Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (15 page)

Thomas’s mind was drinking in every fact, slotting each piece of the jigsaw into its proper place. “And what about you?”

“My father was wealthy—I have my own money waiting—but with Richard searching for us, I couldn’t risk trying to draw on the funds. All the family’s business of that sort is managed through one solicitor, a Mr. Foley in London, and I had no reason to think he wouldn’t side with Richard—it would have been surprising if, in the circumstances, he hadn’t.”

“William and Alice—Homer and Pippin?”

She nodded. “William Randolph Percival, fourth Viscount Seddington, of Seddington Grange, near Market Rasen, and Alice Eileen Percival. I realized I would need to keep them hidden for some time—at least until William is old enough to understand the dangers and be on his guard so he could insist that there are others kept around him to protect him. I knew Richard wouldn’t let us be but would come after us, searching and hunting, so I asked William and Alice what names they wanted to go by. William chose his then-hero, Homer, and Alice . . . well, she was only little, but she loved apples and had already learned the word
pippin
. It was her favorite word at that time, so she chose that.”

Thomas considered what she’d said, the ramifications . . . “The men who came looking said you were all from Leicestershire, but Seddington Grange is in Lincolnshire.”

Rose nodded. “Richard no doubt assumed I would go home, or at least to the area I knew best—near where I was born, where my father’s house was, in Leicestershire.”

Thomas studied her face. “But you’re too clever for that.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. “I knew he’d look there first, there and along the road to London, so I went west. To Doncaster that first night, then on to Manchester, and soon after to Chester. I had some money, so I could pay for our lodgings, but I knew that, eventually, we would have to stop, and that the money would run out, so I started looking for work—suitable work that would let me keep the children by me at all times. I started heading south from Chester, by and large avoiding the major towns. It took months, but eventually we reached the south coast at Porthleven. By then I had only a few shillings left and was close to desperate, but it was market day, and in the marketplace I ran into Elsie—Mrs. Gatting’s sister. I was asking around for work, and she overheard and said she knew her sister and her husband needed help up at some manor.”

Rose drew a deep breath, let it out with, “That was our biggest stroke of luck. Elsie told me how to get to the manor, and I walked up here with the children. The instant I set eyes on the house . . .” She sighed. “It was perfect. Isolated, yet comfortable. I would have done anything to have been able to stay here with William and Alice . . . and then the Gattings fell on us as saviors of sorts, and it seemed we’d found our temporary home.”

Thomas tightened his arms, held her a little closer, and rested his cheek against her hair. “When I first saw the manor, I felt the same way—the instant I laid eyes on it. I hadn’t intended to buy a house at all, but I bought it on that whim, then and there.” And if he hadn’t? If he’d resisted that uncharacteristic whim of long ago?

Roland had been right. Fate—or God, whichever it was—moved in wondrous ways.

If he’d needed any further convincing that freeing Rose and the children from the threat of Richard Percival was his fated task, the final penance for which his life had been spared—that singular task only he could accomplish—Rose, with her tale, had provided it.

And as for the question of whether him loving her was part of that fate . . . he’d allowed himself to fall, to all but unintentionally surrender to love, and as his reward she’d trusted him with her story—trusted him with her life and those of the children.

It all seemed of a piece, a typical construct from the hand of Fate.

Rose shifted and looked up at him. “So that’s what brought us here.”

What about you?
She didn’t say the words, but Thomas saw them in her eyes.

He hesitated, but . . . he couldn’t not honor her trust. He had to trust in return. “I . . . was once someone else.”

Her brows arched. After a second of studying his eyes, she turned more fully to face him. “Tell me.”

He did. All of it—all the past of his previous life, a full catalogue of his sins against others, his transgressions. His arrogance and pride, his ultimate realization of the devil he’d become, and his fall . . . and the stay of execution Fate had handed him.

