The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 22





During the ride back, Emma remained silent. Within her, elation wrestled with dismay. She had embraced Henry Weston. She had struck Lizzie Henshaw. Both acts were completely unlike her normal reserve. What had come over her?

When they reached Ebbington Manor, Sir Giles urged Henry to take himself directly inside, but Henry refused, insisting he would see to his horse first. Sir Giles went with him into the stables, determined to send the groom to ride out for the physician, though Henry insisted he was fine.

Rowan and Julian hurried from the house and followed them, peppering both with questions about what had happened down at the harbor.

Emma entered the manor, damp and spent. She slogged through the hall, dreading the inevitable confrontations ahead. Her father followed behind, full of concern and questions.

“Please, Papa. Let us wait until we are upstairs alone and I have changed into dry things.”

Reluctantly, he agreed.

Emma retreated into her bedchamber and rang for Morva. She wondered if word of her slapping Lizzie had already reached the servants, and if so, whether the housemaid would even come. While she waited, she removed her wet outer garments and pulled on dry stockings.

A few minutes later, Morva entered, looking behind herself before closing the door. She turned to Emma and said timidly, “Lady Weston says, thee art to show thyself in the drawing room in half an hour’s time.”

Emma nodded. She had anticipated just such a summons. She half expected Morva to leave without offering to help her change.

Instead the housemaid came forward, hands clasped, eyes bright and eager. “I shouldn’t ask, but I must knaw. Did ’ee really strike Miss Henshaw?”

Emma sighed. “I am afraid so.” And apparently Lizzie had lost no time in telling absolutely everyone.

Morva helped her change, and afterward Emma wrapped a shawl around her shoulders to ward off the lingering chill. Then she walked to her father’s bedchamber.

She told him everything that had happened. Well, not quite everything. She did not mention embracing Henry Weston, and thankfully, he had apparently not seen her do so.

John Smallwood somberly shook his head. “Emma . . . I am shocked. You actually struck Miss Henshaw?”

“Yes. She would not let me go—I had no other choice.”

“But to strike another person, Emma, regardless of the provocation . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say. It isn’t fitting for our station. For a lady. . . .”

“Then perhaps I am not a lady, because I would do the same again given the situation.”

“But the ward of our hostess? A girl so much younger than yourself? Really, Emma. That was reckless. Imprudent.”

She turned to face him. “Papa, do you not understand? Henry Weston commanded me to ring the bell. To sound the alarm, to rouse help for the crew of that floundering ship. And Lizzie held me by the arm to prevent me. What was I to do?”

“She must not have understood the situation. Or misunderstood your aim. You might have reasoned with her, instead of resorting to violence.”

“Reason with her—for how long? Till one of the crew drowned? Half the crew?”

“Surely it would not have come to that.”

Realizing further argument was futile, Emma held her tongue and drew her shoulders back. “I had better go down. Lady Weston has asked to see me.”

“Apologize, my dear—for all our sakes.”

Emma sighed. “I will do my best to make peace if it is within my power to do so.”

She left her father and made her way down the stairs and into the drawing room. Lady Weston’s domain. Her throne room where she sat as judge.

Around the room sat the jury—Julian, Rowan, Phillip, Lizzie, and Sir Giles. How Emma wished Henry were there as well.

When the footman had closed the door behind Emma, Lady Weston glared at her in righteous indignation. “You struck my ward? A girl of barely seventeen?”

“Yes. I am not proud of it. But she would not let me go and I felt I had no other recourse.”

Lizzie said pitifully, “I thought Henry meant for me to ring the bell. And I was about to go up, but she held on to me. I think she wanted to do it herself, to impress Henry, since she’s obviously in love with him.”

Indignant, Emma snapped, “That’s not true!”

One of Lady Weston’s eyebrows rose high. “Which part?”

Instead of answering, Emma turned to Rowan. “You must have seen me struggling to free myself.”

Rowan screwed up his face. “I saw the two of you struggling, but I cannot say with certainty who was trying to restrain whom.”

Emma turned to Julian. “You remember. You told me Lizzie held me back because she feared the wreckers—or whoever knocked down the warning tower—might take revenge if we raised the alarm.”

Julian blinked innocently. “Did I say that? I don’t recall it.”

