If indeed someone was trying to harm Drew, it was far more apt to be someone from his past life. He’d made his living at cards. Seduced a great many women. There had to be at least a handful of jealous husbands wanting to take their revenge on Drew. Or a fellow gambler who didn’t take kindly to losing his purse. Either of those options were better candidates for murdering him than Hester. Yet he’d jumped to the conclusion that it was her, or someone she’d hired. As if she could spare the coin. Drew had seen the ledgers for Blackbird Heath.
But his accusations did give him the excuse to return to London.
The hum of pain pressed over her heart once more.
What was worse? To have him think her capable of murder or merely using it as a way to rid himself of Hester. She supposed it didn’t matter. He was gone.
Hester stared out the window facing the curved drive of Blackbird Heath for hours, hoping Drew would come to his senses and return. Long ago, when this had been more stately manor than farm, the lord and lady of the house had probably awaited the arrival of guests in much the same manner, with a warm fire and a glass of brandy at their elbow.
But as the shadows lengthened across the fields surrounding Blackbird Heath, there was no sign of the sleek conveyance that had first brought a gentleman from London to her door.
Andrew Sinclair was not returning to Blackbird Heath.
Or Hester.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hester stretched heraching neck until a satisfying pop sounded. She’d been helping in the fields, bringing in the sugar beets though Blackbird Heath had more than enough hired hands to help. Yesterday, she’d ridden up across the slope where the sheep grazed, searching for a lamb that went missing. She worked each day, from King George’s first crow until twilight swept across the long grass, attempting to heal her broken heart or at least, stop the bleeding. Over a fortnight had passed since Drew stormed out and Hester had given up hope he would ever return.
And she didn’t care. In the least.
There had only been one small fit of weeping which Hester put down to the sugar beet harvest being smaller than she’d hoped.
Turning the corner, she strode towards the house, stomach grumbling and hoping Mrs. Ebersole wouldn’t be opposed to serving dinner early. A horse stood tied just outside the house, stomping its feet. Hester’s entire chest leapt in excitement. She quickened her pace but soon halted. The horse was one she recognized as belonging to Martin Godwick.
The first week of Drew’s departure, Hester had spent in a stew of frustration, anger, and longing. She didn’t want to accept that his leaving was due to lack of affection for her. You’d think a rake of Drew’s experience wouldn’t resort to using attempted murder as an excuse to break things off but use something with a bit more finesse. Also, there was the matter that Drew had been shot in the thigh.
A hunting accident. It had to be. The other incidents were mere coincidences.
Hester supposed she would receive word from Drew eventually, or at least his solicitor. She rolled all her feelings for him into a tiny ball, a small nugget that she only examined very late at night when her bed seemed far too large for one person.
But the emptiness inside Hester persisted. There was no pride in the harvest. No satisfaction at the honey production of her bees. Only exhaustion which never ceased. Melancholy. The cows were just cows. The sheep nothing special. Hester wasn’t accustomed to missing someone.
Sighing, she gave Martin’s horse a gentle pat on his nose before going up the steps into the house. Hester forced a polite smile on her lips and walked into the parlor. Oddly enough, she’d given Martin or Joshua’s will little thought since Drew’s departure, but seeing him sitting so casually in her parlor, had the skin prickling on the back of her neck. Unease took root inside her at the sight of her solicitor.
And Hester couldn’t put her finger on why, exactly.
“Hester,” Martin rose as she entered the room. A glass filled with amber liquid sat at his elbow though it wasn’t even noon. “I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself. Now that Sinclair is gone, I decided to celebrate. I found a bottle of Irish whiskey. I’ll assume he left it behind.”
How would Martin know Drew preferred Irish whiskey? Or that Drew was gone? “How did you know he’d returned to London?”
“Sinclair told me himself.” He tossed a small packet on the table. “Stopped by my offices on his way to London and informed me to expect correspondence from his solicitor. Which arrived late yesterday.”
So, Drew was back in London. As expected. “What is it?” She nodded to the packet.
“The deed to Blackbird Heath, which is now yours. Sinclair signed over the estate to you and the deed has been duly filed in LondonandHorncastle. Congratulations.” He lifted his glass, took a swallow and grimaced. “Awful stuff. Brandy is what I prefer.”
“Sinclair came to your offices?” Hester asked, attempting to keep her voice from trembling even though inside, the last flicker of hope inside her died. Drew really wasn’t coming back.
“I’ll admit, when Sinclair stopped by my offices, I was shocked. But after informing me how tedious he found the country and the drabness of life at Blackbird Heath; Sinclair expressed his desire to be rid of the estate and return it to you. He was vastly amused at your desire to be his land manager.”
“Was he?”
“He confessed that he allowed you to think the idea under consideration because it amused him.” Martin shrugged. “Jaded rogue. Always seeking out new ways to entertain himself.”
Hester swayed, ever so slightly.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Hester. I probably shouldn’t.” Martin glanced at her from beneath his lashes. “But Sinclair, after we shared a brandy, admitted to a wager he’d made with one of his friends from London. Apparently, this friend didn’t believe Sinclair could survive more than a week in the countryside. A large purse was at stake.” Martin shook his head. “Ever the gambler. I assume he’d wager on anything.”
