At noonday, I took my rest amidst a few standing stones atop an escarpment. The climb had been demanding, leaving me breathless with both exertion and delight as the countryside fell away before me. I could spot the various moorland folk about their business—shepherds moving amidst their flocks, peat cutters working the bogs for the slabs of peat used for the cottage fires. I perched above them all, sitting atop a standing stone that had conveniently toppled over, providing me with both seat and table for my picnic luncheon. The sausage rolls were squashed but delicious, the cheese flavorsome, the cake richly studded with fruits and spices. There was nothing like physical activity to heighten the pleasures of food, I reflected, dusting the crumbs from my fingers and draining the last of my tea.
I had just tucked the bottle back into my hamper when I spotted a familiar figure upon the moor, walking with careless grace, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets as if he hadn’t a concern in the world. A rush of emotion flooded me and I snatched up my things to intercept him, flying down the little escarpment on winged feet.
So rapid was my pace and so stealthy my steps that he was taken by surprise.
“Veronica!” he exclaimed, obviously startled. He smiled, but I could tell from the quick dart of his eyes to the side that he was evaluating his odds of escaping.
“If you think we are not going to have this conversation, you are entirely mistaken,” I informed him. “You lied to me, Harry.”
“Veronica, that is a dreadful thing to say.”
“Your expression of wounded astonishment is most convincing. Tell me, do you practice it in the mirror for just such an occasion?” I asked.
He clucked his tongue. “It is a sad thing when a woman turns to cynicism. It’s very aging, you know.” I started forwards, but he raised a hand. “Peace, I beg you! Let us not quarrel, wife.”
“Do not call me that,” I spat. “And do not change the subject.”
“What we were speaking of?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
“Your mendacity. You lied when you said that you merely wanted to remain at the Hall to enjoy the company of Lady Hathaway and give succor to her in her old age.”
“Not at all, and I am frankly offended you should think so.”
“The jewels,” I hissed. “You knew about the jewels.”
He winced. “I did not know.”
“But you suspected.”
“Well, I did surmise,” he admitted. “Jonathan told me there were some extremely valuable things lying around, and I thought if the old dear wanted to make me a present of them, I would certainly not offend her by refusing.”
“Aha!”
He sighed. “You needn’t look so triumphant. We both know my character, Veronica. I acknowledge my flaws. I am an opportunist. I am feckless and a bit of a coward at times.”
I began to tick items off on my fingers. “You lie. You gamble. You cheat. You steal.”
“I most certainly do not!” he returned indignantly. “Is it my fault that I am so personable that ladies often want to make me presents? Sometimes quite lavish ones?”
My mouth went slack. “Is that what you do? Persuade ladies to part with their fortunes?”
“Well, I am not proud of it, but a fellow has to make a living and I was blessed with two assets—a passably handsome face and an exquisitely persuasive tongue. Now that I think on it, there is a third asset that has proven most useful—”
I held up a hand. “I have experience of that particular asset, and the less said, the better. The point is, you explicitly said that your purpose in staying here was to rest and to find a way to get onto your feet in a legitimate way.”
“And that is still my intention,” he said firmly. “But I did not know specifically about the jewels until the sweet old dear opened the box last night and dropped them into my lap.”
“I do not believe you,” I told him.
He shrugged. “There is nothing I can do about that. I am, in spite of your convictions to the contrary, telling the truth. I knew there were a few choice items in the Hathaway collections, but I thought perhaps a nice dagger set with gemstones or a few antique rugs, maybe a statue I could flog. I had no idea whatsoever that her ladyship was nesting comfortably upon such a clutch of golden eggs. And they are her golden eggs,” he added firmly. “She owns them free and clear. What she does with them is entirely her business.”
“Meaning that if she wishes to give them to you, she may do so.”
“Meaning exactly that. I did not expect such a stroke of luck, but believe me, I will not take kindly to any attempts to block it,” he said, the pleasant smile still touching his lips.
“Do you mean to threaten me?” I was incredulous. “Harry, you forget that all I need do is drop a word into Lady Hathaway’s ear—or Charles’—and your time here is finished.”
“Which you will not do,” he said, moving a step closer. “I had a lovely chat with your inamorato last night,” he told me as the smile fell away. “We were rather far into our cups and got to know one another. It is astonishing what a few stray remarks can reveal.”
My breath sat heavily in my chest. Stoker and I had so many skeletons lurking in our cupboards, they rattled like Spanish castanets. I could only hope that one secret in particular was still my own.
“What do you mean?” I asked. I raised my chin in a gesture of bravado, but I did not think he found it convincing.
“Charles Hathaway’s library is an interesting place. He never uses it, you know. He prefers the estate office for conducting his business. That means no one is ever in the library, and it sits there, a dusty repository of all kinds of interesting information—the sort one finds in old newspapers and books like Debrett’s.”
I forced myself to breathe calmly as he went on. “It took only a few hours of poking about this morning to discover that your Mr. Templeton-Vane has been married. A very nasty divorce, that,” he said in a tone of speculation. “I imagine it has left him rather shy of the notoriety that comes with the attention of the press.”
“Guttersnipes,” I said stoutly.
“Yes, but useful nonetheless,” he replied. “I imagine there are a few who might be interested in knowing that the infamous younger brother of the Viscount Templeton-Vane is living in mortal sin with a woman who is not his wife—who is, in fact, married to another man.”
“But we are not—” I bit off the words before I could finish the thought.
His brows shot up. “You are not living in mortal sin? Only by the thinnest of technical margins, my dear. You have not committed bigamy, and for that I congratulate you. But I would like to point out that what you are doing is presumably worse, at least for Templeton-Vane. He is consorting with a woman to whom he is not married—a woman with a husband. It paints the fellow in a very bad light indeed, I should think. I can only imagine what the newspapers would make of that.”