Apprehension needled through Emma. There was nothing else she could say. It was their word against hers. And three to one in the bargain. If only Phillip had been there. But he hadn’t run out until after she rang the bell.

Emma forced her chin to remain level. She had done nothing wrong—well, nothing so terribly wrong. She would not hang her head in shame like a convicted criminal. Though that was certainly the way Lady Weston and even Phillip seemed to be regarding her. A swift glance at her old friend stabbed her in the heart. He clearly believed Lizzie’s tale of injustice. How painful to see the disillusionment and disappointment in his eyes.

Emma clasped her hands to stop their trembling and waited for Lady Weston to pronounce judgment. To send her and her poor father packing, most likely.

Sir Giles spoke up. “No doubt a big misunderstanding all around, my dears. The important thing is that lives were saved, thanks to Henry. I sent him up for a hot bath and have insisted Dr. Morgan pay a call to make certain he is all right. I shall speak to Henry about this matter later, but for now, he has had enough trouble for one day. We shall postpone any further discussion about this until tomorrow.”

Emma thought Lady Weston would object, but she said nothing, merely flicked a hand in Emma’s direction and turned her head as though she could not stand the sight of her.

Knowing herself dismissed, Emma turned and walked from the room, feeling several pairs of eyes on her back. It was nearly time for dinner, but she had no appetite. She went upstairs, reported the conversation to her anxious father, and retired to her room early. To think, to worry, and perhaps. . . . even to pray.



Later that night, Emma was already in bed, though still wide awake, when someone knocked softly on her door. Instantly, she tensed. Was it Lizzie, come to retaliate? Or, whoever drew that picture, ready to make good on his threat?

Now, Emma, she admonished herself. Whoever had sneaked into her room previously had not bothered to knock.

She climbed out of bed, drawing her wrapper around herself, and tiptoed to the door.

“Who’s there?” she asked, detesting the tremor in her voice, her weakness. She pressed an ear against the door to listen.

“It’s Henry.” After a pause, he added, “Weston,” as though she wouldn’t know which Henry he was, or as if unsure where they stood in terms of formality. It seemed foolish to stand on formality now, when she had stood in his arms, wet and pressed against him, only hours before.

What did he want? Surely not to continue that embrace. . . . She swallowed at the thought.

She unlatched her door and inched it open. He was fully dressed, unlike her, and held a candle on a humble pewter holder.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” he said. “Were you asleep?”

“Far from it.”

“That’s what I was counting on. I know it isn’t done, but may I come in?” He held up his free hand, palm forward. “I only want to speak with you a moment.”

Relief and foolish disappointment entwined in her stomach.

She supposed it was little worse than him being seen standing outside her door late at night. And truly, after the whole world had seemed to turn against her, she welcomed a chance to explain. Would he believe her, when the others had not? Why should she think that?

She nodded and opened the door. He slipped inside, and she shut it quietly behind him.

His glance skittered around her bedchamber before returning to her face. “Is your room always so dashed neat?”

“I am afraid so. Though you must forgive the unmade bed.”

“I shall try,” he quipped, but then his expression sobered. “It has been a difficult day for you, I imagine. I have heard Lizzie’s version of events, but I should like to hear yours. I know you to be an honest woman, Emma Smallwood, for all your annoying perfection.”

She pulled a face—regretful, self-conscious. “Hardly perfect.”

His brows rose. “You did slap her, then?”

“I did.”

“My goodness. I should have liked to see that.”

She shook her head. “No, you wouldn’t. It was not funny.”

“You’re right. I think humor is my way of coping with a stressful day.”

She nodded, scanning his face feature by feature, as though cataloging them for one of her lists. “Are you all right? After . . . everything?”

“I think so, yes. And Dr. Morgan concurs.”

“And the sailors?”

“Davies tells me they fare well enough—he and Jory carried down food and blankets several hours ago.”

“And your horse?”

“Well rubbed down, in the warmest stall with the warmest blanket and an extra portion of oats.”

“He deserves it.”

“Yes, he does.” He studied her face. “What happened after I left you on the point?”

She told him everything, ending with, “At the time, Julian said she did it because she feared retaliation from the wreckers. Whatever the case, I ought not to have struck her. Not in the face. And not so hard.”

Henry grimaced and ran a hand through his wavy hair, still damp from his bath. “She had it coming.”

