Page 17 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)

Minutes later, the vehicle set in motion, allowing Meredith to take her first deep breath in several hours.

Halfway up the incline to Perlsea, the tempest let loose.

*

Lucius leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

Nothing overt stood out in Thornfield’s employment contract.

It read as standard to his untrained eye.

Based on the man’s reaction when Lucius had demanded to see it though, he knew he was missing something vitally important. The question was, what?

He dropped his hand and studied the page again and tapped No.

2 of Article II and reread. In addition to said salary, The Agent shall be entitled to a modest percentage of the net profits derived from the mine’s operations, the sum of which shall be no more than 5% of said profits, paid annually upon the closing of the accounts at year’s end.

That one point alone opened endless possibilities for misdeeds. Profits. Yes, he was definitely missing something.

Not safety. Not the well-being of the community. This contract spelled greed in the basic sense of the word. He set it aside and drew the ledger in front of him.

He pulled another page labeled Ore Production Report and, with his index finger, ran down the column of Total Ore Mined in tons for the first quarter: 50, 55, 60.

The next column listed Processed Ore: 45, 50, 55.

He moved to the next, Ore Sold: 35, 40, 42.

According to his own skill in mathematics—while not genius level, he’d certainly excelled well enough at Oxford to spot a missing amount of 15 tons.

That even included a waste amount of 5 which didn’t seem too excessive.

A certain amount of waste was to be expected.

Tugging over another report, this one of Sales and Income, indicated the volume of ore mined did not match up to the ore sold. Lucius pressed his lips together. This was embezzlement, pure and simple.

He grabbed Thornfield’s employment contract again and reread the terms in Article III. No. 1. the right to terminate this Agreement forthwith should The Agent be found guilty of negligence, fraud, or any act that may bring disrepute or loss upon the estate.

A tap at the door startled Lucius. “Enter.”

The butler, Verity, entered and announced dinner which sent a resounding ungentlemanly noise from his stomach.

“Thank you. Will my wife be joining me?”

“I’m not certain, sir. As I understand it, she took late tea at The Copper Kettle.”

“With Mr. Ashcroft I suppose.”

“Oh, no, my lord. Mr. Ashcroft returned around thirty minutes after four. He sent the carriage back for Lady Pender.”

Lucius glanced at the windows. Branches tapped the glass in a howling wind he hadn’t noticed, having been so engrossed. He dropped his pen and pushed from the desk. “Are you telling me Lady Pender hasn’t returned?”

“Oh, no, my lord. She’s arrived and is in the process of changing out of her wet garments.”

The tension he hadn’t realized was gripping his chest released. He nodded. “I’ll be right there.”

Meredith had managed to avoid him for three days straight and he was damned tired of it. She had one last opportunity.

Twenty minutes later, her choice had been made clear.

A place set for her at the far end of the table remained stubbornly vacant. He sipped at his wine, waiting. And waiting. He suspected he could have waited until hell had frozen and he would still be waiting.

With stoic resolve he ate through the four-course meal. Alone.

Dessert was finally presented in royal fashion… on a small gold platter in the form of a single lemon tart.

In this unlikely, less than formal household, Mrs. Verity set the plate carefully and proudly before him. “Her ladyship picked it out ’erself, milord.”

Fury infiltrated his already boiling blood.

Such was his anger that his fingers trembled with an urge to take up the dish and dash it against the wall.

Unfortunately, an earl who was attempting to bury the offenses of his sire and his own failings made that option untenable and he choked down the entire thing in two bites.

But once again, the temptation to desert this godforsaken village, its unpredictable weather, hit him in the chest with the force of a medieval anvil.

Instead, he snatched up his wine and downed the contents then requested the bottle.

Shoving back his chair, Lucius made it out the door and to the top of the stairs without encountering so much as a single soul.

Shockingly, someone pounded the oak door that echoed through the foyer. But Lucius had no interest in visitors. “Tell them we’re unavailable,” he barked at Verity from the balcony.

“Aye, my lord.” Verity pulled back the heavy door.

Without so much as a how do you do , a powerful voice roared through the vestibule. “Where the hell is my daughter?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Lucius muttered. He had no desire in dealing with the Duke of Rathbourne at this time.

