Page 30 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)

Lucius’s misgivings regarding Ashcroft and Meredith had been dispelled. Mostly, he inwardly clarified. On Meredith’s behalf leastways. Ashcroft? No. Meredith was too attractive for Lucius to believe the man had no designs on her. Any man for that matter.

A guttural groan roared up his chest. Pangs of jealousy did not sit well.

He swallowed them down and surveyed the cottage, noting the lack of personal effects, the order of the dishes in their place in the rack.

No debris lying about. There was an efficiency and…

disturbing neatness about the place. He shook his head. The man was a conundrum—

Blast. What the hell was he doing? Lucius shoved so quickly from the table, he nearly toppled with the sudden move that hit him with a bout of dizziness.

Ashcroft had to have something around this hovel that gave an indication of his reasons for being in Cornwall.

Quickly, steadying himself against the scarred table, he inhaled a shallow breath, letting the moment pass before taking up one of the candles and making his way through the cottage, hunting instincts sharpening his wits.

There was an office across the short hallway from the bedchambers that showed promise.

The furniture was more formal but certainly outdated.

A large wooden desk filled most of the space.

Its surface was scratched but no dust covered the top.

Loose papers were stacked on one corner.

On the other corner were two oil lamps. Lucius raised his candle noting the soot marks on the ceiling.

A massive bookshelf stood against one wall lined with old, leather-bound volumes.

He moved to the stack of papers. At first glance, nothing stood out: old lists of food stores for the Keep; wages and accounts for workers of the estate; receipts from local merchants that included the Penhalwick market and, of course, The Copper Kettle.

Lucius started to straighten the stack and put it back when something about the top paper he nearly covered jumped off the paper.

Setting the one stack aside, he took up the sheet, frowning.

A quick cursory glance showed what appeared to be the tin mine’s shift schedule.

Recent. He moved behind the desk and dropped into the chair.

There were crossed out names and odd notations.

He recognized none of the names but the hair on his neck lifted.

Lucius reached across the desk for the rest of the papers, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.

The stack contained more pages that were frayed, folded, half-torn, and smudged with ink. Some looked to be unanswered notes from villagers. Written requests for repairs. For aid. And… What the devil ? Urgent messages from Basil Thornfield.

Cold chills rippled Lucius’s flesh as he took the next sheet and read.

7 Oct 1847

Mr. Ashcroft,

It has come to my attention that certain records from the mine have not been updated properly in your ledgers. I expect immediate correction of these oversights. The owners of the Penhalwick Mines demand precision in such matters, and any delays will not reflect kindly on you—or me.

Furthermore, your continued inquiries into operations that do not concern your position are ill-advised. The smooth running of Perlsea Keep relies upon each man knowing his place. If there is any misunderstanding about your place, let this serve as your only warning.

You are to ensure all correspondence related to the miners—most especially those tied to recent accidents—is forwarded directly to my office without delay.

Any whispers, misplaced papers, or inquiries into prior incidents shall not be tolerated.

I expect discretion, and I trust you do not need reminding of the consequences of failure.

Your duty, Mr. Ashcroft, is to keep your nose out of matters beyond your reach.

Yours,

B. Thornfield

Agent of the Mines

Lucius drew in a shaky breath. This very note indicated Ashcroft was indeed looking into Thornfield’s misdeeds, shedding new light on Lucius’s initial misgivings, leaving the question of why.

What was in it for the steward? He searched his memory for answers, yet all he could come up with was that Ashcroft held some grudge against the duke.

It also explained why current correspondence was on his desk at the cottage rather than the Keep.

Lucius laid the paper on the stack and drummed his fingers, thinking. Nothing made sense. He was missing something. Something critical, but what?

Everything in his mind felt muddled, impossible to pin down.

After a moment when nothing jarred in his head, he went through the rest of the stack, noting other expenses and missives.

He reassembled the pages and pushed them aside.

Guilt never occurred to him. Not as the Earl of Pender. This was his estate, after all.

He went through the desk’s drawers, finding nothing of import, yet his heart hammered against his ribs.

His jaunt to London, now cut short, raised more questions.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Ignoring gentlemanly protocol no longer seemed wise.

He rose from the chair and, skirting the desk, went to the last room left to search.

Ashcroft’s bedchamber.

It was similar in sparsity and furnishings as the one in which Lucius had awakened.

This chamber contained a vanity where Ashcroft’s shaving utensils were laid out with sharp precision.

There was also a wardrobe. The narrow bed was made up with nary a crease as if Ashcroft had spent time in regimented service to the Crown. An interesting aspect to consider.

He went to the wardrobe and pulled back the door.

On the floor were a spare pair of boots in perfect alignment with a pair of fur-lined house slippers.

The boots were scuffed and well- worn. On a shelf over a set of pegs where trousers hung was an aged valise.

He set his candle on the chest of drawers and reached for the bag.

Again, he felt no compunction to conserving the man’s privacy and carried it to the bed.

He pried it open.

More papers. His temples throbbed as hard as his shoulder. Likely as not, useless, yet he thumbed through them without regard…

Then stopped.

The lightheaded sensation that had assailed him before rushed forward with the force of an ocean wave in a fierce storm. He stumbled to sitting, dropping on the perfectly made bed and stared at the page he held, not quite believing what he was seeing. yet unable to tear away his gaze:

Betrothal Agreement between the Earl of Pender and the Duke of Rathbourne, 14 March 1828 .