She waited, expecting him to add, “If what you say is true,” or something like it. But he did not.

Her heart squeezed in relief. “I’m afraid no one else believed me, as you probably know by now. Even my own father is very disappointed in me. He is certain Lady Weston will insist on dismissing him on my account. And perhaps, considering everything, that would be for the best.”

“Never say so. I shan’t have you leave in undeserved disgrace. Besides . . . Adam would miss you.”

“And I him.”

For a moment their gazes caught and held. She wondered if he was thinking of their embrace on the beach, as she was.

He cleared his throat. “Well . . . I had better let you get back to bed. I shall speak to my father in the morning and clear up everything.”

“Thank you.” She wondered if they would believe him. After all, Henry was not on the best of terms with several members of his family. Perhaps he’d chosen to believe her only to spite Lady Weston.

She didn’t care. Having one ally was such a relief, she could have kissed him then and there.

Perhaps it was well, then, that he had decided to take his leave.



In the morning, Henry rose early and met with his father in the library. Phillip joined them. Henry assured them that he had indeed asked Miss Smallwood to ring the bell and believed she had acted honorably, considering the precipitous situation. Time being of the essence, a slap may very well have been the most expedient method for removing herself from Lizzie’s grasp.

Sir Giles looked bewildered. “But why would Lizzie seek to impede her?”

Henry hesitated. “Perhaps it was as Miss Smallwood said—Lizzie feared retribution from the wreckers.”

“Julian denied saying that, by the way,” Phillip added. “We have only Miss Smallwood’s account of it.”

“It’s the most plausible explanation,” Henry insisted. “We all knew retribution was likely, especially after the tower was knocked down. What possible motive could Miss Smallwood have to lie about it?” He glanced at Phillip, surprised he did not come to Miss Smallwood’s defense. Henry began to doubt he’d correctly guessed the identity of Phillip’s “lovely girl of humble circumstances.”

Sir Giles countered, “What motive could Lizzie or your brothers have to lie?”

Henry had his theories about that, but he was not ready to voice them. He hoped he was wrong.

Phillip said, “Lizzie claims Miss Smallwood held on to her. She said she thought Miss Smallwood wanted to ring the bell herself to impress you, because . . . she’s in love with you.”

Shock ran through him. “Ridiculous! Level-headed Miss Smallwood would never resort to such a juvenile act. She is not some jealous schoolroom miss, whatever Lizzie Henshaw might say . . . or be. And certainly not when lives were at stake, no matter how she felt about me.”

Phillip frowned. “There is no call to malign Lizzie.” Then he asked, “How . . . does Emma feel about you?”

Henry fidgeted. “She barely tolerated me when I was in Longstaple. We get on better now, mostly because of our mutual interest in Adam. But don’t worry—I don’t flatter myself it’s anything more than that.”

Henry thought of the way Emma had looked at him, clung to him on the beach. He blinked away the image, as well as his irrational reaction. If Phillip was worried or jealous, he certainly didn’t show it.

Sir Giles shook his head. “Be that as it may, there are now hard feelings between her and Lizzie—and Lady Weston, I fear. She was not happy I invited Mr. Smallwood here in the first place. And after this . . .”

“He has done nothing wrong, and neither has his daughter. Please do not allow her to dismiss them unjustly.”

Sir Giles sighed. “Easy to say, my boy. Difficult to accomplish.” He rose. “I shall see what I can do to smooth her feathers.”

When he left them, Henry looked at his brother, who was gazing out the window lost in thought. He said, “I must say, Phillip. I am surprised by your lack of loyalty to the woman you supposedly love.”

Phillip winced, but his focus remained distant. “I want to believe her, I do. But . . . I’ve never known Miss Smallwood to behave dishonorably.”

Henry stared. Realization . . . confirmation . . . washed over him. Phillip had revealed the true object of his affections, misguided though they were. The relief Henry felt was tainted by the knowledge that Phillip’s choice would likely lead not only to his own unhappiness but also to further discord between him and Lady Weston.

Henry left Phillip ruminating in the library. He crossed the hall and turned down the back passage, thinking to have a word with Mr. Davies before setting out to visit the rescued sailors himself.

He was none too pleased to see Derrick Teague leaving through the rear door beyond the steward’s office. Henry recognized that greasy, dark red hair from behind. What possible business did that man have at Ebbington Manor? Had he met with Davies, or someone else?

