Chapter Eleven

Glory was bent over a pile of books when the duchess burst into the library and urged her to catch up with the duke, who was headed out to speak with Mrs Goodhew. If she’d had time to consider, Glory might have refused, rather than spend more time than necessary with the man, but her first reaction was a surge of delight at the prospect. And it was that which urged her on, as well as the desire for a much-needed escape from what had become her prison.

Snatching up her bonnet, Glory found him at the door, a tall, handsome figure superbly dressed in elegant clothes. And she tried not to imagine him without his midnight coat. Or his pale waistcoat. Or his white shirt. And when her face flushed from the effort, Glory began to question the wisdom of rushing to meet him, but with her hat in hand, it was too late to change her mind.

‘I’m coming with you,’ she said. ‘I’m going blind from looking over ledgers and mad from being cooped inside,’ Glory said, the admission making her more determined.

‘No.’

‘Your Grace, you can hardly keep me locked up at will,’ Glory said, a challenge in her tone.

But something flashed in his dark eyes that spoke of Westfield’s power, especially over her, and Glory glanced away, lest he see more than she wished.

‘I am only concerned for your safety,’ he said, which seemed to be his continual excuse for controlling behaviour. But this time he gave her his arm, and Glory bit back a smile at the small victory. Her pleasure was short-lived, however, as he soon issued a warning.

‘Keep alert,’ he said. ‘Not just to those nearby who might bump into us, but for anyone in the distance, even movement among the trees.’

Glory glanced around warily as the open grounds of Sutton House took on an ominous cast. A strong breeze rustled the leaves of the tall elms and she realised how many places there were to hide even in the familiar environs around Philtwell.

She had thought Westfield more than capable of subduing any opponent, and there were no rocks to send crashing down upon them, but the duke obviously was concerned with other possibilities. ‘You don’t think someone will try to…shoot at us, do you?’ Glory asked.

‘I’m not ruling out anything,’ he said. ‘So far the efforts against you have all been clumsy, but failures breed desperation.’

Glory blanched, and, for once, she tried to tell whether she was being watched. But she was aware only of Westfield at her side and her feelings for him, which made her efforts at conversation difficult. Thankfully, the duke was unaffected and asked her what she was learning in the library. Precious little, she thought, but she managed to report upon what she had been reading; before she realised it, they were standing in front of Mrs Goodhew’s home.

There, they were shown into the same cosy room, though Glory could have done without the fire today. It was warm outside and even more so inside. And she wasn’t taking into account the unwelcome heat that came from Westfield’s nearness.

‘Thank you for meeting with us again,’ he said.

Mrs Goodhew inclined her head. ‘Of course, your Grace.’ She paused to study them with a sharp eye. ‘I understand that you two have been busy.’

Her shrewd look suggested something of a personal nature, and Glory flushed once more.

But Westfield showed no sign of discomfiture. ‘Apparently, not busy enough to thwart whoever is out to close down Queen’s Well.’

‘Now that they have succeeded, perhaps they will cease their meddling,’ Mrs Goodhew said, settling back into her upholstered chair.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Westfield said.

Glory was surprised by the statement, but quickly recognised the truth of it. For if her nemesis disappeared, how was Westfield, or anyone else, to snare the villain and normal activities resume? She realised, with sudden dismay, that Queen’s Well might be closed indefinitely.

‘I don’t understand it,’ Mrs Goodhew said, shaking her head. ‘Times certainly have changed when neighbours turn against neighbours.’

‘We don’t know that anyone from Philtwell is behind our troubles,’ Glory said in an effort to soothe the elderly resident.

But Mrs Goodhew was not placated. ‘Who, then?’

Glory leaned forwards. ‘Have you heard of anyone named Thorpe, who might have invested in the spa?’

Mrs Goodhew’s eyes narrowed. ‘When was this?’

‘Right before the fire.’

She looked pensive. ‘I never heard of any investor, though there was no denying the spa wasn’t as successful then as in past years. In those days, travel was more difficult, and we were far away, with fewer entertainments than some other resorts that were more popular.’

Mrs Goodhew paused to fix Westfield with a stare. ‘I know your mother would argue, for she has cherished memories of Queen’s Well, and rightly so, but it was not what it had been in my mother’s day or my grandmother’s. Sutton had closed one of the inns, leaving the place to stand empty, and the grounds just weren’t kept up the way they used to be. Not that it wasn’t still a lovely place.’

She frowned suddenly. ‘If this fellow was some kind of outside partner, have you no address for him?’

Glory shook her head. ‘Of course, I haven’t looked through all the materials yet, but I found no contract or legal documents, just a notation by hand and a name. Thorpe.’

Mrs Goodhew paused, as if in thought. ‘It seems as though I met someone by that name. He wasn’t from Philtwell, I can tell you that much. He was here with his wife and baby, but they were just visiting. In fact, I thought them guests just like any others, and that was some time before the end. I never saw them again.’

She shot Glory a sharp look. ‘Did you check the guestbooks?’

‘Guestbooks?’

