What Happened at Midnight(9)
He was wearing a long coat and thick, dirt-stained gloves. “I’m walking parallel to the creek,” he said. “Seeing how the water drains off the hill.” He gave her a pointed glance from head to toe; his gaze lingered impolitely on the exposed expanse of her lower arms. It felt just as rude when he turned his head sharply the other way. “Unlike some, he said, with a disdainful emphasis on that latter word, “I’ve dressed for the terrain.”
If she took her coat on a warm summer day, Sir Walter would wonder if she planned a longer journey, and he’d insist on relieving her of her burden. For her health, of course. Always for her health.
She looked up at the clear, blue sky pointedly and then looked back at him. “Really. You’re seeing how water drains when there’s not a cloud in sight.”
“There’s your mistake.” His eyes were dark and accusing. “You think I need to see rain to know the lay of the land? I don’t. I can see the shape of the hills. I can test the soil. As for the water itself… That patch of snake’s head likes the damp, so I can surmise that water collects there, then follows the trail laid by the pink of ragged robin down that slope, where it empties in the soft soil where the meadowsweet grows.” He looked at her, and she was quite sure in that moment that he wasn’t just talking about wildflowers. “I don’t need to stand in a rainstorm to know where to lay the blame. The system is all of one piece.”
“I see.” She swallowed and looked away.
“So I’ll skip the part where I lay out the evidence of your guilt. Where is the money, Mary? Guide me to that, and I’ll bother you no more.”
She shook her head. “Everything I knew, I’ve sent on already to Mr. Lawson.”
“I have little trust in your words. You swore to me once that you knew nothing—and yet, you had an account book in your possession when you left.”
This was the stuff of her nightmares. The accusations. His face, storm-cloud angry. He took a step closer to her, looming large until he seemed to dominate her vision. The slope of the hill above and the hedgerow to the side shielded them from all watching eyes. He could do anything—hit her, touch her, kiss her—and she had no way to stop him. Her head spun dizzily and little sparks floated in front of her eyes.
“Please, Mr. Mason.”
“You should beg,” he said. “Why should I not fetch the magistrate right now?”
She caught her breath. Mention of the magistrate actually calmed her. If his idea of a threat was to wait for a trial, he presented a fluffy daydream in comparison with the visions that woke her sometimes at night. In the grand scheme of things, gaol seemed only slightly worse than the workhouse, and better than a life of prostitution.
“Perhaps I deserve to be in gaol,” she said quietly. “But it changes nothing. I can’t help you with the money. As for my father, he’s dead. I saw him put in the ground myself, and there can be no mistake.”
He blinked twice and shook his head. “Of course you’d say as much,” he finally said. “But you have much to gain from the assertion.”
“Much to gain!” she cried. She looked around at the only place she could find solitude—a barren, deserted slice of land, inhabited solely by weeds and nettles. Without thinking, she stepped forward and shoved his chest. “Much to gain,” she repeated. “Trust in my greed, if you don’t believe in my morals. If I had a few thousand pounds to my name, do you believe I’d be here, fetching and carrying for Lady Patsworth?”
He frowned. “Perhaps you’re lying low.”
“I could lie low, so to speak, with greater comfort and more likelihood of success in a hotel in Boston. Or a villa on the Italian coast.” She couldn’t stop the bitterness from invading her voice. “I could lie low with more than two gowns. With my own servants, instead of lowering myself to do someone else’s bidding. Do I look as if I am so much better off than the world that I fled?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Ask in Up Aubry when you have a chance. Ask them what they think of Mary Chartley. Full of herself, they’ll say—attends church and leaves immediately without talking to anyone. Too good to join the other women for a chat. I’m working for a man who doesn’t let me leave the property unless I’m guarded. If I had a choice, I would be anywhere but here.” She kicked furiously at the nettles.
“Maybe,” he said slowly, with a great deal of skepticism. “If your father could cheat his partners, no doubt he could cheat you, too. But even if things have turned out badly for you, I deserve—no, I demand—a full accounting. There are thousands of pounds at stake. Do you know what happened to them?”
God. She’d been dreading this moment. She woke up nights in a cold sweat, thinking of what she’d have to do to account for them.
“I know,” she whispered. “But—I can’t. John. Please don’t make me.”
It couldn’t be compassion she saw flicker in his eyes. They were long past that. His lips narrowed. “You’ll tell me everything. And if there’s anything I can recover…”
She tried to look away, but he took hold of her chin, tilting her head up.
He’d touched her almost like this back in Southampton. But then, it had been a prelude to a kiss. His grip was firmer now, and there was no warmth in his eyes, no tenderness—only hard calculation.