Page 51

And what concord hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?

The tension in the abbey since my confrontation with Beaumont and Ainsley in the field the other day had become unbearable.

Each hour that passed felt heavier, their unwelcome presence a constant reminder of their scheming.

As I sat at my desk paying Mr. Spencer for his work the previous evening, the weight of it all pressed down on me—every breath a struggle as the silence between us simmered with unspoken frustration.

Voices carried from the west wing, Beaumont’s sharp tones echoing down the hallway. “I have repeatedly rung for tea!”

Though I’d done my best to steer clear of them, I couldn’t avoid their company entirely.

At dinner, their lingering conversations about purchasing the abbey’s art collections left me feeling trapped, counting the days until their departure at the end of the week.

Only yesterday did Mr. Beaumont finally write a note for the Ming vases.

I had taken it, feeling like a veritable Judas, or as if I had signed a Faustian deal with the Dilettanti in order to satisfy the Crown’s demands.

I heard Lucy’s voice. “My mother brought your tea nearly fifteen minutes ago. I can see the service tray within your room. I must do other tasks for the lord at present. Ring for her and she will help you.”

Mr. Spencer and I exchanged glances.

“Imagine, a maid refusing service.” Ainsley’s bored drawl filtered down the hall. My hackles raised, I set down my quill.

“Agreed, Ainsley. You little wench, someone ought to teach you manners.” A scuffle and a startled cry sent my temper to a boil.

Mr. Spencer and I dashed out the door to see Lucy on her hands and knees, picking up an assortment of linens that had tumbled to the floor.

Mr. Beaumont loomed over her, his face mottled as crimson as his garish waistcoat.

I stalked down the hall, my gait uneven but heavy. Lucy ducked her head and dashed aside her tears with trembling hands. I reached for her and helped her to her feet.

“The sheets are now dusty, my lord,” she said with a sniff.

“Never mind the sheets,” I ground out. I spied the rumpled bed through the open door and knew exactly what Beaumont had intended for Lucy had she entered.

I turned to both men with their cravats loosened and their waistcoats open in dishabille.

“You have overstayed your welcome, Mr. Beaumont, Lord Ainsley. I want you both to pack your items immediately. Otherwise, Mr. Spencer and I will toss your clothes into the courtyard and you may have the pleasure of picking them up one by one while my staff stands by and watches. In fact, I do believe I would enjoy such a sight. You have fifteen minutes or the amusement will commence.” I pulled out my pocket watch, the tick barely discernible from the roar building in my ears.

Mr. Beaumont’s mouth rounded. He shut it, propping his fists on his lean hips.

Then he jabbed a finger at me. “You will not get a farthing from me, Hawthorn. I won’t take your books, your Ming vases, or any of your tapestries.

You’ll wither out here with no funds and no connections.

You won’t have a chance in the world to rescue your abbey and orchards without me. ”

A dry chuckle escaped me, infuriating him further.

“You illegitimate cur, pretending to be a viscount. London will never accept you if you cast Ainsley and me out. We will ruin you so no polite society will ever allow you to cross their thresholds.”

I froze. Had he read my uncle’s diary? My muscles tensed for battle. “If you are the representation of that society, I’ve had my fill.”

Lucy gasped, and Mr. Spencer muttered an oath from behind me, but I was too irate to care.

I had survived thus far without the blessing of the ton.

I had no intention of changing myself to overlook Mr. Beaumont’s vices or ignore the wolf lurking beneath the tarnished sheen of respectability.

His veneer had worn thin within a matter of days.

“But what of the mosaics?” Lord Ainsley sputtered. “We came solely for them. I will not leave empty-handed after staying in this godforsaken place. Nor will I allow a crippled former soldier to dictate my affairs.”

This godforsaken place. I had used the same words that night I entered the abbey. For so many years, I had viewed it as a specter to escape. How was it that now, when I could no longer keep the abbey, I wanted to settle deep roots in this valley and finally find a sense of home?

“The mosaics belong to Mr. Perry. As for the gladiator piece, it and anything else I discover on this property are intended for Miss Littleton and Mr. Harrington. And should you refuse to leave, I have a pair of pistols that keep me company. I assure you, my arm works well enough to pull a trigger.”

Lord Ainsley dragged a palm down his face as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing while Mr. Beaumont glared at me.

“Don’t expect me to take this insult lightly, nor will you cash my note,” he snarled, but he made no move when I shouldered forward to stand directly in front of him.

His nostrils flared, almost as if he expected me to deck him.

The stench of port wafted from him, and likely something else.

Bluish circles curved beneath his eyes from far too many late nights.

It was rather gratifying to see him flinch when I moved closer.

“I shall tear up it up myself if need be.” I held up my silver pocket watch, the ornate minute hand inching too slowly for my liking. “Ten minutes and counting, Beaumont.”

The abbey seemed to exhale, the old walls shuddering with relief when the Dilettanti departed, taking their luggage and their cheroots and their bad manners with them. A foul wind picked up once more, pushing against the windowpanes, and a smattering of rain soon joined.

I regretted I hadn’t asked them to leave after they had pushed Mr. Harrington to drop Bridget from the presentation at the next Society of Antiquaries meeting.

