Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

With a disgruntled mumble, Pope led them to his private quarters above the boathouse. A small fire crackled in the hearth, stealing the icy nip from the air. The elderly man struggled to look Simon in the eye, and his shiftiness screamed of guilt.

"What brings you from Westmore on such a bleak day?" The fellow dropped into a rickety chair and propped one leg on a stool. He rubbed his knee vigorously. "The cold squeezes the life out of old bones. Don't expect it affects you young'uns."

"Perhaps you should remain indoors at night," Simon said, eager to discover the truth and put this sorry business behind him, "instead of meeting Lord Bancroft on the beach."

A muscle in Pope's ruddy cheek twitched. "Happen you've mistaken me for someone else. I never venture far from the hearth in the dead of winter."

Simon produced the letter bearing the King's seal. "I'm in Whitehaven on behalf of the Crown. I followed Bancroft last night and witnessed your private encounter. You may know nothing of Bancroft's nefarious deeds, in which case, it's in your best interests to confess all now."

As quick as a fisherman casts out a line, Pope's resistance faltered. His shoulders curled around his feeble frame. "He's paying for the use of my boat. I've explained it's lunacy to take to the water when there's a storm brewing, but the man is desperate."

"Desperate to do what?" Gwendolyn asked, her distress evident.

Doubtless she prayed her brother was innocent. That his French mistress had not persuaded him to betray his country. Simon had no such loyalty. But if he meant to marry Gwendolyn, he couldn't be the one to send her brother to the gallows.

"He means to elope and wants me to row seven miles to Workington," Pope said. "From there, it's not far to the Scottish border. He said the girl is willing."

"Elope? With whom?" Gwendolyn clutched her chest like she was the intended victim.

Pope shrugged. "A young lady staying at Westmore. She's under the care of her sister. He's agreed to pay me twenty sovereigns. A poor man can't say no. Not to a nabob with deep pockets."

Clearly, he referred to Miss Netherwell.

No wonder the woman was so quiet around company.

Gwendolyn's excited smile died. Any joy she felt for Miss Netherwell was surely overshadowed by the fact Bancroft was not the traitor. Indeed, all suspicion reverted to her brother.

Simon silently cursed.

If Oliver was found guilty of treason, Gwendolyn would be ruined. Not that it mattered. Simon would marry her regardless. The world was a big place, and he had no real ties to Whitehaven.

"You'll not mention this meeting to anyone." Simon loomed over Pope to ensure he took the order seriously. "Once Miss Caldwell confirms the girl is a willing participant, you may go ahead as planned."

Pope blinked in surprise. "And if she's not?"

"I'll deal with Bancroft, and you shall have the sovereigns for your silence."

Pope agreed, and they left him nursing his aching leg.

"I doubt Mr Pope can row seven yards, let alone seven miles," Gwendolyn said. "Still, one must commend Lord Bancroft for wanting to rescue Miss Netherwell from her scandalous sister."

"I pray his affections are genuine, and he's not out to make a hasty escape with the list." Simon scrubbed his face with his hands and sighed. He'd dealt with more complicated cases, always when his heart was filled with anger, not when it thumped wildly with love. "We must return to Westmore. I shall question Bancroft while you speak to Miss Netherwell."

Gwendolyn inhaled deeply. "Afterwards, we'll confront Oliver together."

Simon reached for her hand and entwined their fingers. "I suspect he will do everything he can to drive us apart." No man wanted to live with a constant reminder of his mistakes.

"Oliver won't ruin my life a second time."

Despite the cold, they strolled back to the house. Gwendolyn hugged his arm. When their passions overwhelmed them, they stopped to kiss behind the broad trunk of an oak tree.

They kissed again before parting at Westmore's gates.

He watched Gwendolyn walk up the long drive. Love for her consumed him. Yet a deep sense of trepidation warned him not to count his blessings.

Before tackling Lord Bancroft, Simon went in search of Oliver Caldwell. He'd not let the bastard upset Gwendolyn, and the viscount would not discuss his mistress with his sister present.

He knocked on the study door and was met with silence.

The lord wasn't in the drawing room or library.

"His lordship asked me to give you this note, sir," Flanders said when Simon sought him out.

Simon snatched the note from the silver salver and broke the seal. Oliver wished to meet him on the beach and advised he bring his pistol. It wouldn't be the first time Simon had stared down a loaded barrel or been threatened at gunpoint by a madman. Hopefully, it wouldn't be the last.

