Page 26 of Two Secrets to Surrender (Blackwood Legacy #2)

Chapter Twenty-Five

L eaving Chuddums took longer than Conrad expected. After settling matters with Gigi—as much as one could settle anything with a nymph—he’d planned to pack up and go, but he hadn’t accounted for the visitors that arrived at Honeystone Hall. They came in a stream, villagers bearing gifts and well wishes for a speedy recovery after his “accident.” Mrs. Pettigrew and Mr. Khan arrived first, the former with a dish of her famous Bloody Knights of Windsor pudding (whatever that was) and the latter with a box of assorted confectionary. Then came Mr. Thornton with a pot of his wife’s chicken soup and a jug of his own “kill-devil,” which he claimed would cure any ails.

More and more of the Chuddumites showed up, until it resembled a damned party in Conrad’s drawing room. Some of them had visited Honeystone Hall in the past, and they regaled him with tales of the old squire’s hunts and house parties.

“It’s lovely to have a gentleman residing here again,” said some lady whose name he hadn’t bothered to remember. “We couldn’t have asked for a better new neighbor.”

Conrad had no idea why the villagers were being so welcoming. He wondered how they would feel after he took over Abel Pearce’s properties and sold them off to the highest bidder. More to the point, how would Gigi feel? Unease crept over him. At first, he’d thought that sparing the spa would be sufficient to appease her, but her affection for the village as a whole had become increasingly obvious.

Yet once he took possession of Pearce’s holdings, he would have no choice but to divest them…preferably for a large profit. It wasn’t as if he could invest in Chuddums: that would be a risky venture at best and ruinous at worst. The capital required to preserve the village’s future would strain even his deep pockets, with little hope for returns in this lifetime. A man might as well dump his money in the Thames. Only a complete fool would attempt such a thankless task.

More importantly, destroying Chuddums was an essential part of Conrad’s vengeance. Pearce deserved to reap what he had sown. He’d devastated Mama by demolishing the cottage that was hers by birthright. Conrad was simply returning the favor by tearing apart Pearce’s legacy.

Tit for tat.

As for Gigi, she would understand after Conrad explained things. She would take his side because she was loyal and loving. Hell, if she wanted, he had properties elsewhere he could profitably develop. He could build her a square ten times nicer than Chuddums’s, and he could employ her friends to run the shops. What more could she want?

Satisfied with his solution, he was about to announce that the festivities were over when two new faces appeared.

“Mr. Godwin!” Kenny dashed over on skinny legs. “May I have one more lesson before you go? Please?”

“Where are your manners, Kenneth?” Wally chided. “Mr. Godwin’s a busy man and might not have the time.”

That fact didn’t dissuade you from giving me a half-dozen tours, you old codger.

“But, Great-Grandpapa, Mr. Godwin has time for a short lesson, doesn’t he?”

Hands clasped together, Kenny turned huge, shimmering eyes upon Conrad. Above the boy’s freckled nose, faint traces of the shiner lingered.

Christ.

“A short lesson.” Conrad sighed. “In the garden.”

“Hooray! I’ll see you there, sir,” Kenny sang as he darted off.

“It’s kind of you to take an interest in my great-grandson,” Wally said. “Lord knows his own papa doesn’t.”

“He’s a fine lad,” Conrad said gruffly.

“Not much of a fighter, though.”

“It doesn’t matter. Survival is what counts. That was my first lesson to Kenny: if you can’t win, you run or hide.”

“A good lesson. You’re like him, you know.”

“You, er, think I am like Kenny?”

“No, Thomas. Thomas Mulligan.”

Wally had a faraway look, as if he’d drifted into the past. During the tours, this had happened a few times, and Conrad knew the old fellow would eventually find his way back.

“He had fought battles before arriving here,” Wally said dreamily. “They scarred him, I think. But, like you, he was a survivor, and in the end, he found his peace.”

“In Chuddums, you mean?”

“With Rosalinda. He wasn’t looking for love, but he found it anyway.”

I know what that is like.

“If only he’d trusted her sooner, the curse could have been averted,” Wally said sadly.

Conrad drew his brows together. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

After their steamy interlude, Gigi had told him her theory that their meeting was somehow tied to the local legend. She’d shared her dreams and belief that their relationship might play a part in undoing the curse. Amused by her fanciful reasoning, he’d chucked her under the chin and told her that if the legend convinced her to marry him, then he would invite Bloody Thom to the wedding himself.

Now Wally reminded him that the legend wasn’t just a ghost story. During their tours, the nonagenarian had told Conrad that he’d known the real Thomas and Rosalinda. As a young boy, Wally had seen the lovers together by the stream…the stream where Conrad had met Gigi.

A tingle crossed Conrad’s nape.

Wally blinked. Once, twice.

“Isn’t that something?” Chortling, he scratched his ear. “I don’t remember what I was saying.”

Conrad left for London early the next morning. He’d informed Redgrave and Marvell of his schedule, and he arrived to find them waiting.

They’d barely settled in his study before Marvell blurted, “It’s happened. The Westfield railway bubble burst this morning. Soon it will be all over London.”

Conrad clenched his hands. “The price of the shares?”

“Worthless,” Redgrave confirmed. “Westfield fled town because he’s afraid of rioters coming after him.”

I have Pearce. Finally, I have him.

“Call in Pearce’s debts,” Conrad said. “Every last one.”

“And when he cannot pay?” Redgrave raised his thick brows.