‘All the visitors signed them,’ Mrs Goodhew said. ‘If they weren’t lost in the fire, you might be able to find a record of the family.’

Glory nodded, though she was not eager to go through more old tomes. Once, she had longed for information about Queen’s Well and had revelled in discovering it. But after so much time in the library at Sutton House, she did not look forward to searching for more needles among the haystacks, a reluctance she shared with Westfield after they left Mrs Goodhew’s home.

‘But what else have we right now?’ he asked. ‘Let us not dismiss this Thorpe until we’ve done all we can to find out more about him.’

Glory bit back a sigh. ‘But I don’t know where the guestbooks are or if they even survived.’

‘Which is why we are stopping at the cottage,’ Westfield said.

He paused to open the gate with a flourish and Glory blinked at it in surprise. She had not returned since Westfield had kissed her under the eaves, and she flushed as the memory came flooding back.

Unable to look at him, Glory shook her head. ‘But we’ve already been through most of the attic,’ she said, her heart thundering at the thought of being lodged again in that small space with the duke.

‘Yes, but what of the cellar?’ he asked, gesturing for her to precede him.

Glory could do little except comply, even as her pulse raced in a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. She told herself she was being foolish, for Westfield could hardly be planning an assignation below ground. In fact, she doubted he was thinking of anything of the kind and dismissed the kiss in the attic as an accident, a product of curiosity, spontaneity and proximity.

Or so she hoped.

Anything else did not bear considering because Glory did not trust herself to behave as she should, her feelings for Westfield tending to erode all of her good sense and scatter her wits. So when he opened the door that led beneath the cottage, Glory greeted the musty blackness with a sense of relief. It was even more unappealing than the attic.

Drawing a deep breath, Glory made her way down the narrow stairway into the darkness, as the light from the lantern struck cobwebs and revealed indistinct shapes ahead. The further down she descended, the more she wrinkled her nose at the air, rife with damp and the faint smell of rot, as though some animal might have crawled in long ago, never to find its way out.

Glory did not find the thought comforting.

When they reached the bottom of the steps, she squinted into the shadows at hulking crates and the outlines of abandoned implements. It seemed that the cottage’s caretaker had neglected anything above or below the main rooms, but the attic was a cosy retreat compared to this chill area, with its dirt floor and ancient stone walls.

As Glory stood still, unnerved, Westfield moved past her, intent upon the nearest crates. ‘Surely, anything down here will be decayed,’ she said, imagining mould and damp and…rodents? Hearing a rustling sound, Glory inched nearer to the duke.

She glanced around, but the pool of light from the lantern faded away into blackness, where anything—or anyone—could lurk. Shuddering, Glory told herself that no one else could have entered the cellar, with the cottage now guarded by an army of servants. The only threat here was Westfield, who did not appear to have any designs upon her person, romantic or otherwise.

In fact, he was already lifting the lid off an old container, and Glory stepped closer to marvel over the candelabras carefully packed inside. It soon became apparent that much of what was left of Queen’s Well had been put away here, rather than at Sutton House, which must have already been sold. They came across linens that had turned grey and glasses that had once held the famous waters, which meant that the guestbooks might be here somewhere, as well.

In fact, in the next crate, Glory caught a glimpse of some kind of ledgers lining the bottom. But when she leaned over to reach inside, a stray draught tickled her neck, and then the lantern went out, plunging them into near blackness. Glory froze where she was, her heart thundering at the possibility that they were being assailed once more, this time not by falling rocks, but by assassins in the dark. Where had she put her reticule?

‘Westfield?’ she whispered.

‘Right here.’ The sound of his voice, low and deep and close, made Glory shiver more than the touch of his hand upon her back. She turned towards him automatically, her palms coming to rest against his waistcoat. And then she forgot about dangers of any kind, including those posed by this man. Somehow her hands slid up his solid chest of their own accord, stealing around his neck and drifting through the hair that needed a trim.

It was easy in the dark. Cloaked in the blackness and silence, Glory felt free to do what she willed. She could not see herself and could barely make out the outline of Westfield’s tall form. But she heard the swift intake of his breath and felt the press of his arms as they came around her, pulling her against his hard body.

Despite the darkness, his mouth unerringly found hers and with a force that made Glory gasp. She could not call it an accident, a simple brush of the lips brought on by nearness. There was no mistaking Westfield’s intent as he kissed her with a passion in keeping with his strength and power.

And Glory could do nothing except respond in kind, her first, tentative responses becoming bolder until they were equals, partners in a heated exchange that left her breathless and wanting more. When at last his lips parted from hers, it was only to move to her neck, burning a path along her throat and lower, where the cap of her sleeve slipped down. And Glory reeled at the sensation. Who would have dreamed that the touch of his mouth upon her shoulder would make her whole body spark and flame?

Her head thrown back, Glory loosed a low sound of pleasure that was startling in the silence and Westfield groaned, as if in answer. He pressed against her, closer, but there was nowhere to go, and she stumbled against the crate behind her. Westfield steadied her, but then he stilled, as if catching his breath. Just as Glory was prepared to cry out in protest at the sudden loss of his lips, they were replaced by his thumb, gently rubbing her shoulder before righting her sleeve.