But he knew one person who should—and would, by God.

He stalked down the corridor to his wife’s chamber, burst in without knocking, startling her maid who, once again, sat near the windows with an oil lamp burning and, surprise, a book in her hands. “Where’s your mistress?” he demanded.

“Um, dinner?”

He breathed in through his nose, fearing the unleashing of his temper. “Try once more, Agnes. I wish the truth.”

Her eyes widened. “She likes to spend time in the old library.”

“What old library?”

“I’m not sure. She doesn’t allow me to accompany her. Said ’twas too dangerous.” She hugged the tome to her chest. “I-I’m sure it’s not. I think she just wanted, er, to be alone…” her voice ended in a whisper.

Alone . With Ashcroft. Lucius would bet his life that was what she meant. He turned on his heel and found the servant stairs. He was in no frame of mind to deal with Rathbourne. It was the duke’s fault Lucius was married to a cuckold, and he might kill the bastard.

He made his way to Ashcroft’s office but when he threw back the door, it was black as night.

So, he was right. They were together. Fury fueled him.

He’d find the blasted library Agnes referred to before heading to the steward’s cottage.

He turned the valve on the wall for the gas lighting.

The same map sat on the desk but it was shifted to one side where Ashcroft had begun another sketch.

This one of the Keep itself. Lucius picked up the crude drawing and studied it.

With the map in hand, he positioned himself to match the markings, giving him his bearings in relation to the kitchens, the vestibule, the masters’ suites. He hadn’t thought much of the Keep’s layout before.

As a child, he could only recall visiting Perlsea once. It had been a few years before his mother’s death. She’d insisted they visit the home of her birth. Noah couldn’t have been but two, maybe three at the time, and wouldn’t have remembered it at all.

But Lucius, three years older than his brother, could well recall her dismay at the gross deterioration. Papa’s disdain at the tears she’d shed. She’d insisted Lucius look after his younger brother due to the dangers surrounding them. From his recollections, their stay had been quite brief.

In one instance, Noah had gotten away from Lucius and he’d been frantic to find him, catching the little tyke before his brother could make it to the top of an old, crumbling stairwell.

Oh, how he’d scolded his brother for the fright he’d given Lucius.

He’d hugged Noah until he struggled and cried, until Lucius had finally been forced to free him.

He shook away the memories and his vision cleared enough for him to focus back on the map.

Noting the three towers, he ascertained the path to each then lowered the lights.

He stepped out of the steward’s office into the low-lit hall and closed the door behind him.

A sturdy wooden utility cabinet tucked into an alcove provided a taper and matches.

Then, studying the crude sketch a moment longer, Lucius set out with grim reluctance.

He located, and entered, an ancient narrow, dimly-lit stone corridor off the kitchens.

The faint smell of smoke and old wood had seeped into the walls.

He followed the map into the farthest tower and into a less-traveled section of the Keep with a moment of sad relief that his mother hadn’t lived to witness such decay.

The path then veered from the well-maintained areas and ended at the foot of a narrow stairway.

Cold seeped through his frockcoat from the harsh Cornish night, and a faint smell of dampness seemed to penetrate the rough stone to settle in his bones.

Old sconces with cracked glass that had long since lost their candles lined the walls on both sides.

He avoided the rotted handrails. That way lay trouble.

The stairwell was steep but only went up one level.

With his shoulder against a door swelled shut, he shoved. Hard. And stumbled into a widened hall.

The candle he managed to hold onto flickered violent shadows against the ceiling, casting ominous shades about him. The farther he moved into the forgotten wing, the heavier the air grew. And cold.

Cobwebs gathered in corners, and the corridor seemed to close in. Floors creaked underfoot, and the temperature had dropped to a distinct chill. Such atmosphere could give credence to rumors of the Keep being haunted. A shiver snaked up his spine.

Surely, she wasn’t here in this dilapidated tower. Lucius stopped, listening for any tell-tale signs.

Laughter? Low murmurs? Or worse… Ashcroft’s voice. Resentment was a boulder lodged in his gullet, and he cut off the thought.