Chapter Thirty-Eight
Langdon paced in front of the fireplace in the downstairs drawing room and tried to hold in his emotions. Elizabeth was vulnerable in a way he’d never seen her before. He wanted to comfort her, but that was unwise. By all rights, he should have her arrested for theft. Until he learned every detail, he would wait to hold judgement.
“I am not sure where to start,” she said, wincing as she tried to cradle her teacup in her hands. Scratches crisscrossed her knuckles and a few bruises blended in with the dark circles beneath her eyes.
“Try from the beginning.” He curled his fingers into his palms and stopped pacing. It was still morning; too early to drink but he needed something to bolster him besides tea. He moved to the sideboard and poured a whiskey.
“I will take one of those,” she said with a husky laugh. “I think I might need it.”
“Very well.” He wanted to rush back to her side, but kept his feet planted where he stood. The first sip of whiskey sent a warm path right to his gut. Exhaling, he refilled his glass and poured one for her before joining her by the fire.
“Thank you.” She met his gaze with a worried one of her own. Cool fingers touched his as she accepted the glass.
He took the seat opposite her. The warmth of the fire was welcome after her harrowing adventures in the cave, but inside, coldness had taken ahold of his mind. He was upset with her, and he had every right to be. He was also madly in love with her, which made everything more difficult.
She stared into her glass, a dark curl escaping from her simple upswept hairstyle.
The ticking of the mantel clock cut the silence that followed.
She lifted her head to look at him, green eyes glittering with unshed tears. “I wed Harold because I was injured in a riding accident, and he felt responsible. My father was furious that I didn’t bribe his older brother, the squire, into marrying me. What he didn’t understand was that Harold loved me.”
“It is easy to understand why, but go on.” He found it difficult not to be soft where she was concerned. She promised to tell him everything and he would listen to her story before passing further judgement.
“After the accident, I was told by the doctor that I might not be able to bear children.” Her voice caught on a sob and she cleared her throat. “After a year of marriage, Harold went to London with what was left of my dowry and gambled it all away. I told his family that a thief killed him, but he took his own life.”
A lie by admission. He couldn’t blame her for trying to spare her family, but it fit a pattern with her. By omitting the truth, she had spared them heartache at the detriment of her own happiness.
“I was with child and lost the babe.” Tears streamed down her cheeks and she brushed them back. “My father was furious over the entire affair. He never knew about the child, and I never told another living soul.”
The tragedies in her past surpassed his wildest imaginings and another layer of his anger peeled off. “It must have been difficult losing your husband and your unborn child.”
“It was horrible, to be sure. We had been living in a cottage near the village. Harold was the eleventh child, and his family were very poor. After his death, I moved back to Waverly Park, understanding that I wouldn’t get another half-penny from my father unless I worked for it.”
His hatred for the man increased twofold. What a vile creature Vernon was; to treat his only daughter like a servant was beyond reproach. “You’re a lady.”
“It didn’t matter to my father. He was obsessed with wealth, and since he believed I couldn’t have children, he thought I was useless.”
“Why didn’t you tell him otherwise?” he asked. It was unlike Elizabeth to remain quiet and not defend herself.
“What was the point? I am a widow of a certain age with no dowry and a secret I couldn’t share.” Face paling, she drank some whiskey and winced. “Waverley Park had been falling into a state of disrepair for as long as I could recall. Although always frugal, my father’s cheap ways became worse once his legs deteriorated. He sold...” she cleared her throat. “I thought he sold off everything of value except for a few paintings.”
“His drawing room.” The wealth in that room alone could run a vast estate for many years, except it remained hidden from the world. It was possible some of his family’s belongings were sitting upstairs, waiting to be discovered. He was wealthy in his own right, but it wasn’t about the money. It was the principle of the matter.
Elizabeth rolled the glass in her palm, winced, and lifted it to her plump lips once more. There was a noticeable shake to her hands as she lowered it. “My father had refused to assist the tenants, and many abandoned their farms for the city. My grandfather had left no retainers in his will except for one, Mr. Zander. He was the brother to one of our remaining tenants.”
“Was, as in past tense?” he asked.
She nodded. “He was sickly and his sister—widow Jones— had been doing her best to take care of him. We had a bad crop that year and they were living off the stipend my father gave Zander. Her son went off to join a merchant ship’s crew hoping to help the family’s finances. He left England before his uncle’s health turned for the worse. I paid a call upon Mrs. Jones only to find her brother had passed away. I helped her lay out the body, and she asked that I not tell my father of his death for another three days until her monthly stipend arrived.”
Lie number two. Both small and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but a lie nonetheless. “You agreed to her request.”
“I assured her I would keep her secret, and we spread a tale to any who tried to call that Zander had left to visit a friend in Ireland. We intended to announce his death, but after a visit to the locksmith, I learned of a most interesting venture. It seems the locksmith made his father-in-law, an officer in his majesty’s army, a pistol with a new mechanism he had devised to improve firing. His commander was so impressed with the firearm, he offered the locksmith a government contract. Only he needed a larger smithy and was unable to afford the cost.”
Her story had taken many unexpected turns. He shifted his sore hip and dangled the glass between his fingers. The fight he had with Jocko had left him aching all over and it had been torture to get out of bed. His single motivation for not staying in his room all day was Elizabeth. “Let me guess, you talked the widow into funding his new smithy?”
A mischievous light lit her eyes, replacing her earlier sadness. “No, Mr. Zander agreed, and the smithy could triple Zander’s stipend in a matter of a fortnight.”
