“I have nothing to say to you, sir. I’ve told Mr. Lewis and your butler, Linley, so before, and on more than one occasion.”
“So you have.” He smiled but no kindness entered his amber-colored eyes. “Perhaps they didn’t mention that I am willing to make your cooperation well worth the effort.”
Lord Druridge possessed a full head of dark, wavy hair and stood several inches taller than most men. Once on an equal footing with him, Rachel had to tilt her head back to look into his face, a visage hard and lean enough to remind her of the hungry wolves fabled to have roamed the countryside. Although he had probably just shaved, the shadow of a heavy beard darkened his jaw. And he was wearing gloves, but she’d heard that scars from the fire at Blackmoor Hall two years ago marked his left hand, extending as far up his sleeve as one could see.
“Your man mentioned a large purse, but I am not interested. My father is dead. I have nothing to say to you.”
“Your father may be dead, but by the narrowest of margins, I am not.” The earl took a step toward her, his face losing all pretense of civility. “I won’t rest until I learn what happened the day the fire killed my wife and the child she carried—”
“Someone else’s babe, by all reports.” Rachel uttered the words before she could check them, but once they were out, she refused to feel the least penitent, despite the sudden clenching of Lord Druridge’s jaw. Most likely no one had ever dared say such a thing to his face, although the villagers, even his own servants, gossiped about his late wife’s many dalliances and anything else that had to do with him or his family.
“Already I see you know more than you led my solicitor to believe,” he said, catching her in her own words. “Please, continue to speak freely.”
“I know nothing. Only that you had as much reason to set the fire at Blackmoor Hall as anyone,” she said. “Mr. Lewis told me what Linley claims to have found, but I don’t believe it. And I am not so impressed with your power or your money as some might be. I will not let you intimidate me.”
The earl’s hand snaked out to grab her elbow. “If you are not intimidated, you should be,” he said. “I hold the lease on this building as well as your home. I could turn you and your family out, and will do so if I must. I will have my answers, one way or another.”
Fear raised the hair on Rachel’s arms as she tried, unsuccessfully, to pull away. She wanted to put some distance between them, to escape the subtle smell of soap that clung to his body. “Isn’t it enough that you had my father sacked when you knew—had to know—he was dying?”
He released her, but his body remained taut, like a tightly coiled spring. “I sent your father away from the colliery because he was a blustering drunk with a penchant for starting trouble. He’d been warned before.” The earl made an impatient gesture with his hand. “But I haven’t come to justify my actions. Believe what you will of me, Miss McTavish, only speak the truth. What do you know about the fire at Blackmoor Hall?”
“My father had nothing to do with it.”
“More than one man has pointed me in his direction.”
“Because Lewis and Linley go around plying various miners with their insidious questions, and my father is a likely scapegoat. He had just lost his job; he was angry. He said some things he shouldn’t have, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.”
The earl’s eyes seemed to glow with an inner light. “Neither does it give him much to lose.”
Rachel lifted her chin. “He had his family. He wouldn’t have wanted us to suffer because of his actions—”
“From what I know of Jack McTavish, he rarely took the suffering of others into consideration,” he broke in. “Regardless, I am not looking to falsely accuse anyone, even a ghost.”
“Then look elsewhere for your murderer, my lord.”
“I will go where my questions lead me. Unfortunately for both of us, they have brought me here.”
“A waste of your time, surely.”
“Not if you hope to retain your home.”
She swallowed hard. “More threats, my lord? Well, consider this: If you turn us out, you will never get your answers.”
Rachel looked past him through the window, hoping someone would enter the shop so she wouldn’t have to be alone with him any longer. But she saw, for the first time, that a liveried footman stood outside. No doubt he worked for Druridge and had been set there to ensure his master’s privacy, as if the presence of the Druridge carriage wasn’t enough to discourage all but the boldest of souls from entering.
“It would seem we have reached an impasse,” he said.
Feeling helpless in the face of his persistence, Rachel eyed him. The earl could send his solicitor or his trusted butler to press her or appear any number of times himself, and he could stay as long as he liked. She could do nothing about it. To make matters worse, her mother was bedridden with a raging fever. If he turned them out, they’d have nowhere to go.
“Please, let us be,” she said, lowering her voice. “My mother is ill, I have a young brother to care for, and I have much to do here. I cannot help you.”
He skewered her with a pointed stare. “Believe me when I say I am sorry for your misfortune, Miss McTavish. But I think you can help me, and if you know what is good for you, you will. You may have no interest in money, although it appears you sorely need it”—his gaze ranged over her simple dress, making her doubly aware of its threadbare state—“but I have something of much greater value to offer.”
“I don’t care what you have, my lord. You can evict us if you want, but my answer will not change.” Brave words, for a coward.
“Even for a competent physician to attend your mother?”
Rachel’s breath caught and held. A physician? Besides an old drunk called Smedlin, Creswell had no expert in the healing arts. And thanks to the terrible weather over the previous two weeks, she had been unable to convince anyone more capable to traverse the long road from Newcastle.
“I doubt a doctor could do anything more than I have—”
“You don’t know that, do you?”
She’d been bluffing when she’d thumbed her nose at his threat to toss them into the street. She could never allow him to do that. The promise of a doctor baited the hook better still.…
“Dr. Jacobsen is a fine physician,” the earl continued as though sensing her weakness. “He is staying at Blackmoor Hall this very instant. I need only send my carriage to bring him to your cottage.” He raised his eyebrows while absently massaging his left hand—his scarred hand.