The Secret of Pembrooke Park(92)

Leaning on his stick and staring at the house across the drive, Miles Pembrooke murmured on a sigh, “Sometimes I can’t believe I am really back here. . . .”

Realizing the man had grown weary standing there, Abigail said, “Come, Mr. Pembrooke. You and I can head back. Father will catch up when he’s ready.”

Miles drew himself up. “Whatever you like, dear cousin.” He offered his arm, and thinking he might need the support more than she did, she linked her arm with his.

As they slowly made their way to the house, Miles began, “The treasure and the reward would be enough for me. If I find it, you are welcome to keep the house, as far as I am concerned. Truth be told, I would probably only sell it if it were mine. But if I came into a fortune, it would be within my largesse to allow you to remain in the house at such ridiculously generous terms.”

He squeezed her arm and sent her a sidelong glance. “Don’t misunderstand me. Harriet explained why she chose to funnel the income from the estate back into its coffers—paying for the servants and repairs and upkeep—so you wouldn’t have to. She assures me it was a sound investment, that otherwise the house would have continued to disintegrate past the point of redemption, becoming worthless to either inherit or to sell.”

They let themselves in and retired to the drawing room to wait for her father and their dinner. Settling into a cushioned armchair, Miles smiled at her as she straightened her skirts on the chair next to his.

“So you see, I am quite happy to let you remain here, Miss Foster. Perhaps I might visit now and again. Or perhaps you would like to come with me when I leave . . . ?” He watched her with an expectant lift of his brow.

“Mr. Pembrooke!”

“I realize I am older than you are, but I am young at heart. You cannot deny it.”

“No, I certainly cannot.”

“And you are old for your age.”

Abigail huffed in offense.

He laid a cool hand on her shoulder. “Now, now. I don’t mean you look old. Of course not. You look charming, as you well know. But I do think you are an old soul. At the very least, mature for your age.”

“I cannot deny it has always been said of me.”

“There, you see? We are perfect for each other.”

He was teasing her, surely. Or was he? Abigail slowly shook her head, regarding the man with amusement, begrudging fondness, and . . . distrust.



William returned to Pembrooke Park after a long day of sermon-making, too much tea, and too much talking, followed by a Sunday school full of children who’d eaten too many sweets. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep. For all his belief in the Scriptures and God’s command to rest on the Sabbath, for William, Sunday was the most tiring day of the week.

Miss Foster and her father had not come to his parents’ house after church, but neither had Miles Pembrooke, so he wouldn’t complain. Instead, he had enjoyed a long talk with his friend Andrew Morgan, who insisted he looked worn out and needed a holiday—as if he’d ever have the time to indulge that whim. Still, it had been pleasant to contemplate.

He pulled off his cravat and slumped onto the sofa in the morning room. He’d barely closed his eyes when Kitty stopped by, ostensibly to visit him, but he guessed she hoped to visit Miss Foster and the dolls’ house as well. After looking around his temporary bedchamber, she said, “Dick Peabody and Tommy Matthews got into fisticuffs after Sunday school today.”

“Did they?” he asked in concern. “Why?”

“Dick said you were picking on Mr. Pembrooke in your sermon. That you two are sworn enemies. But Tommy scoffed at him and said he didn’t know anything. He said you and Mr. Pembrooke are friends.”

“Did he?” That was more surprising than the fight. “Based on what, pray?”

“Said you and he play chess together. Things like that.”

“Chess? Mr. Pembrooke and I have never played chess.”

Kitty’s face puckered. “That’s odd. Tommy said he saw Mr. Pembrooke knocking on your door, carrying a box. And when he asked Mr. Pembrooke what was in the box, he said it was a chess set, that he’d come to see if you were ready for a rematch. Something like that at any rate.”

William frowned in thought. “I must not have been at home, for Mr. Pembrooke has never been inside the parsonage.” Or has he? There it was—the suspicion was back.

He asked, “When was this? Do you know?”

Kitty shrugged. “Tommy didn’t say. He’s about the place quite a lot with that fishing pole of his. Could have been any day.”

But William guessed he knew very well which day it had been. Then he remembered that Miles and Mr. Foster had played chess that day, so Miles might have been in earnest. God forgive me, he thought, ashamed of his uncharitable thoughts. Perhaps Miles had come to the parsonage seeking him out as an opponent in a friendly game. But somehow he didn’t believe chess was the rematch the man had in mind. Although if Miles had been occupied with Mr. Foster for quite some time, how could he have set the fire? William hoped his dislike and distrust of the man wasn’t coloring his judgment.

What had really been in that box?

William rubbed his hand over his eyes. He needed a break from Pembrooke Park and its inhabitants—both those he disliked and the one he liked too much for his own good. He decided then that he would take Andrew up on his offer to be his guest in London for a few days.