“A great many things, I’ve been led to believe. He’d made a large purchase from a Spanish estate, but the most valuable piece of the missing import is a set of jewels known as the King’s Prize. Does that mean anything to you?”
“‘King’s Prize’?” She frowned as she searched her memory. “No. I’ve never heard of it.”
“It is a collection of emeralds. All from an Egyptian mine. They are all large and in various stages of refinement.”
At the mention of emeralds, heat coursed through her.
The emeralds in my case.
The urge to panic seized her, and a wave of gooseflesh prickled her arms.
She’d assumed the letter had been about Henry. But could the item referenced be the collection of emeralds and not Henry at all?
She should tell Mr. Walstead everything—immediately.
She should go to her chamber, retrieve the pouch, and hand them over and get them out of her possession once and for all. She wanted nothing to do with them, and she would do whatever necessary to remove the threats against her.
But just as she had made up her mind to relinquish them, something within her urged caution. Something felt off, and she was not exactly sure what it was. If there was one thing she had learned, it was that she could not trust the men who worked for the Priors.
She needed clarity. She needed to think.
“Mr. Prior has engaged me to get to the bottom of the unrest with the mill workers and to find the emeralds and discern how it affects the amount of money in the estate. My men are conducting a thorough search of Wolden House and Roland’s mill offices, and if that proves unfruitful, we will move on to his other holdings. Furthermore, I want to emphasize the danger I believe you and Henry are in. It is more imperative than ever that you remain steadfast. It is my hope that this will be resolved soon, but until then, please remain vigilant.”
Chapter 31
Anthony fell into step with William Walstead as they walked along the drystone wall that separated Hollythorne House from Blight Moor beyond. Since arriving here, it had been his favorite stretch of the property, but today uneasiness snaked through him.
“Have you worked with Ames or Broadstreet before?” Mr. Walstead adjusted his beaver hat, which seemed almost foppish out in the wild moorland air.
Anthony glanced toward the other men gathered in the front courtyard. “No.”
“They’re good men. Both of them. They’ll be an asset to you.”
“Any idea who might be behind that letter?” asked Anthony now that they were away from Charlotte.
“My instincts tell me that at least some of the mill men are behind the disappearance of the King’s Prize and that the letter is tied to that in some way, but without all the facts, I can’t be entirely sure. But regarding the danger, I’ll be blunt. I think it is significant. I’ll admit that initially I thought sending men out to guard one woman and one child excessive. But the mill men have been talking, and news has spread far and wide. Now every thief and treasure hunter will be searching for the King’s Prize, and there’s no telling what lengths some would go to find it.”
“Who’s your source?”
“Last week we interviewed Roland Prior’s private secretary, who agreed to talk in exchange for anonymity and indemnity. He claims to have witnessed the entire ordeal. According to him, Roland knew he was in dire financial straits and only made it look like the King’s Prize was stolen. But he, in fact, took it and hid it. He did not want to pay the men at all, and this was his way out of doing just that.”
Mr. Walstead halted his steps and turned to face Anthony. “I want you to watch Mrs. Prior very closely. In my experience a wife always knows more than she lets on. It’s rumored that she and her husband did not get on. In fact, I can’t recall ever once seeing her accompany him to a social event. But even so, it’s possible she knows something, and like everyone else, she could have something to gain from this. We already know she wants independence from the Prior name, and if she had access to such valuable jewels, she could seek to use that to her advantage. What’s more, Timmons told Dunston that Mrs. Prior’s maid was attempting to sell jewels to a jeweler. One would expect that she would not be so foolish as to attempt to sell hidden jewels in the very city in which she lives, but you never can tell.”
Anthony stiffened. Even the thought of Charlotte being involved in such a heist made him sick. “So far I’ve seen no indication of involvement.”
“Aha! You missed it then.” A twinkle glimmered in Mr. Walstead’s eyes. “Did you see her response when I mentioned the emeralds? She knows about them. Her eyes widened, her face flushed, and she looked to the floor. She could not bring herself to look me in the eye for that instant.”
There was no doubting William Walstead’s ability to read people.
“She’s a clever one. I will grant her that.” Mr. Walstead turned back to continue his walk along the wall, pausing to brush a bit of dried mud from his sleeve. “Women like that are dangerous. Do you believe that a wife would not know about such happenings under her own roof? Bah. She knows something. And she will let it slip.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” Anthony muttered in response.
Mr. Walstead clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man.”
As they walked back in silence to Hollythorne House, Anthony attempted to digest all he’d heard. That, combined with the knowledge that Charlotte’s maid had tried to sell some jewels, left him with a knot in his stomach.
Each new development was a step toward finding the truth, but at what cost?
* * *
Charlotte watched Mr. Walstead leave the courtyard atop his horse, just as she’d seen him arrive.
Her heart ached as her mind relived what she had learned.
The King’s Prize.
Roland’s depleted estate.
His deceptions—not just to her but to many other people.
It was all too much, and yet none of it was a surprise.
And now there were two more men watching over Henry and her, which should make her feel secure. An undercurrent of doubt robbed her of that feeling however, and she now knew why.
The emeralds that she and Sutcliffe had hidden beneath her floorboards.
Perhaps she should have told Mr. Walstead about them when the opportunity presented itself, but the sensation that something was amiss had reared its head. Since Roland’s death she’d been learning to trust her instincts. She was learning to stand up for herself and her son, making difficult decisions and enduring adversity—traits she thought she’d lost when she married Roland Prior.
Eager for a rest and for quiet to contemplate all that had occurred that day, she retrieved Henry from the kitchen, where he’d been in Rebecca’s care, and carried him up to her bedchamber. But once she was in her room, she paused.
She glanced around her, from the floor to the bed to the desk.
The rug covering the rough wooden floor was rumpled. Henry’s rattle was on the desk, not on the small table next to his cradle. The trunk at the foot of her bed was ajar. She had not written a letter, and yet the quill was atop her desk instead of in the drawer.
The sickening suspicion of being watched settled over her like a cloak—as if someone could see her every move.