Page 14 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)

Three Days Later

L ucius’s countess, it turned out, was as elusive as the blasted sun.

For. Three. Days.

Upon entering the morning room, he’d find she’d just finished breaking her fast. At the noon hour, he’d learned she and that crackpot, Ashcroft, had departed to Vestry Hall.

Which, upon further investigation, turned out to be a large room at the church that was currently being used as a school for the village children.

At the dinner hour, she claimed fatigue.

Ha. No more likely than the moon falling from the sky.

If one ever happened to see the moon in this godforsaken corner in the bleakest realm of civility.

He deserved it, he supposed, after consigning her to this same fate for three blasted years.

Lucius meandered down to Ashcroft’s office—in actuality, he justified—it was Pender’s property, Pender’s affairs, and therefore, Pender’s office.

He tapped at the closed door even knowing Ashcroft was not in, then entered.

It irritated him that he felt like a trespasser.

Almost nothing on the desk had changed. The stacks of ledgers and the correspondence may have shifted a tad but other than that all appeared exactly the same.

He moved behind the desk for a different view and voilá …

Fingers somewhat unsteady, Lucius lifted a crude sketch that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be of Perlsea Keep’s exterior.

Ashcroft was the steward, so that was to be expected, he supposed.

But it was the various areas circled and marked that sent a chill snaking up Lucius’s spine.

He started to set the drawing back but a hastily scribbled list of names were scratched out on another scrap of paper. Taking that up, he read…

Reginald Ormsby – Surrey

Evan Blackwell – London

? Terrence Radcliffe– Hampshire

x Alfred Featherstone– Derbyshire

George Copley – Yorkshire

x James Bancroft– Oxfordshire

x Charles Whittingham– Gloucestershire

x Francis Aldridge– Somerset

One or two of the names even seemed familiar but Lucius couldn’t have said why. He located a clean piece of paper and jotted down the names, then laid the map back atop and left, closing the door softly behind him. He made his way to the Keep’s study.

A study that looked to be the next major project in this renovation project of his wife’s.

Every piece of furniture was covered with large sheets of canvas.

The shelves were devoid of books and the curtains…

well, there were no curtains. Mullioned windows exposed the gray skies beyond, and with no fire in the grate, the cold infiltrated the chamber.

The walls had been scraped of their paper and, glancing up, he saw that the ceiling was in the same condition as the walls.

He’d no idea of her plans, but it was obvious the environment was not conducive to working in.

Lucius backed out of the chamber and went to the library where there was at least a desk.

The overhead light was low, and it took a moment to locate the valve to raise the brightness.

He moved behind the desk, took the chair, then set the paper he still held on the flat surface and stared at the list of names.

The two he recognized were Alred Featherstone and Francis Alderidge, but for the life of him, he could not recall why he would have known them. He certainly couldn’t picture their faces.

Lucius tapped the blunt end of an index finger on the polished mahogany.

His brother and uncle would surely know.

A fact that pricked Lucius with guilt. He was now the earl and as earl he was responsible for the title, the lands, the entailment, the people.

All of it, and out of petty fury—perhaps not petty, as he had every right to his anger with his father and Rathbourne for stealing his and Meredith’s right in choosing their own paths—but Lucius had thus far failed miserably in his duties.

Admitting so allowed a sense of rightness to filter through him.

He may have turned up when the candles were stubs, but he was here now, and moving forward he would learn what he should have been learning at his father’s knee.

He located a pen, inkwell, and a sheet of vellum and penned a note to his uncle.

He started to slip the paper with the list of names within the missive but changed his mind.

Whatever reason Ashcroft was looking into these individuals, Lucius decided to do the same.

But where to start? He wouldn’t mind another glance at that map of the estate but a quick look at the clock over the mantel and not having pinpointed his wife’s schedule negated that task momentarily. It was time to speak with Agnes again. The girl had been a fount of information before.

Why was no one where they were supposed to be?

The bathing room was devoid of steam, nor was his wife in their “shared sitting room.” He tapped at her bedchamber door, but there was no answer there either. He stole inside instead and meandered about.

An escritoire was situated before a long skinny window.

He lifted the top and noted a stack of correspondence.