Henry called after him. “Mr. Teague.”

The man glanced over his shoulder but did not stop.

Henry caught up with him on the path outside and matched his stride. “What were you doing here?”

The man smirked. “Just paying a call.”

“On Davies, or someone else?”

Teague’s eyes glinted. “Be that thy business, lad?”

“If it involves Ebbington Manor or the Weston family, then yes, it is.”

“Thee don’t rule the roost, do thee, lad? So don’t give thyself airs.”

Anger rushed through Henry at the man’s insolence. “If you will not tell me, I shall have to return to the house and ask around to learn whom you spoke with and why. I had better not discover you have been threatening anyone of my family.”

The man looked more amused than alarmed, which disconcerted Henry.

Teague said, “Careful, lad. Thee may not like what ’ee find.”

Henry fisted his hands, barely resisting the urge to strike the man. “Good day, Mr. Teague.” He turned and stalked back into the house, and into their steward’s office.

Davies looked up from his desk when Henry entered.

“What did Teague want with you?” Henry asked.

The steward’s mouth formed a silent O for several seconds before he replied. “Oh, he comes by now and again.”

“Why? What business has he with you? With any of us?”

“Aw, you know Teague.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

Davies shuffled the papers on his desk. “The man always has some scheme in mind, or something to sell. Most of it pure stuff and nonsense. I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

“But I do worry, Davies. And your words do not reassure me. Name one thing we have bought from Derrick Teague.”

“We’ve bought nothing.”

Henry stared into the man’s face. Davies might be telling the truth, but he was clearly uncomfortable. Something was not right.

“Good,” Henry said. “I don’t want us doing business with that man.” He decided to leave it at that for now. He would talk with his father, and have another look at the estate books, before pushing Davies further.

But first he wanted to visit the rescued sailors and make certain they had everything they needed. Davies would wait. He hoped Teague would as well.

Guessing his intention, Davies said, “By the way, sir. Do take heed along the shore. I’ve never seen such high spring tides, and so late in the season. You saw how rough the water was yesterday. I think we’re in for a powerful storm before long, and serious trouble with it.”

Henry had never known the steward to be wrong in his reading of foul weather. “Thank you, Davies. I shall keep an eye on the sky, and the tide.”

Henry thought of calling for his horse, but after what Major had been through the previous day, Henry decided the animal deserved a rest. He would walk instead.

As he strode across the headland, bristling with yellow gorse, Henry reviewed what he knew about Derrick Teague.

Mr. Teague had been in trouble with the law more than once for his wrecking activities, Henry had learned from Mr. Bray.

Mr. Bray often acted as salvage agent for companies who owned ships or their cargo. After a wreck, they authorized Bray to cellar as much of the cargo as could be salvaged and sold, sometimes at a reduced price, say, in the case of grain that had gotten wet, or casks that had cracked on the rocks.

A few years ago, a ship carrying a cargo of wheat had struck the chapel rock. Mr. Bray had collected the landed sacks of wheat and stored them in the stone-and-brick cellars built under the cliffs for that purpose. The ship was dashed to shatters soon after the wheat had been taken out of her. Thankfully, the crew had been saved.

People from throughout the parish had been offered the wet wheat at a low rate. Only three shillings per bag. Mr. Bray had assured everyone that, when the grain had been washed, dried, and new winnowed, it still made fine bread.

But Mr. Teague and a friend of his—a man with a very bad character—weren’t satisfied to buy the wet wheat at a low rate like everybody else. They broke into the cellars and stole a cartload of sacks. But the thieves were found out.

Teague turned king’s evidence against his friend, and the man was sent to Bodmin jail. For some reason Teague had been allowed to pay for the wheat he’d taken and let off without punishment. It was neither the first nor the last time the man had avoided consequences for his crimes.

Turning down the cliff path toward the harbor, Henry thought of all the losses along these shores and exhaled deeply. He thanked God again for enabling him to rescue the sailors this time. He was eager to see how they fared.

As Henry approached the Ebbington cellars where the men had been sheltered, he noticed all seemed quiet and peaceful. Good. He knocked on the cellar door, producing a scrambling of many feet and the mutterings of several men in a foreign language.

“Who ees eet?” a man asked, in obvious alarm.