“We claim the collateral. His land in Chuddums.”

Redgrave nodded, smiling with satisfaction. “With the right buyers, Godwin & Co. stands to turn a tidy profit. I know of several fellows hungry for land to build factories?—”

“Or we could take our time,” Marvell cut in. “Look for the right sort of investors.”

“Right sort?” Redgrave stared at his colleague as if the fellow had sprouted another head. “The only investor we care about is the one willing to pay the highest price.”

“There are other considerations.”

“Considerations other than profit?” Redgrave turned to Conrad. “Are you hearing this?”

“I am. And I’m curious what Marvell has to say,” Conrad said coolly.

Marvell took a nervous sip—not of tea, which Conrad had offered. Instead, he held a familiar-looking bottle of water. The solicitor had become a proponent of the Chuddums cure, which he insisted had relieved his allergy symptoms.

“Chuddums has unique properties.” Marvell pushed his spectacles up his nose. “In addition to the healthful springs, there are bountiful natural resources, including woods and streams?—”

“Which make it an ideal place to set up factories,” Redgrave pointed out.

“Moreover, the local folk are charming.” Marvell tunneled determinedly toward his point. “They are friendly and boast a plethora of traditions not found elsewhere. And there is the curse.”

Redgrave’s brows shot toward his hair. “Curse?”

The solicitor filled him in, with sufficient detail to earn a considering look from Conrad. Maybe there was something in Chuddums’s water after all. It had transformed his solicitor from a sensible, pragmatic fellow to one who spouted tales of ghosts and star-crossed lovers.

“Utter tommyrot,” Redgrave scoffed. “Don’t tell me you actually believe in that nonsense, Marvell.”

“Whether or not one believes the legend, one cannot deny the fascination it holds,” Marvell said primly. “There is a reason why it has persisted for nearly a century. Why villagers, to this day, blame any shortfalls on the curse. There is, for lack of a better word, a magical feeling in Chuddums. It is wholly unique and, when properly harnessed, gives the village excellent potential for profit. The success of the Chuddums Potion proves this.”

“Finally, you are talking sense again,” Redgrave said. “For a moment there, I thought you believed in that ghostly fiddle-faddle.”

“What I believe is irrelevant. What is important is that the legend’s compelling nature makes it a draw for tourists. With the right leader at the helm, one who understands Chuddums’s distinctive charm, the village could prosper and enrichen all involved.”

To Conrad’s consternation, Marvell was looking straight at him.

“It’s too risky,” he said flatly. “The investment required is too high and the returns, if any, too far in the future.”

“Leave the business of saving villages to coves who don’t mind losing their shirts,” Redgrave said. “We take things apart and sell them for quick profit. That’s what we do.”

“As you say.” Pressing his lips together, Marvell lapsed into silence.

“Let’s move on to another matter,” Conrad said.

He disclosed the second attempt on his life.

“The carriage collision wasn’t an accident, then,” Redgrave said grimly. “You need security, Godwin. I know some blokes, former prizefighters, who work as guards?—”

“Bring them on,” Conrad said. “Hire guards for me and for the office. Tell our employees to stay alert and report any potential threats. I do not wish for a repeat of what happened at the Manchester office.”

“Shall I fill in Mr. Foxworth and his investigators?” Marvell asked.

“Do that,” Conrad said. “Any developments concerning Trowbridge or Smedley?”

“I do have some news,” Redgrave said. “According to my source, Trowbridge had a fit of apoplexy last month. He’s been keeping a lid on the matter because he doesn’t want his competitors to know he’s in a weakened state. While he’s been spreading rumors that he’s been traveling and looking for new projects, he has, in fact, been recuperating at his country manor. Apparently, he’s in a bad way and can barely fend for himself.”

“Which makes it unlikely that he is the mastermind behind these attacks,” Conrad said pensively. “Good work, Redgrave.”

His chief manager nodded. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll see to the guards.”

After Redgrave’s exit, Marvell said, “I have news about Smedley.”

“Oh?”

“Last year, he was involved in a project with several other investors, one of whom was Harold Stockton.”

Interesting. A connection between Smedley, my competitor, and Stockton, the man I will be usurping in the line of inheritance.

However, Robert had covered his tracks well. Conrad doubted Stockton knew that Robert had a half-brother with a claim on the duchy. Without that knowledge, Stockton would have no reason to want Conrad dead. But if Stockton—or, indeed, Robert—knew that Conrad was alive, then both men had ample motivation for murder. After his escape from Creavey Hall at age seventeen, Conrad had covered his tracks well and taken on a new identity. Robert had never come knocking, and Conrad assumed that his brother believed he was dead.

“Is there any indication that the Duke of Grantley knows I’m alive?” Conrad asked.

“Not to my knowledge, sir. As you requested, I’ve had his activities monitored for the past year, and he hasn’t hired investigators or the like. His illness has kept him confined to his bedchamber, and his mental state has deteriorated significantly. Reports have described him as ‘childlike.’ To be frank, I am not sure how much he remembers of his past. I doubt he has the wherewithal to find you and organize an attack.”

“Noted,” Conrad said. “Did you secure the invitation to the Grantley ball?”

“Yes, sir. From what I understand, His Grace’s physicians are advising him not to attend. He is insisting upon it, however, saying that he will make this appearance even if it is his last.”

Anticipation swirled in Conrad like a wintry wind. He would give Robert a proper send-off. His brother would go to hell knowing that Conrad had brought about his destruction.