as he met Ashland's stare with his own. “Then you clearly are hearing more than rumor, Ashland. The facts are not that straightforward to me. I have seen what was left behind in the church's cellar, and I have seen the Fenwicks' faces when they heard that information.” He faltered as he recalled the pain and grief on Miss Fenwick's face during the long ride back from Norwich. Tears had glistened in her eyes when she had beheld what was left of the only home she had known for the past ten years. The memory of her face as she had fought to remain strong for her brother and his parishioners was etched on his mind. “I believe they have been victims, twice over. First, when the smugglers used Mr. Fenwick's church for their crimes, and second, when the church and the vicarage were burned.”
“You come to their defense easily.”
“The truth is easy.” Keeping his answers short prevented his anger from bursting forth.
The viscount smiled coldly. “Truth, like beauty, is bought by judgment of the eye, if I may misquote Shakespeare. You rush to the defense of the Fenwicks.”
“Because they are, as I have said, victims in this heinous crime.”
“Maybe they are, but I am not as certain of that as you are.”
Edmund borrowed the viscount's chilly expression. “Why?”
Again he sensed that his question had astounded Ashland, because the viscount did not shoot back an answer. When Edmund had gone to Ashland's estate last year to ask for his help in halting the smugglers, he had been shocked at the viscount's disdain and disinterest in taking action with him. He had stuttered over his words and left feeling like a pup with its tail curled beneath its legs...as he had when Lady Eloisa had tossed him aside.
“You are a newcomer to Sanctuary Bay, Meriweather,” the viscount answered as he regained his poise. “I have lived nearby my whole life.”
“Then you should know that the Fenwicks would never be mixed up with the smugglers.”
“No?” He laughed icily. “I would leave you in your ignorance, Meriweather, but the situation requires action. May I suggest your first action would be to speak to the vicar and his sister about assistance they have offered the smugglers?”
Edmund looked away from the triumphant glitter in Ashland's eyes. The viscount must have directed the conversation to this point so he could shock Edmund with such a revelation. No, it was not a revelation. Only innuendo.
“I shall.” Standing, he said, “And there is no time like the present. The Fenwicks have gone to see what they can recover from the church, as well as any personal possessions. Why don't we go and ask them together if your insinuations have any basis in truth?”
“I thought the church was completely destroyed.” Ashland remained seated, but his smile had vanished into a deep scowl.
“The building was, but items can survive even such an inferno.”
He leaned forward, his eyes slitting again. “What did you see when you climbed into the cellar?”
“I see gabble-grinders have been doing a strapping job of spreading the tale of my actions at the church.” He folded his arms, after ringing for a footman to bring the viscount's outer wraps, as well as his own.
“Why are you avoiding giving me an answer to my question?” He set himself on his feet. “Are you trying to hide something, Meriweather?”
“Are you accusing me of being in collusion with the smugglers?”
“You? Working with the smugglers?” Ashland surprised him by laughing.
The viscount was not laughing at his question. Ashland was laughing at
him.
And why not? A baron who could make no decisions was hardly a man fit to give the smugglers orders of when and where to obtain their illegal wares. Did the whole world know of his humiliating affliction? It would seem so.
* * *
Vera heard the rattle of harness and carriage wheels and looked up from where she was placing a broken plate back on the ground. Brushing away the cloud of ashes that swirled on the sea wind, she was not surprised to see the Meriweather carriage slowing to a stop between the ruins of the church and the charred vicarage.
Happiness burst through her as unstoppable as the waves rolling out of the sea. And just as powerful. She was glad that Lord Meriweather had come from Meriweather Hall. He was calm and sturdy and...handsome. She ignored the end of that thought. He made her feel that her problems were his. He made her feel safe. He made her feel...lovely.
Was she addled? The last time she had let her mind lead her in that direction, she had almost destroyed her brother's career. But lying to herself was foolish. When she was with the baron, she felt as if she were someone special, someone who could be described as more than the vicar's sister, someone who had worth of her own.