Henry frowned. This was not the welcome he’d expected. “Henry Weston,” he replied. “We . . . em . . . met yesterday when your ship went down.”

The door opened a tentative inch. Eyes nearly black appeared, framed by hair as dark as his own. “Ah! Meestah Weston!” The golden-brown face broke into a smile, showing two gold teeth, and the door opened wide in welcome.

This man—the leader and, as Henry soon discovered, owner of the ill-fated ship—was the only one among them who spoke English, albeit somewhat broken English. He explained that they had been harassed during the night by men wanting to take what few belongings they had managed to salvage from the wreck—three large woven sacks, two of oranges and another of lemons, as well as several casks of port, which the excise man would be sure to take an interest in.

“He say he keel us if we don’t give heem”—he gestured toward one of the casks—“pipe . . . ?”

“Cask.”

“Jes. He take two.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know hees name. Big man. How do you say cabelo vermelho . . .”

“Red hair?” Henry prompted.

The man nodded vigorously. “Jes.”

Teague, Henry guessed. He did not relish another confrontation with the man but knew one was necessary. Henry had not risked his life to save these men only to have them killed by a greedy wrecker.

They spoke a little longer about the men’s plans to return to Portugal as soon as a ship might be found. Bray, it appeared, had offered to assist them. Satisfied the men had all they needed for the time being, Henry stepped to the door to take his leave.

The men warmly thanked Henry again with embraces and even kisses to his cheeks, which Henry bore with a grimace and relief that no Englishman was there to witness their enthusiastic gratitude. The men insisted he take one of the sacks of oranges as a small token of their appreciation. Not wanting to offend their pride, he agreed and thanked them.

He wondered if Miss Smallwood liked oranges.

But first he went to call on Mr. Teague.

He knew the man lived in one of the cottages lining the harbor but did not know which one. He asked a lad in knee breeches, who pointed to the last cottage on the row, set apart from the others, white with a thatched roof.

Praying for wisdom, Henry knocked on the door.

Teague opened it with a lift of his brows. “Well, well.”

“Mr. Teague.”

“Weston.” The man smelled of port, his teeth stained purple.

Henry began, “I understand you paid a call on the sailors recovering from shipwreck and near drowning.”

“Oh? When was ’ee down to see that lot? Surprised ’ee’d soil yer fancy boots.”

Henry ground his teeth and forced a calm tone. “I have just come from there. Those men are staying in our cellars as our personal guests. It was kind of you to pay a call. Very neighborly, I’m sure. But if you pay another, I shall be obliged to pay a call on our new excise man—who, I understand, is not as easily bribed as the last.”

“Only taking my due, wasn’t I? I didn’t take it all.”

Henry longed to call the man a thief, to remind Teague that not only had the crew survived but the owner of the cargo as well. But in Teague’s bleary-eyed, belligerent state, Henry decided it would be unwise to provoke him further. He would never change the man’s mind about right and wrong. And the threat of the excise man was likely the only warning Teague would take to heart.

Henry began the return trek to Ebbington Manor. The walk up the cliff path seemed more arduous than he ever remembered it. He supposed his strength had been sapped during yesterday’s rescue, and his leg muscles had yet to recover. The sack over his shoulder did not help matters.

Finally reaching the house, Henry wanted nothing more than to go upstairs and fall back into bed. When Lady Weston hailed him from the drawing room as he passed, he stifled a groan.

“Hello, Henry. How is the hero of the hour?”

“Fine. I have just been down to see the sailors.”

“You needn’t have done so. Davies would have gone down for you. They are in good health, I trust, thanks to you.”

“Yes, but no thanks to Mr. Teague.”

Lady Weston’s brows shot up. “Mr. Teague?”

“He stole from them during the night—and from us, come to think of it, as he forced his way into the Ebbington cellars.”

She stared at him. Looked about to say something, but then noticed the sack slung over his shoulder. “You didn’t confront him, I hope, or demand back whatever it was he took?” Her fingers fiddled with the lace at her throat.

“I did confront him. But he was already drunk on the port he’d stolen.”

“Then what is in the sack, if I may ask?”

“Oranges—a gift from the sailors.” Remembering his manners, he asked, “Would you like one?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No thank you. Too messy to peel. And I don’t care for the white membrane.”

“Very well.”

Henry turned to go, but she called him back.

