“There’s a servants’ passageway that connects our chambers. Use that instead of the main hallway so you won’t be seen.”
Well, that’s that. His lips twitched.
“An excellent plan.” Being granted entrée into his lady’s most intimate realm wasn’t helping matters down south, however; he had to get himself under control or he’d bust a seam before they reached the squire’s house. To distract himself, he said, “Speaking of plans, what are yours for Crombie?”
“My approach will be simple.” The softness left her eyes, her features honed with determination. “I’m going to make him admit that he’s a sniveling, vindictive snake-in-the grass.”
“Ah,” Wick said. “This is going to go well.”
* * *
Deciding to use surprise to their advantage, Beatrice hadn’t sent word ahead of their visit. She’d timed their arrival to coincide with the end of luncheon. The squire’s belly would be full, his mind soft and drifting toward midday sleepiness…the perfect time to corner him.
Her and Wick’s plan was to visit the suspects one by one—with the exception of Randall Perkins, whom they would have to find first—and interrogate them. She’d conceded the Potteries Coalition to Wick since she suspected he would, indeed, have more leverage with them. The fact that he was willing to help her against his own interests amazed her. Yet it wasn’t in her nature to depend upon others, and she was determined to do her part with the remaining suspects.
She hadn’t expected to find the squire with company. Or to kill two birds with one stone. For as she and Wick were led into Crombie’s study, the pale-haired man who rose along with the squire was none other than Reverend Henry Wright.
The thought leapt like a flame.What nefariousness are the two cooking up together?
The two men were opposites in appearance, the squire being corpulent and balding whereas the rector was tall, with long, thin limbs that reminded Bea of a spider. The latter had a full head of snowy hair that, in combination with his sharp features and icy blue eyes, gave him a chilling air. His gaze skimmed over Bea’s scarred cheek, his lips curling with disdain. She kept her composure, even as embers of anger and humiliation burned beneath her breastbone.
He hates me, but would that be enough for him to set fire to my property?
Suddenly, Wright’s expression smoothed, and she realized that Wick had come to stand at her back. The charming Adonis was gone; in his place was a fierce Scotsman whose lethal stare and bunching muscles signaled that the enemy had better beware.
As much as she valued her independence, she couldn’t deny that she liked Wick’s protective streak. She’d never had a man who’d stood by her before. Never known how special that could make a woman feel, even if she was fully capable of taking care of herself.
Crombie waddled forward, his lips spreading in an unctuous smile that didn’t hide the calculating look in his eyes. “What a surprise to see you, Miss Brown. And your guest…Mr. Murray, was it?”
Earlier, she and Wick had decided that there was no longer any point in hiding his true identity. Once he met with the factory owners, gossip was bound to spread like wildfire about the railway. It was better to try to control the information that was disseminated: Bea planned to tell her tenants that Wick was a representative of GLNR who was here to explore the possibility of coexistence between a railway and the farms. She would reassure them of her intent to prioritize the farms over all other concerns.
For now, she introduced the squire and the reverend to Wick.
“Your reputation precedes you, sir,” Crombie said. “Partner in that railway company, aren’t you? The one in all the papers, wot, that has the public rioting to get shares?”
“Great London National Railway has enjoyed some success,” Wick said easily.
“What brings you to Staffordshire?” the squire demanded. “Business?”
“In part.” Wick did not elaborate.
Crombie grunted, waving them toward his desk. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what brings you here.”
They all went toward the chairs, with the exception of Reverend Wright.
“As my expertise is in spiritual matters and not the material,” he said with frigid hauteur, “my presence will add nothing to the discussion. I shall see myself out. Good day.”
He left, blanketing the study in awkward silence.
“I didn’t realize you and the rector were friends,” Beatrice said as she and Wick seated themselves across from the squire.
“Wouldn’t say we’re friends. The reverend had some business he wanted to consult me on. Given my magisterial role.”
Crombie mopped his face with a handkerchief. If she didn’t know the man, she might have taken his sweatiness as a sign of nerves, but the truth was he was usually red-faced and perspiring, looking on the verge of an apoplectic fit.
“What sort of business?” she asked.
“It was, ahem, confidential. None of your business, wot.”