“It was . . . as if I’d suddenly woken up, and for the first time, my eyes were truly open. Truly able to see . . . perhaps because I’d drawn close to that couple, seeing myself in him, or rather, seeing him as the man I might have become, so I could appreciate their reactions, and through their eyes I could view myself, the type of man who had, albeit without specific intention, caused the actions I’d set in train . . . they helped me to see myself for what I had become. And once I’d seen . . . I couldn’t not do the right thing, as far as I was able.” He paused, then more quietly said, “I couldn’t go on as I had been.”

Silence fell; Rose didn’t stir, nor did she press. Eventually, he drew in a deep breath and continued. Because she knew him as Thomas Glendower, a man who had spent his last five years in a monastery, he had started there and told his tale more or less in reverse. It was like unraveling a long skein of wool, tracing his life backward.

He left nothing pertinent out, but, courtesy of his time in the priory, he’d also learned of the sin of self-aggrandizement; he adhered to the truth and didn’t make himself sound worse than he had been—didn’t pretend he’d been more important than he had been—and made sure Rose understood that he had never actually killed anyone himself. Hadn’t, in fact, intended anyone to be killed.

“I’ve never been able to tell what’s right from what’s wrong, not instinctively, as most do. I’ve never had the right . . . framework, I suppose you might say. That, I suspect, was due to my guardian—I was under his care from the time my parents died when I was six years old. He, my guardian, taught me that whatever I wanted, it was my right to have it, and that it was entirely acceptable for me to do whatever was necessary to attain it. That’s what he did—that was how he lived his life.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was found guilty of horrendous crimes and put a gun to his head.” He paused, then went on, “But even so, even under his influence, I . . . not knew, but suspected that my way of arranging things so that everything fell out as I wanted it to wasn’t . . . quite how life was supposed to be lived. Not quite morally or socially acceptable. One old lady saw through me and knew me for what I really was—she’d known my parents and so had a better grasp of, indeed, a sound insight into, my propensities. She warned me, but I thought I knew better and I ignored her words—words of wisdom I should have recognized, but didn’t.”

From those earlier times, he circled back and described how Thomas Glendower had come to be. For completeness’ sake, he also explained about his current investment activities, admitting to all the funds and foundations he had put in place and actively administered, about how he was using his innate talents to make restitution as thoroughly and as broadly as he could.

Telling her everything brought an unexpected catharsis. He’d never recited the whole in its entirety to anyone, but casting himself on her mercy . . . again, that felt right.

At the end of the lengthy recitation, she studied him for several moments, then simply said, “You truly are not that other man anymore.”

Absolution—precious, and of a kind he’d never thought to earn.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. He had more questions concerning hers and the children’s current state, but they would keep until tomorrow; he had enough to absorb, to digest and consider, but . . . fixing his gaze on her eyes, he evenly said, “I hope, now that you’ve heard my story, you’ll understand how important to me helping you and the children is—that you’ll comprehend why it’s imperative I help you to overcome the threat against William’s life.”

Helping you and the children is my fate. Please don’t deny me my ultimate salvation.

Rose looked into his eyes and realized she could see all, all that he was, through to his soul. She nodded, instinctively at first, then more firmly. “Yes. I do understand.”

So very much more than she previously had about this highly complex man.

He was no saint, but he’d never pretended to be. He was who he was—and that was the man she could see herself walking beside, into the future.

A future as yet uncertain, but one they would fight for. Together.

Oh, yes, that she would do. That she could accept.

As if reading her decision in her eyes, he said, “I’ll need to know more so we can work out your options, but that can wait until tomorrow.”

She nodded. “Agreed.” She settled once more, pressing deeper into his embrace. “We can talk more tomorrow, but for the rest of the night . . .” She glanced up, then reached up with one hand and gently traced the marred side of his face. Now that she knew from where his scars had come, to her they held a beauty all their own. Stretching up, she touched her lips to his in an inexpressibly gentle kiss. “For the rest of tonight, let me sleep in your arms.”