Even so, he did not race upstairs to fetch a weapon. The quickest way to defuse the situation was to arrive unarmed. For all his faults, Oliver would not court dishonour.

Simon headed to the beach. Gwendolyn was probably questioning Miss Netherwell, and he would not alarm her unnecessarily.

The lord was pacing the shore like a caged animal, a pistol evident in his right hand. "I should have shot you the moment you arrived at Westmore." The wind whipped at his ebony locks. "You've ruined my sister in the most despicable fashion and deserve to pay with your life."

Simon remained calm and raised his hands in surrender. "I love Gwendolyn and mean to marry her, with or without your blessing. You've stolen five years. You'll not steal a day more."

"Lying bastard." The lord's growl of frustration mirrored the angry rush of the sea. "Does she know you have a wife? I have the proof of it here." He dragged a note from his pocket, the paper fluttering amid the wild gusts. "You left this in your bedchamber. A letter to your dearly beloved."

What the devil!

"You know damn well I've never married. You obviously wrote that to turn Gwendolyn against me." Or to give him a justifiable reason to shoot. "She knows about your plans to marry your French mistress. She read the letter hidden in your bedchamber."

The lord jerked his head. "What letter? I don't have a mistress."

"The gossips beg to differ. Mrs Astley told everyone at breakfast. You invited people for the Christmas season to marry off Gwendolyn and be rid of her. If you don't believe me, gather the guests and ask them yourself."

The lord seemed lost in a moment of confusion.

Simon sought to offer clarity. "I'm inclined to believe you're a traitor to your country. I'll wager I'll find a list of British spies hidden in the house." He decided to bend the truth. "Mrs Astley said your mistress means to use you to exact revenge for the death of her brother."

The viscount cursed. "I'm a peer of the realm. Loyal to the King. Why the hell would I risk the noose for a casual encounter?"

"Why would I write to a wife I don't have?" Recognition dawned. Was Myrtle planting letters, not finding them? "Might this be an attempt by the real traitor to stir up a hornet's nest?"

The lord frowned in disbelief. "But I might have shot you."

"I wouldn't have shot you. Gwendolyn means too much to me." She might never forgive him for killing her brother. He'd rather die than have her lose faith in him again. "Whereas you're seeking a way to justify your actions."

The viscount had the decency to look ashamed. "As her brother, I have a right to shoot the man who left her damaged."

"Then, shoot yourself. You broke her bloody heart." A sudden pang in his chest stole his breath. If the real traitor wanted them to kill each other, did that mean Gwendolyn was in danger? "If you've finished acting the hero, we should return to the house. It's like we're puppets and someone is pulling our strings. If we mean to discover who, we must work together."

They hurried back to Westmore. Despite searching the main rooms, Gwendolyn was nowhere to be found.

The guests were enjoying hot punch and playing piquet in the games room.

Simon spotted Miss Netherwell sitting alone in the corner. "Have you seen Miss Caldwell? She wished to speak to you about playing the pianoforte before dinner tonight."

After her shock at being addressed directly, Miss Netherwell nodded. "She asked to speak to me privately, but her flustered maid interrupted us."

Her maid?

Suspicion flared.

"What was so important?"

Miss Netherwell shrugged. "I heard mention of a meeting at Whitney Grange." A blush rose to her pale cheeks. "I wondered if you had arranged an assignation. Miss Caldwell seemed eager to leave but insisted the maid accompany her."

Fear snaked up Simon's spine. When they parted, Gwendolyn knew he was to question Lord Bancroft. They'd arranged to meet later in the orangery and share a kiss along with their findings.

The viscount gave a mocking snort. "Perhaps she wants to inspect her future home before she accepts your proposal," he whispered for Simon's ears only. "The place isn't fit for a dog."

"She would have spoken to me first."

"Like the rest of us, perhaps Miss Caldwell is bored," Mrs Astley said with a deep sigh. "The lack of entertainment is shocking."

"You're welcome to leave," the viscount snapped. "While on the subject of entertainment, perhaps you might explain why you're spreading lies about me to all and sundry. Who told you I had a French mistress and meant to get rid of my sister?"

While the other guests paled, Mrs Astley's mouth curled into a sly grin. "Reliable information always comes from those with nothing to gain. A lowly maid has no cause to lie."

Simon's heart constricted. The pieces of the puzzle were slotting into place. "The same maid who encouraged Miss Caldwell to leave for Whitney Grange?"

Mrs Astley turned to her sister. "What is that girl's name?"

"Myrtle," Miss Netherwell said. "The maid who's always lurking in the shadows."