“Henry?”

He faced her once more and saw her hesitate.

She said, “Have a care with Mr. Teague. He is not a man to be trifled with, or threatened lightly.”

Henry was not certain whether to be touched by her concern or suspicious of it. “My threat was not a light one, madam. It is very real, I assure you.”

Leaving her, Henry went in search of Miss Smallwood.

He found her upstairs, sitting at her father’s desk in the schoolroom.

“Miss Smallwood.”

She looked up in surprise, and if he was not mistaken, pleasure.

“Mr. Weston. How fare the sailors?”

He tilted his head to one side, curious. “How did you know I’d gone to see them?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I suppose I assumed.”

He wondered if she realized she had just paid him a compliment.

“They are all but recovered, I’m happy to say. Though exhausted.” He decided not to trouble her with the tale of the theft. He lifted the canvas sack from his shoulder and set it on the desk, extracting an orange from within.

“Do you like oranges?”

“Of course. Who does not?”

“Lady Weston, actually. She doesn’t like the white membrane between peel and fruit.”

“It does take time to remove. But I find many of life’s pleasures are that way. A bit of effort adds to the enjoyment.”

He smiled at that. “Here.” He handed her several. “It’s only right I should share them with you, since you did your part in ringing the bell.”

She shook her head. “I shall accept two. One for my father and one for myself. Oh . . . May I take one to Adam? Unless you prefer to do so yourself.”

That she thought of his brother prodded warmth in his chest.

He handed her another orange, holding on to it as she reached out to accept it. For a moment, they both held the fruit, their fingers touching around the orange—the fruit of his labors.

“Thank you,” she said, with a slight wrinkle between her brows as she looked down at his hand, still holding the orange.

“Thank you,” he echoed, stressing the final word.

Looking at her soft green eyes and the curious curve of her sweet mouth, he suddenly wished he might peel an orange then and there and feed Emma Smallwood section by section and kiss the juice from her lips. . . .

Steady on, Weston, he admonished himself, and turned to deliver the rest of the produce to the kitchen.



Emma took an orange to Adam, helped him peel it, and then enjoyed watching his delight in eating it. Afterward, she encouraged him to wash his sticky hands, then played a game of chess with him. She was impressed at his skill. Henry was evidently a good teacher.

Later, she took the other orange to her father and was relieved to find him in better spirits than she’d expected or hoped for. He told her that he’d had a good long talk with Sir Giles and was happy to report that the business with the tower had been cleared up, for the most part, and they faced no imminent threat of dismissal. Sir Giles had also told him about his eldest son, Adam, assuming Mr. Smallwood had likely heard rumors if not the whole story by that point. Her father confessed himself shocked to learn there was another Weston, though empathetic as to the reasons he had not been told before.

Offended on Adam’s behalf, Emma bit back the retort burning on her lips, reminding herself that it had long been commonplace to conceal any imperfect members of one’s family.

When their conversation tapered off, her father suggested they play a game of chess together. Emma had to confess that she’d given her set to Adam and had, in fact, just played a match with him.

“But he would play another, I am certain, Papa. Shall I take you to his room and introduce you?”

Her father hesitated. “Thank you, my dear. I should like to meet him, but . . . I am conscious of my hostess’s preferences in this matter. I don’t wish to offend.”

She huffed. “Very well, Papa. But it is your loss.”

He looked up, taken aback by her crisp tone. “Emma.” Hurt shone in his round eyes.

She sighed, feeling guilty. “It is only that I know you would like him, Papa. Adam is the sweetest-natured young man I know. He is very talented and a good chess player already, though he has only recently learned the game.”

“Is he indeed?” her father said, impressed, though he did not change his mind about meeting him.

She was disappointed in her father, she couldn’t deny it, but nor would she say so aloud. Not when he was doing so much better.

She squelched the desire to stalk off in a fit of pique. Instead she steeled herself and suggested a game of backgammon.

He met her gaze. Apology and forgiveness were exchanged in wordless understanding born of long and deep familiarity.

“Backgammon?” he said, the ember of hurt in his eyes sparking into interest. “Now you are speaking my language.”

She smiled and feigned enthusiasm, although she cared little for the game. Sometimes that’s what you did for the people you loved.



That night, Henry awoke with a start.