Thomas watched her settle, watched her eyes close.

Felt his heart swell.

Closing his eyes, he surrendered—to Fate, to her, to the warmth she’d brought into his cold life.

To the promise of absolution.

Chapter

7

T
homas forced himself to complete his usual morning’s work, reminding himself that others besides Rose and the children also had a claim on the fruits of his brain.

But he and Rose had woken early, and he’d hurried through breakfast; by ten o’clock, he was tidying away his papers. After checking on Homer—William, a name that better suited him—and ensuring the boy had enough sufficiently challenging arithmetical exercises to keep him occupied, Thomas went in search of Rose.

Rosalind, but to him she would always be Rose.

He found her in the kitchen and persuaded her to return with him to the library.

Again, he’d anticipated some degree of awkwardness, at least of consciousness, arising out of their intimacy, but, again, that didn’t eventuate. He looked at her, and she met his eyes and returned his regard with her usual steady directness, and . . . they were as one. Completely open and sure of each other; it was as if through knowing each other physically, they had somehow come to know each other in a far deeper sense.

Which made going forward very easy.

He waved her to the chair he’d set before his desk. Rounding the desk, he leaned his cane against it and lowered himself into his admiral’s chair. “We need to evaluate our options and decide our best way forward.”

Rose hid a small smile; two “
ours
” in one sentence. Reassurance of his commitment, plus a statement of intent. Drawing the chair closer to the desk, she nodded. “Those men—even if they don’t return, others eventually will.”

“Indeed.” Thomas set a fresh sheet of paper on his blotter, then reached for a pencil. “But as they haven’t immediately reappeared, and given what I told them, combined with how few people around here know you or the children well, then I suspect we’ll have a few days, perhaps even weeks, before anyone returns.” Across the desk, he met her gaze. “In such a situation, the best thing we can do to improve our position is to learn as much as we can about the opposition—about our foes. And the first step in doing that is to make a list of all the questions we can think of, the things we need to learn about them in order to, first, avoid them, and, secondly, to move against them and nullify the threat they pose.”

Rose leaned forward, settling her forearms on the desk. “In this case, they and them equates to Richard Percival.”

Thomas nodded and wrote down the name. “What can you tell me about him?”

She frowned. “Not as much as I would like—my mother and stepfather didn’t encourage him to call.”

“They disapproved of him?”

She raised her brows. “I didn’t think much of it before, but, yes, that’s what it seemed to be, but I always put it—his effective banishment—down to his reputation as a rake. A womanizer, a gamester—not generally the sort of gentleman one encourages to spend time with a young lady of the house.” Dryly, she added, “Especially not one particularly well-dowered.”

“So he’s in need of money?”

She considered, then grimaced. “I believe that would be the general consensus, but in actual fact, I know nothing of his financial situation. For instance, I never heard him petition, or heard of him having petitioned, Robert for more funds.” She paused, then added, “Of course that might have happened and I might simply not have heard of it.”

Thomas sat back, his gaze fixed on what he’d written.

Rose watched him think, and for the first time since she’d fled Seddington Grange in the wind-whipped darkness of a Lincolnshire night, she felt hope, real and solid. Hope that she would indeed see William through this danger, and see him installed in his father’s shoes as the fourth Viscount Seddington.

She’d vowed to her mother that she would care for the children; she’d been twenty years old when William had been born, and with her mother so sickly after the birth, Rose had stepped in and, in effect, become William’s de facto mother. And then Alice’s in much the same way. She loved both children dearly, and her vow to her mother only strengthened that feeling. William and Alice were all Rose had left of her mother, and of Robert Percival, a man she’d admired, who had opened his heart to her, the daughter of his wife’s first marriage.

Thomas stirred and met her eyes. “You were there when your stepfather’s will was read?” When she nodded, he asked, “And Richard Percival was named William’s sole guardian?”

