The Secret of Pembrooke Park(138)

She walked alongside. She wanted to talk to him about Duncan, but first she apprised him of her family’s departure and her decision to remain behind while they visited London for a few days.

He sent her a glinting glance. “Perhaps it’s time you learnt to shoot a gun, Miss Foster. I could teach you, if you like.”

She was surprised by the offer, and what it implied.

They reached the clearing, and Abigail glanced up at the cottage. Beside her, Mac sucked in a sharp breath and tensed. Miles sat on the bench in the little front garden, rubbing a cloth over a gun. One of Mac’s guns, she supposed, as she had seen Mac oiling his collection in the nearby woodshed on previous occasions.

Mac called, “I am not in the habit of finding strangers at my door, helping themselves to my guns.”

Miles replied casually, “Then you ought not leave them lying about for strangers to find.”

Was his manner as friendly as it outwardly appeared, Abigail wondered. Or subtly threatening? It was difficult to tell.

Releasing his horse, Mac pushed through the gate. “I was called away whilst cleaning it,” he said defensively, “and left it in harmless pieces.”

“So I guessed. But it was the work of a moment to put it back together. Not for a novice, perhaps. But the navy did teach me something useful, in the end.” Miles tilted his head, observing Mac’s crude cane with interest. “Apparently I’ve started a fashion here.” He smirked. “Fine stick.”

Mac squared his shoulders. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit to my humble cottage, Mr. Pembrooke?”

“That’s right.” Miles looked around. “This is my first visit. I have been remiss . . . Oh no, that’s right—I’ve never been invited.”

“Is this a social call, then?”

“If you like.”

Irritation flashed over Mac’s face. “What do you want, Miles?”

Miles looked at him closely and said, “Mac, I know Robert Pembrooke confided in you.”

“That’s right,” Mac said, eyeing him warily. “He did. And proud I am of that fact. He was the best of men, Robert Pembrooke was.”

“I shall have to take your word for it.” Miles smiled thinly. “Though my father did best him in the end.”

Mac frowned. “What are you getting at? If you dare make light of what your father did to him, to us all, I’ll—”

Miles held up his palm in consolation. “Now, now. No need to get riled. Are you sure you’re Scottish and not Irish, Red?”

Miles grinned as though he’d made a great joke, but Abigail saw Mac fist his hands.

“So if Robert Pembrooke confided so much in you, his trusted steward,” Miles continued, “then you must know where it is.” He added cheerfully, “You can tell me, now that we know my father is dead. He can’t take anything else from your revered Robert Pembrooke. Can no longer get his bony hands on his house or his riches.”

Mac looked at Miles as he might size up an unfamiliar dog. Friendly . . . or dangerous? “True,” he allowed.

“So, where is it?” Miles urged. “Where is Robert Pembrooke’s treasure?”

“Here I am,” Leah said, stepping outside.

Miles turned to her in surprise. “Miss Chapman . . . ?”

“No.”

His brows rose. “No?”

She shook her head. “My name is Eleanor Pembrooke, daughter of Robert and Elizabeth Pembrooke. Your first cousin.”

Miles scowled. “I don’t believe you. You’re dead. That is . . . she’s dead.”

“No. I am very much alive. Mac hid me from your father. Protected me all these years.”

His eyes narrowed. “Prove it.”

“Very well.”

“Leah . . .” Mac warned. “You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s all right, Papa. I want to. It’s time.” She looked at Miles. “Give me one moment.” She retreated into the house and came back out a minute later.

She said, “Here’s the letter my father sent home with his valet after your father stabbed him. He wrote it with his last breath, his last bit of strength.”

Miles snatched it from her.

As he read it, his eyes widened. “Yes! You see . . . It’s right here! Give him the house, anything he wants, but hide my treasure. This proves it! My father was right all along—there is a treasure. Show me where it is.”

When no one moved, Miles glared at Mac. “I know how you idealized the man, so I am certain you obeyed this command, as you did in everything.”

“That’s right. I did.”

“So where is it? Where is Robert Pembrooke’s treasure?”

Leah slowly shook her head. “There is no treasure. Not really. It was my father’s pet name for me. He called me ‘my treasure.’”

“I don’t believe you.” His eyes narrowed. “If you’re Eleanor Pembrooke, then who’s buried in her grave in the churchyard?”

“My baby sister, who died of the same fever that took my mother.”

“But my father checked the parish records when he heard some rumor one of Robert’s children was still alive.”

Mac nodded. “The old rector agreed to change the records. To protect Eleanor.”