Someone loomed over his bed, repeating, “Henry? Henry? Henry?”

Henry had been deep in a dream, and it took his mind a few seconds to realize Adam stood above him. Bright moonlight shone through the windows, illuminating his brother’s pale face and wide eyes.

“What is it?” Henry sat up and swung his legs from the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Emma.”

Henry’s heart lurched. “Emma? What’s happened? Is she all right?”

Adam shook his head gravely.

Henry leapt to his feet, grabbed his dressing gown, and stepped to the door. “Where is she?”

Adam ducked his head, sheepish, perhaps remembering that Henry had asked him not to go into other people’s bedchambers, especially at night.

“In her room?” Henry prompted.

Adam nodded.

“Is she ill?”

Adam made no reply but followed along as Henry hurried down the corridor and up the stairs. Passing the landing, he grabbed the candle lamp left burning there without missing a stride.

His stomach twisted. Lord, let her be all right. He had so hoped all the strange suspicions reeling through his head were wrong. Overwrought. Surely no one would do her any harm. Not for ringing an alarm bell. Not in revenge for a single slap. . . . Surely not. But as revenge for the resulting loss of a rich wreck? A chill ran over him. Please, God, no.

Reaching her room, Henry saw that Adam had left the door ajar. Unless someone had been in there since Adam came to wake him. Or was in there even now. . . .

Henry pushed open the door. All was still. Light from a full moon illuminated the room—Miss Smallwood’s bed and the prone figure upon it, bedclothes bunched at her waist. Stepping nearer, the light from his candle lamp fell on her white nightdress. And the blood-red stain on her chest.

His heart hammered against his breastbone. For a moment he stood, paralyzed, staring at her pale face, so still. The large stain like a red blossom on her breast. Grief and anger punched him in the lungs so hard, he could barely draw breath.

In the next moment he dropped to his knees beside the bed and reached for her wrist. Closing his eyes to concentrate, he felt the soft ta-tomb of her heartbeat. Thank you, God.

He opened his eyes, just as she opened hers and focused on his face in a dreamy vagueness. Was she barely conscious? Weak from blood loss?

“Emma, who did this?” He reached for the neckline of her nightdress, determined to see how bad the wound was.

When his fingers touched the linen, her hand flew up and caught his wrist, eyes snapping wide and alert.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

He pointed to her chest. “You’re bleeding.”

She looked down at herself and, seeing the large stain by candlelight, gasped and sat up, her own hand going to her chest. She pulled her loose neckline forward and looked down to her skin beneath.

She shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”

“Thunder and turf!” Henry exploded. “What is going on here?”

Behind him, Adam whimpered.

She huffed. “Don’t yell at me. You’re not the one waking up to find a man looming over your bed.”

“Actually, I was. Adam came to wake me.” He gestured toward his brother cowering in the threshold, then turned back to Emma. “Sorry. But you gave me a devil of a shock.”

Using his candle lamp, Henry lit the candles on Emma’s side table and washstand. That’s when he saw the blood-red handprint on the wall.

“What on earth . . . ?” He gingerly touched a finger to the red substance and found it thick, viscous. . . . He lifted it near his nose and sniffed. No acrid smell of blood.

“Adam?” Emma said toward the door. “It’s all right. I am not hurt. I am perfectly well.”

Henry glanced over his shoulder and saw Adam straighten and take a tentative step forward.

Emma held out her hand toward him. “I’m fine. I’m not hurt. See? It’s not my blood. Probably just paint. A trick, that’s all.”

“Trick?” Adam echoed in confusion.

“A joke. But not a very funny one.”

Adam shook his head. “I don’t like tricks.”

Nor do I, Henry silently agreed.



In the morning, Henry asked Miss Smallwood to wait downstairs and directed Morva not to clean Miss Smallwood’s room, nor move the stained nightdress from the bed. Then he bade Lady Weston, Sir Giles, Phillip, Julian, Rowan, and Lizzie to join him there.

Miss Smallwood had wanted to keep it quiet, to handle the incident her own way—by not reacting. But Henry could not stand by and do nothing. A line had been crossed, and he had had enough.

Apparently his stepmother agreed. She looked around the room at the red handprint and stained nightdress, listened to Henry’s description of events, and threw her hands in the air.

