Page 2 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)

Meredith stole down an old stairwell before the housekeeper could warn her yet again of the dangers of this unused tower of the Keep.

A rash of raw fury engulfed her. Lord Perlsea hadn’t even had the consideration to see that her chamber had been properly prepared.

Thankfully, he had left the footman behind along with the carriage and had ridden his stallion off the grounds without a backward glance.

Her new husband was not the only person she was angry with.

Her own father topped that short list, followed by the Earl of Pender, placing the viscount at number three.

Desolation swept through her at the bleak future that lay ahead.

She entered the drawing room, wandered to the windows, and gazed out at the rocky coastline. Her husband was a horrible man. All her good works with her friends, Geneva, Abra, and Hannah to set things right with the world’s injustices just when plans were finally making headway were for naught now.

Still, the desire to return to London lagged.

There must be something she could do from Cornwall.

Unfortunately, Geneva was the one talented with the pen.

Meredith was no simple miss herself. Perhaps she could no longer assist with the publishing and distribution of their pamphlets on education for the masses and women’s equality for economic futures now, but she’d find a way to extoll her own resourcefulness.

She was not one for self-pity and she steeled her spine, reinforcing it with pure resentment. She turned slowly, surveying the condition of her surroundings. A duke’s daughter shouldn’t have to live like this.

Slowly, the ideas churned through her. This might be the ideal place to start—readying this dilapidated keep that was unfit for a woman of her station. If her husband didn’t like it, then he could voice his displeasure.

To. Her. Face.

She went to the desk and whipped out a piece of yellowed foolscap, found an inkwell that wasn’t completely dried out and a pen. Fury had her fingers trembling so violently she could hardly manage to write. But write, she did.

Greetings, Lord Perlsea.

The condition of Perlsea Keep in which you’ve apparently seen fit to imprison me,

All right, a slight exaggeration…

is in horrendous shape. I shall do my best as the daughter of one of the most powerful men in England and your wife , to restore it to his former glory. Damn the costs.

Regards, Your wife, Lady Perlsea.

Whether he answered or not was up to him… the scoundrel. She dropped the pen, then rang for Mrs. Verity.

“Yer ladyship?” Mrs. Verity wore a snarl on her lean face.

It went with her pointed nose and hair drawn back so tightly no creases marred her forehead.

The butler didn’t appear any less severe, though rather than the thin whip of Mrs. Verity, Meredith considered him portly.

The estate’s abhorrent condition told Meredith everything she needed to know about her husband and his libertine father, the earl.

Meredith handed her the missive. “Please see that this is posted.” She took a seat near the fire and ticked off her questions.

“What is the population of Perlsea Keep? How many maids? We require more fuel for the fires. What is the state of the kitchens?” She lobbed the questions, one after another until the poor woman’s expression shifted from scowling to wonder to…

joy? “Who is the steward? Is there a steward?”

“Nay, milady. He done left not long after Lord Pender’s last visit.” Her eyes narrowed toward the heavens—in this instance, on the plaster that threatened to fall on their heads. “Some ten years past, it were. Mr. Oshea was last ’ere p’rhaps a year or so ago.”

Meredith gasped. “Ten years since there’s been a proper steward? That’s deplorable.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “And Mr. Oshea—”

“Lord Pender’s brother.”

“—didn’t see fit to hire another?”

“Course, he did, yer ladyship. We’ve ’ad one every year, but they flee on account the Keep’s haunted.”

Meredith raised her brows at that bit of nonsense, but her thoughts strayed to the deserted tower. “Then why haven’t you and Mr. Verity vacated the place?”

“On account of Lady Pender, ma’am. Couple of generations back. ’Twas in ’er family, ye see. The ghosts don’t scare me or Mr. Verity. Nothin’ scares that old codger.”

Meredith pinched the bridge of her nose. “I shall have a look at the household ledgers, then. They are up to date, are they not?”

“Aye. I reckon. I don’t read or write meself. That’s Mr. Verity’s responsibility.”

“You don’t read? But this is 1844,” she sputtered.