Rose blinked. “Yes . . . no. Wait.” After a moment, she exhaled, closed her eyes, and sent her mind back to that fraught time, to the formal gathering in the library after the wake. Eyes still closed, she murmured, “The solicitor, Mr. Foley, stood beside the desk and read out the will . . . Richard was named . . .
principal
guardian.” She frowned. “I remember that, but I can’t recall the rest—what immediately followed—because William tugged my sleeve and I turned to him. He wanted to know what a guardian was.” She tried to remember more, but then she shook her head and opened her eyes. “I can’t explain what was meant by ‘principal’ because I didn’t hear the rest of that clause.”

Thomas grimaced, then sat forward. “Very well. I can think of two highly pertinent questions—the first two that we need answered.” Pencil poised, he met her gaze. “But even with our queries, we’ll have to move cautiously. At present, no one connected with Richard Percival has any firm idea where you are—according to the two who called here, the best they have is ‘possibly Cornwall.’ But even though I can, and will, make our inquiries through agencies in no way connected to you, if Richard Percival realizes that someone is asking these sorts of questions . . . well, if I were he, I would know how to trace the queries back to who was making them. To me, here. To you and the children.”

“You’re saying there’s a risk in even trying to learn the information we need to be able to move against Richard Percival.”

Thomas nodded.

Rose considered, then said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but if we do nothing, make no effort to counter Richard, then the children will potentially, eventually, be in even greater danger. As Richard is William’s guardian, and presumably Alice’s as well, then once he finds them, there’s nothing I will be able to do to keep them from him. He’ll be able to seize them and take them away to wherever he wishes. I won’t be able to stay with them, to protect them against whatever he might do.”

Thomas said nothing, but returned her gaze steadily.

Rose nodded. “Write down our first two questions—we need to get started if we’re ever to free William of Richard Percival’s threat.”

She watched as Thomas bent to the task, formulating two lines of inquiry . . . “Incidentally,” she said, “what are our two most pertinent questions?”

He didn’t look up, but his lips curved. “The first and most urgent question is whether the official clock has been set ticking on William’s presumed death—if someone has already petitioned for him to be declared dead so that the estate can be moved through probate. If they have, that will confirm that someone—presumably Richard Percival—wants to inherit, that his inheriting is a factor at play in all this.” He paused, then said, “You fled with William more than four years ago, so it’s possible that there’s less than three years left to run on that clock. However, the time isn’t the point—it’s the fact that the official petition has been lodged, and who moved for it to be so, that’s critical to us in terms of understanding what’s going on.”

Easing back, eyes tracking what he’d written thus far, he tapped the pencil on the sheet. “Our second question is to seek confirmation of exactly who William’s guardians are. ‘Principal guardian’ suggests that your stepfather was wise enough to put some reins on his brother’s rights over William, but he might well not have wanted to take such a drastic—and potentially public—stance as to exclude Richard from a guardianship all society would have expected to fall to him.”

Thomas looked up at her. “Does that sound like your stepfather? To try to do the best for his children, but at the same time to shy from any too-public declaration of distrust of his brother?”

Rose nodded. “Yes, Robert would have thought like that. He was very aware of the family’s honor, so to speak.”

Thomas inclined his head and continued writing, making notes on which to base the letters he would later pen and dispatch. “If someone else has been appointed co-guardian—a secondary guardian, at least—who might it be?”

Rose thought, then grimaced. “The only family member who comes to mind is Robert’s uncle, Marmaduke Percival, but he, as you might imagine, is not young, and he’s never to my knowledge shown any interest in the children. As for others . . . although I don’t know the Percival family connections that well, I met all those who attended Mama and Robert’s wedding, and, of course, all who came to the funeral, but all the others are distant cousins, and most were of the older generation, too. None of them were close.”

Thomas paused in his writing, then looked at Rose. “With your permission, I’m also going to ask if there’s any suggestion as to William’s estate being drawn down.”