And my threat to shred Mr. Beaumont’s note had only set a fire to the situation.

He had tossed his fine wool jackets, trousers, silky cravats, and pearl-white shirts into his luggage with no assistance other than his poor valet, who bore a steady stream of curses and abuse.

Mr. Spencer joined me outside in the courtyard with Mr. Whittle. We three, with our arms folded across our chests, watched the trail of dust spin on the road as the carriage rattled away. I hoped they would hit all the wretched potholes between here and London.

“Thank you, my lord,” Mr. Whittle sounded entirely humble. “Few viscounts care for their staff the way you have. I am entirely grateful, and my wife and daughter too.”

My mouth tilted in a wry smile. “I fear I may not be able to keep staff much longer. I don’t need to tell you we are gasping for air and in our last hour. I have no hope of convincing Mr. Talbot of any future success.”

Mr. Spencer shook his head. “If the ship is sinking, my lord, we shall go down with you leading at the helm.”

I wanted so badly to hope, but in truth I was tired and defeated. I decided to trust these two men, who had proven far more loyal than I ever could have expected.

“Beaumont will ruin me as soon as he reaches London within a day and a half. There won’t be a line of credit available to me if he plants rumors about my father. For the record, I am not illegitimate, no matter what he claims.”

Mr. Whittle’s gaze faltered at my frank words, but Mr. Spencer merely shoved his hands in his waistcoat. “Of course not. You have always been the rightful heir. Long have my wife and I prayed for your return.”

His words, no doubt inappropriate, managed to bring a rare sheen to my eyes. I was not alone after all.

Mr. Whittle reddened too, as if embarrassed by the overt display of emotion.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, that gent wasn’t on the up and up himself.

I overheard him in the stable this morning tell Lord Ainsley he’s got a heap of debts waiting to be paid in shady establishments.

Both men do. Gambling and whatnot. Why, he told Lord Ainsley to be patient and see the mosaics come through for them. ”

Mr. Beaumont with gambling debts? The news hardly surprised me. Thank God I didn’t let him edge Bridget and Mr. Harrington or Perry out of the mosaics.

I clasped Mr. Spencer on the shoulder. “I can’t help but wonder if he would have honored his precious note after all.”

Mr. Spencer smirked, his teeth a yellow hue against his weathered skin. “I about popped a button when you threatened to tear it up. A man doesn’t forget an insult like that.”

“Well, he’s on his way to London. Let us hope other diversions capture him,” I said as we returned to the abbey. “I believe my days of entertaining young lords are at an end.”

Riding Chaucer provided the only means for clearing my head.

I left Mr. Spencer and Mr. Whittle and headed for the stable.

Inside, dust motes danced within the streams of sunlight.

A greeting nicker came from Chaucer’s stall.

He nudged me with his velvet nose, eager as I to run and feel the wind in our hair.

Outside, I took him on the familiar path leading to the orchard where the hail had stripped the branches bare. A desolate expanse of thwarted dreams. The wind stirred the blighted leaves as I reined Chaucer in to a slow walk.

How strange that the abbey felt like the closest thing to home, even though it would likely revert to the Crown.

Was there truly no way to save it on my own?

Accepting Harrington’s assistance would mean leaning on another man’s resources, another reminder that I had not managed to revive the abbey by my own means.

Beaumont had trampled my name, casting doubt on any chance of marrying an heiress or even securing a proper tenant to cover the upkeep.

Both ideas stung. No, I wanted to find a way to salvage the abbey on my own terms, without the debt of someone else’s goodwill. I had no desire to leave the valley or abandon those in my care. And most of all, I couldn’t imagine leaving Bridget—not when I’d barely begun to fight for her.

I bowed my head and breathed a prayer as a cool wind brushed past me, stirring Chaucer’s mane.

A thread of peace curled within me, as faint as a wisp of smoke, but it was enough.

The recent events in my life pushed up what had been buried for so long.

If I hadn’t injured my leg, I would not have returned to the abbey.

If I had not returned to claim my inheritance, I never would have known about my uncle’s change of heart.

Who knew where my path would lead next? I could only trust God’s whisper in my ear, telling me where to turn, even if it meant joining with Mr. Perry to open a tourist center for antiquities. I would have no choice but to rely upon Bridget and Mr. Harrington and Mr. Perry.

But if she didn’t want marriage, would my presence only cause further distress?

When I opened my eyes, Chaucer had drifted a few paces forward.

He whinnied, his ears perking. I patted his neck while glancing around, but when I looked over the scene, my heart stalled.

A dark void replaced what had once been the gladiator mosaic, with fragments of the tiles strewn across the area.

I swung off Chaucer and inspected what remained. It would have taken several men to remove it, likely with the use of a canvas or crate to carry it away.

A man’s brass button lay on the ground nearby, and I knelt to pick it up. Chaucer whinnied and I shifted on the damp ground to see what the matter was, when a thunderous blow struck the back of my head. I heard the sickening crack as stars flickered across my vision.

Reeling, I braced myself and cocked my fist, a cry ripping from my throat as several blows rained on my skull.

“Take him,” a muffled voice ordered as someone yanked an itchy burlap sack over my head.