Robert, not Mr. Warner.
Why would a gentleman want to kiss a lady unless there was an attachment? The implication was enormous, life-changing.… Or was it? Might a gentleman wish to kiss a lady without any sense of obligation? She had heard of these types of arrangements. Granted, only in breathy whispers while meandering the corridors of Miss Melvina’s finishing school, but to know, nonetheless, that they existed filled Lydia with insecurity and doubts. Emotions that would usually be ascribed to Elaine, and yet … she was using them in reference to—
“Not Chilton,” Mr. Warner said with such finality that it pulled Lydia out of her reverie. He had rebuffed her offer of a chair and was standing before them.
“Not Chilton?” Lydia repeated.
“Indeed,” Mr. Warner agreed as though unaware that Lydia had only just joined the conversation. “His discomfort that you observed in Spelding had nothing to do with your abduction. He was not shocked to see you because he thought you to be secured in a barn on the other side of Bath. No, his discomfort was derived from your witnessing his association with a Mrs. Flanders.”
“Who?”
“It would seem that, in interest of self-preservation and in desperate need of funds, Mr. Ian Chilton has not put all his eggs in one basket. He is courting a wealthy widow as well, by the name of Mrs. Flanders—the lady in the flowery bonnet. The sense of guilt at being caught brought Chilton to stammer, blush, and rush away.”
“Oh,” Robert and Lydia said at the same time. They shared a glance and a chuckle, and then they looked back at Mr. Warner to see him wearing an odd expression.
“Yes. Well. Shall I continue?”
Robert nodded, and Lydia found herself doing the same—it almost brought the fit of giggles back.
“Your hired driver, Mr. Burgstaller, has been found. He suffered a broken ankle when he was tossed from the coach and is still being nursed by the family that found him on the side of the road. This I learned from his brother, who lamented the terrible loss of the vehicle—it was the man’s livelihood, after all.”
“Oh dear, I shall have to send him some funds to compensate.”
“Admirable, Miss Whitfield, but not necessary. The man’s coach was insured, and the brother thought I was there to assess the loss. There was a fair amount of exaggeration in his account.”
Glancing back at the notebook he held in his hand, Warner nodded to some inner thought and then flipped a page. “Ah, yes. Mr. Kemble and Mr. Drury. There was an agreement between the men that they would share the profits of a successful yield rather than put the money back into the estate as is expected.” He nodded at Robert. “Drury is an out-and-out thief, whereas your uncle, I believe, is merely in want of funds. His tenants vacated his own estate last autumn because of a leaky roof, and he has done nothing to resolve that situation—thereby making it worse still. I can find no connection between him and the abduction.”
With a nod, the man snapped his book shut and turned to face Lydia. “As I told you before starting my investigations, success is not always assured. I am pleased that I can offer you the answers to some of your queries, as I have just outlined. But I find I cannot answer the most important question: Who was behind your kidnapping? Once known, we would understand why.
“However, I could find no helpful witnesses near the farm where you were held. No clues were left behind and no trails to follow. In short, there is nothing more I can do. And as such, I will be returning to Bath on the next coach. I want to make sure Lord Rennoll is suitably situated.”
“Oh,” Lydia said with great wit. She frowned. “Well, do you have any theories, any possible suspects?”
“No. I don’t point a finger unless I have proof. That would be irresponsible.”
While Lydia agreed in principle, the whole exercise left her quite dissatisfied. She had, despite his warnings, expected the Runner to solve the mystery. “And the attempt at blackmail?”
“What exactly was in the letter?” Robert asked in a strained voice.
Mr. Warner explained succinctly, concluding with a shrug. “I could continue to watch the graveyard, but it is closing on a week since you were meant to leave the money … and there has been nary a whisper of scandal. It is possible that the blackmail was not a true threat but a device meant to cause fear and upset.”
“The author cannot know Lydia—umm, Miss Whitfield—very well then, can he?”
The Runner nodded. “Indeed.”
But Lydia was not convinced. “No one. No one visited the graveyard.”
“St. Mary’s in Bankend is more of a chapel than a church. The Reverend only comes once a month. Sends the congregation down the road to Spelding most Sundays. The groundskeeper said the place could go for weeks without a visitor. Quiet. Quiet as a grave.”
Lydia blinked, surprised by the Runner’s attempt at levity.
“His words not mine,” Mr. Warner clarified.
Lydia nodded and then frowned. “Not a true threat?” she repeated the Runner’s earlier comment. “That does not make sense. What if I had awoken one morning in a state of idiocy and quietly placed the money in the graveyard? Would it still be sitting there now?”
“I can’t say. Perhaps the church was being watched. It’s at the end of a lonely road. Your blackmailer might have been waiting in the shrubbery.”
Lydia was reminded of the odd shadows on the grounds of Roseberry and shuddered. “But you don’t think so.”
“We don’t really know enough to decide one way or the other, Miss Whitfield.”
“But there has been no repercussion for my disobedience. Not a whisper against me.”
“There might have been no attempt to carry out the threat, or it could be that your standing in Spelding is beyond reproach—the rumor was started but given no credence.”
“So we don’t know the who behind this blackmail or if the person is in cahoots with the kidnapper.… Or if they are one and the same.”
“Exactly.”
“Clear as mud,” Robert added.
“Exactly.”
Lydia did her best not to chunter until Robert left the room to see Mr. Warner off. When he returned, she was still staring out the window, her jaw tight and her thoughts dark and angry.
“I’m rather put out, Robert.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“There is a possibility that I will never know the who or why of this whole mess. That very idea makes me angry!”
“Yes, I can see that, too.”
“I don’t want to look over my shoulder for the rest of my days … or question the purpose of those around me. There has to be an answer.”