She blinked. “Could it be? I assumed it would remain untouched.”

“It
should,
but . . . a guardian, or in this case, both guardians, could seek to free some of the estate’s income for expenses incurred in administering William’s estate in his absence.” He shrugged. “Something along those lines. It’s easy enough to fabricate an excuse that sounds legitimate, and depending on the solicitor—this Foley, whom you don’t trust—the estate might already be in the process of being carefully drained.”

Rose looked faintly shocked. “I never thought . . .” Her expression firmed. “Can we stop it?”

He met her gaze. “Only by reinstating William.”

Rose held his gaze for an instant, then waved her hand at his notes. “In that case, get writing.”

Thomas grinned faintly, but the expression faded as he looked over what he’d written. Then he reached for a fresh sheet of paper and exchanged his pencil for a pen. “I’m going to write to my business agent and, separately, to my solicitor. Both are sound, and very used to responding to my requests with absolute discretion. They know not to make waves—not even ripples—in pursuing such inquiries.” He glanced at the clock, then at Rose. “I’ll write these now, then after lunch, I’ll take them to Helston and put them on the mail. They’ll reach London tomorrow, and then . . . we’ll see.”

Rose nodded and got to her feet.

She paused, looking down on Thomas’s blond-brown head. The words
thank you
hovered on her tongue, but . . . gratitude of that sort would set him apart from her and the children, and that wasn’t what she wanted.

They were working together now, and
he
was part of
them
.

Feeling more heartened than she had since first hearing of her mother’s and stepfather’s deaths, she turned and left Thomas to his task.

“W
ell?” Richard Percival demanded.

Calmly, Curtis replied, “We found a few possibles—more than two. We need someone who can identify them—at least her, and, if at all possible, the boy.” He watched eagerness transform his employer’s until now grim expression. “Is there anyone you can send us—remembering that we need someone who will keep all this under his hat?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.” Richard Percival met his eyes. “My brother’s valet. Even though I don’t need his services, I’ve kept the man on. He will know her, definitely, and, despite the years, he should recognize the boy, too—literally on sight.”

“Excellent.” Curtis felt his instincts rise as they always did when he was nearing the end of a hunt. And this hunt had been unexpectedly long and difficult. Their quarry, it transpired, had more brains than they’d expected. He glanced at Percival and decided to break with his habit of never encouraging his clients until he had their quarry bagged; the man had stayed the course long beyond what Curtis had expected of him. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but this tack is starting to feel right. I think we’re nearing the end of the race, that we truly are closing in.”

Richard Percival met his gaze, a powerful mix of emotions in his face. “God, I hope so.” Something close to exhausted desperation colored his tone. “I don’t know for how much longer I can keep the vultures at bay.”

I
t was ten days before the replies to Thomas’s first round of queries arrived, delivered by the boy he’d hired to bring the mail from Helston each afternoon.

Accepting the missives from the boy at the front door, Thomas handed him his usual coin, then watched him ride off before turning inside. Shutting the door, he saw that Rose had come out of the kitchen; wiping her hands on her apron, she stood at the rear of the hall, watching and waiting.

Thomas glanced at the open door to the dining room; Homer—for safety, Thomas and Rose had agreed William should still use that name—was reading at the dining table.

Waving Rose into the library, Thomas limped down the corridor, followed her inside, and shut the door.

She turned, her gaze going to the letters in his hand. “Replies?”

“I believe so.” He went to the desk, leaned his cane against the front edge, examined the letters, then laid the one from Drayton, his longtime agent, down, and opened the one from Marwell. “This one’s from my solicitor.” Unfolding the sheet, he swiftly scanned it, then handed it on to Rose. While she read, he summarized, “William was reported missing, presumed dead, soon after his disappearance. As far as Marwell could learn, within a month—so yes, Percival wants the inheritance sooner rather than later.”