And just like that, the joy was wiped from the woman’s face and replaced with her ferocious scowl. “Ye callin’ me stupid—”

“Certainly not.” Meredith inhaled deeply.

The effect was immediate in calming her.

“Mrs. Verity, please forgive me. In no way do I believe you of less intelligence. The fact of the matter is, the Keep is in dire need of… updating,” she said carefully.

“I must have some way of determining the normal expenses and income for its existence.”

“Ah. That’s easy. The expenses are minimal. The income comes from the mines.”

“The mines?”

“The tin mines. More’n ’alf the townfolk works the mines. The child’en too.”

“And the mines belong to Perlsea?”

“Yessum.”

How was this possible? “But, there hasn’t been a steward, er, regularly for ten years.”

“That’s jes’ ’ow it is.”

“Who’s in charge of the mines?”

That scowl reappeared even more fierce. “Basil Thornfield. Runs it with an iron fist, ’e does.”

“I see.” Which Meredith certainly did not see. “I shall endeavor to speak to the man then.”

*

6 June 1844

Lucius lifted his pounding head from his pillow. His valet, Graham, stood in the door. “What the devil do you want?”

“I’ve brought coffee. The Turkish variety. ’Tis stronger.”

“I told you not to disturb me.”

“So you did. But you’ve a letter.”

Lucius jerked the pillow from beneath his head, fell against the mattress, and covered his face with it. “What day is it?”

“Sixth. June.”

Christ. He’d been in a drunken stupor for nearly a week. He groaned.

“It’s from your wife.”

“I refuse to be married. Burn it.”

“I’ll just leave it here on the tray for you.

” The door latched on his exit. Twenty minutes dragged by before Lucius forced his arse from the bed.

With a snort of disgust, he stuffed the note in the bottom drawer of the bedside table without breaking the seal.

“Gone from sight, removed from memory,” he growled to the room at large.

Then staggered out of his bedchamber in search of the brandy.

*

5 October 1844

The Copper Kettle tea shop was a hub of social activity for this hour of the late morn.

China clinked in delicate tings, and the fragrance of freshly baked pastries filled the air, causing Meredith’s stomach to an embarrassing rumble.

But here she sat, nursing her second cup of tea, watching as the Widow Elspeth Trelawney bustled about the packed tea shop, filling cups, listening and nodding to the various disgruntled ailments and complaints of husbands, and mischievous pranks of children and livestock alike from a shop full of women.

After six months of living in the area, Meredith was no closer to learning more about the villagers other than their names.

From her small table at the windows, she recognized some of the more prominent members of the community: Mrs. Agatha Mordaunt sat with her cronies, Mrs. Vera Thims and Miss Bernice Oppy who huddled together like hens in the barnyard, pecking at the dirt for food.

There were a couple of older men whose names escaped her and a couple of other shop owners who’d popped in for a mid-morning break.

The calm atmosphere should not have frustrated her so.

But her attempts to forge a bond with the locals were failing abysmally.

She’d been unable to interest one individual in learning to read or attempt basic mathematics that could drastically improve their lives.

Education for children? Ha. All that resulted in was blatant hostility and a cut direct when she ventured into town.

Something that would never have been tolerated in London.

Mr. Basil Thornfield had paid his respects to her at Perlsea Keep within the first three months of her arrival.

The man was respectful, and quick to let her know he was acquainted with her father.

If he’d thought to impress her with that tidbit, it did not.

She’d rarely seen Papa throughout the course of her life.

But at least the man had reached out. She wouldn’t consider the meeting completely useless, however, as he’d offered to assist her in locating a steward.

The bell over the door jingled and a tall man entered. His worn coat was ill-fitting and his hat in severe need of brushing. He carried a satchel under one arm and stopped.

The chatter in the shop leveled off to silence as all eyes fell on the stranger.

A short but heavy beard covered the bottom half of his face. His dark green eyes surveyed the small, bustling shop. His gaze paused at her then moved over her shoulder. She glanced in that direction to see there was only one empty table.

There was something regal about him but for his tattered garb. A second son, she supposed. England’s class structure could use a recalibration in her estimation. And highly unlikely.