“This is the outside of enough! Really, husband, I must put my foot down. I warned Henry what might happen if Adam was allowed to wander about the house at will. And look at this! Bloodstains in Miss Smallwood’s room. A clear threat if ever I saw one. Really, I must insist we put more effort into making other arrangements for him elsewhere. Perhaps Mr. Davies might be given the assignment. He might very well succeed where Henry has failed. And until then, I must insist that Adam’s bedchamber door be locked at night. For his own safety as well as ours. No harm was done this time, but who knows what his faulty mind and violent fits might occasion the next? Shall we all be murdered in our beds?”

Sir Giles’s shoulders slumped. He appeared grieved indeed.

Henry hurried to defend his brother. “Adam did not do this. It is not the sort of thing he would conceive of. His mind works very literally, not in pretense. Besides, he was terrified when he came to wake me.”

“And how did he know of it, if he didn’t do it?”

Henry should have foreseen that question and avoided provoking it.

Lady Weston added, “What was he doing creeping about at that hour otherwise?”

Sir Giles asked soberly, “Did he see anyone else coming from her room?”

Henry fidgeted. “No. Not that he mentioned.”

“Ah . . . so he was in her room. Again,” Lady Weston said. “No doubt the same person who took Miss Smallwood’s journal and returned it with that gruesome picture. Can you deny the connection? How else would he know about the apparent blood in Miss Smallwood’s room?”

“Yes, Adam was in her room,” Henry admitted. “But remember this was his room as a boy. Of course he feels the right to come in here. Why you insisted on putting him in the north wing, I’ll never understand.”

“Did he also feel it right to threaten her life, this usurper of his room as he sees it?”

Henry shook his head. “I don’t believe that. And you wouldn’t either if you had seen him cowering in Miss Smallwood’s doorway. He thought it was all real.”

“Perhaps he is a good actor.”

“You allow he is that clever? That talented?”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It isn’t talent to try to save one’s own neck. It’s instinct. An animal trying to flee a trap triggered by his own misstep.”

Julian spoke up. “I don’t know, Mamma. Look at the size of that handprint on the wall. It was made by a hand far larger than Adam’s. Larger than even Rowan’s hefty paw. In fact, I’d say the only one of us with hands that big is Henry himself.”

“What are you talking about?” Henry scowled at his half brother. “I didn’t do this.”

“Are you certain? It sounds like something you would do. We have all heard about the pranks you pulled on the tutor’s daughter when you boarded at the Smallwoods’ school.”

Henry looked at Phillip, but Phillip only shrugged. “You did pull a lot of nasty tricks on her.”

Henry frowned, but before he could object, Julian continued, “How different is this than putting mice in her bed, or forged love letters under her door?”

“That was a long time ago,” Henry said. He lamented ever telling his brothers tales of how he used to torment Miss Smallwood. He would pay for it now.

But better him than Adam.

“Upon my honor, I did not do this,” he said. “I have not pulled a single prank on Miss Smallwood since she arrived.” He looked around at the assembled faces. “But someone has.”

Lady Weston narrowed her eyes at Henry. “Why do you look at us? Surely you don’t accuse one of us?”

“Yes, madam. I most certainly do. Who among us has reason to want to frighten Miss Smallwood—perhaps as an act of revenge?”

Lady Weston glanced at Lizzie.

The girl blanched. “It wasn’t me.”

“Someone did,” Henry insisted. “And I intend to find out who. And when I do, beware.”

Henry stalked from the room. He had barely made it to his study and sat at his desk when his valet came in, hands behind his back, nose pinched in the air, and lips twisted in disgust.

Henry sighed, dreading more problems to deal with. “What is it, Merryn?”

“Really, sir. Far be it from me to complain, to bemoan my unfair lot in life. To serve a master who not only neglects his fine garments, but cruelly abuses them—and therefore me—in the bargain.”

Merryn lifted something in two pincher fingertips, as though a foul rat by the tail.

Henry looked, frowning.

In his hand, his offended valet held one of Henry’s own gloves by the cuff, its palm and fingers stained dark red. The color of dried paint . . . or blood.

The mystery of how the large “bloody” handprint had been made had been solved.

The only questions remained . . . Who had done it?

And why?





Pleasant it is, when over a great sea the winds trouble the waters, to gaze from shore upon another’s great tribulation.

—Lucretius, Roman poet and philosopher