Oddly, the one atop was from none other than Miss Geneva Wimbley.

They’d met briefly when she’d appeared in Northumberland for his father’s funeral services.

Miss Wimbley was not the sort of woman he imagined his wife to befriend…

but then what did he really know of his wife?

He started to close the desk but caught sight of a small pamphlet. Across the front in large, blocked lettering was:

Women and the Need for Economic Equality: A Plan for England’s Future

What the devil? He picked up the saddle-stitched booklet and fanned the pages.

There must at least twenty. The paper was thin and uncoated, rough to the touch.

Most shocking, if anything could be more shocking, was the listed author: The Clandestine Sapphire Society.

This was beyond propriety’s sake, going through his wife’s personal papers, but this was too curious to resist. Lucius stuffed the pamphlet in the breast pocket of his waistcoat and shut the escritoire, nearly forgetting his original mission.

He trotted down to the kitchens to speak with Mrs. Verity and found her supervising the pantries. “Mrs. Verity, when is my wife expected back? I thought to share dinner with her.” For once.

She stammered about before giving him an answer. “I believe, er, um, well, ye see, she don’t have no regular time, yer lordship.”

“Oh, and why might that be? Surely, the children’s lessons don’t go beyond evening time.”

“Oh, no, sir.” Her gaze avoided his before she finally said, almost defiantly, “Sometimes she takes tea at The Copper Kettle.”

“I see. And, her maid?”

“Oh, Agnes? Her ladyship typically takes her along. She ’elps ’er out. Gel’s taken to readin’ ’erself. Too much, if anyone cares t’ know my opinion.”

Lucius stifled a grin. “And, Mr. Ashcroft?”

“Well, ’e’s a drivin’ ’er, aint’ ’e?”

“Quite right.” Lucius went to the door then turned back. “What do you know of a Mr. Ornsby?”

“That cantankerous old coot? Didn’t do an ’onest day’s work in all ’is time ’ere.”

“What kind of work?”

Her mouth dropped, exposing a couple of missing teeth, before she snapped her jaw shut and narrowed her eyes on him.

He froze under the sudden intensity. A creeping sense of unease prickled at the back of his neck.

“Ornsby was the steward after yer mama married that earl of ’ers. Don’ know ’ow ’e kept the position long as ’e did. Ten years, I reckon. Last I’d seen o’ ’im must a been, oh, 1824 or so.”

Lucius had expected something more vague, more elusive, like a groundskeeper. Instead, her answer left him grasping for a response. He felt his footing slip, like missing the bottom step on a staircase. His unease increased. “What of Mr. Blackwell or Radcliffe.”

Her thin lips twisted in another sign of disgust. “Stewards, too. Din’t last more than a year at most.” A momentary flustered silence followed, the weight of her stare making him shift his stance. “Matter o’ fact, there were another five or six and countin’.”

That was odd… “All stewards?” he asked.

“Aye.”

The kitchen, warm and fragrant with the scent of stewing vegetables, suddenly felt too small, too close, too hot. The prickling at his neck tingled.

She turned, muttering something under her breath to the effect of “none of ’em ever worked as ’ard as old Aldridge did durin’ his twenty-year stint with the family.”

Stunned, Lucius pushed his fingers through his hair. “They just… walked off the job?”

“Daresay they din’t give so much as a word o’ notice.”

*

The reports Thornfield sent over left Lucius with a sense of incompletion.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the notes he’d scribbled.

There were too many inconsistencies for his comfort.

It was possible the man had forgotten to include the ledgers regarding the mine’s profits.

But more likely it was deliberate neglect of sending them over in the first place.

A delay tactic to be sure. He needed that ledger.

Another disturbing aspect was the report on the working conditions in the mine.

There was nothing to suggest that notices had been posted on more dangerous areas.

That would obviously require a visit. He’d just have to keep the man at his side to assure Lucius’s own safety.

And, what of funds allocated to the miners’ well-being? Absolutely nothing.

Tommy Trenwith’s death had not been his imagination.

That certainly required investigation. In all actuality, the stack of papers that had arrived via Thornfield’s secretary were useless.

As tempting as it was to toss them in the fire, they would serve as rope for the man to hang himself, Lucius decided.