‘Perhaps I should send a servant down here in my stead,’ he said in a hoarse tone.

For a long moment, Glory was too dazed to understand him as he smoothed her hair and straightened her skirts. But when he finally stepped back, away from her, her scattered wits began to return. Raising trembling hands to her cheeks, she buried her face in them, appalled by her wanton behaviour. What had come over her?

Westfield.

Glory heard him relight the lantern, and she was grateful that its illumination was poor at best, for she was not ready for any kind of scrutiny, not even her own. Thankfully, the duke remained facing the lamp, his back towards her. So Glory turned, ready to flee from the cellar to her old room above and the life she had known before he entered it, but his voice stopped her.

‘I beg your pardon.’ The words were stiff, as if torn from him, and Glory paused. ‘I have no excuse except that I find you irresistible.’

He turned then, his lips quirking ruefully, and Glory forgot her own embarrassment. ‘And under any other circumstances, I would hope to further our association.’

Glory’s pulse leapt. Was he going to offer her carte blanche? Although not a woman of easy virtue, she certainly had given Westfield that impression. Yet she could not become his mistress, no matter how much she loved the man. She had not only herself to consider, but her family and a business that required an unblemished reputation. Already, she had compromised herself; to do more would assure her ruin.

‘And although you are presumably unaware of the fact, my mother has been throwing us together,’ Westfield said.

His mother? Glory loosed the breath she had been holding. But if he was not referring to a…liaison, what did he mean by ‘association’?

‘She wants me married,’ he said bluntly. ‘And it seems that she has decided upon you as a suitable prospect. That’s why she had us drink the waters together.’

Glory gaped in surprise. ‘Because of the old legend?’

Westfield nodded, his mouth twisted with disdain. ‘Yes. Apparently, she thought that after one sip we would be overcome with romantic feelings for each other.’

Glory blinked, for she was certainly overcome, but she did not believe that Queen’s Well was responsible. She and her whole family had been consuming the waters since their arrival in Philtwell, without suffering the effects of any special powers.

‘Although I can’t countenance such nonsense, I don’t fault her choice,’ Westfield said. He paused to draw a breath before continuing. ‘However, I have obligations of which she is unaware that prevent me from acting upon her wishes.’

Glory swallowed hard. ‘Of course,’ she managed. ‘You are obligated to take a wife of your own choosing from your own circle.’

‘It’s not that,’ Westfield said, with a shake of his head. ‘I have…commitments.’

His demeanour was stiff, as if he were as uncomfortable as Glory. ‘I hope you will forgive my plain speaking,’ he said. ‘But I did not want to create any confusion. You are… You deserve more than that.’

‘Of course, I understand,’ Glory said, though she did not. It was all she could do to comprehend that the Duke of Westfield had spoken to her of marriage.

‘And I have commitments of my own, as you know. I’m devoted to Queen’s Well,’ she said, determined to end a conversation that had become increasingly painful. Yet when Westfield nodded, his expression once more cool and distant, it wasn’t relief Glory felt, but regret.

Although they met each day at breakfast and supper, the grim group at Sutton House did little except go over what they already knew. As acting magistrate, Westfield seemed to grow more frustrated with each passing day, and Glory could not blame him, for no new suspects presented themselves, while she had buried herself among the ledgers and guestbooks, looking for any clues.

At least Thad was no longer moping. Although he continued to protest the closing of the Pump Room, he had taken to poking about the house in search of clues to the Queen’s Gift, a harmless enough activity.

And this morning there was good news from the outside world to enliven the gathering, the papers reporting the confinement of Napoleon on the island of Saint Helena. Only Westfield seemed oddly affected by the news, alternately pensive and impatient for more information.

‘So this time it is all over, isn’t it?’ Thad asked. ‘The war, the disruption in Europe…’ He turned to Glory. ‘Perhaps I shall make a grand tour after all.’

‘There is always disruption in Europe,’ Westfield said. ‘Problems both at home and abroad are inevitable.’

‘That is a rather fatalistic attitude,’ Mr Pettit said, turning towards the duke with a curious expression.

When he realised the rest of the company was eying him in surprise, Westfield favoured Thad with a nod. ‘But, yes, it looks like this long struggle is over, which is heartening.’

After that small concession, the duke shot Glory a curious glance, and she flushed under the unwelcome attention. Since their intimate conversation in the cellar of the cottage, she had done her best to avoid any personal contact with the man. And he, in turn, maintained his distance.

But now Glory felt his dark gaze upon her and she turned away, unwilling to let him see the feelings that she kept hidden, for fear they would spill forth at any moment. In fact, she was just about to rise from her chair when the housekeeper appeared in the doorway.

The plump female announced in disapproving tones the arrival of a lad from the village who was demanding to see either Westfield ‘or his valet.’

‘Send him in,’ Westfield said. With a nod and a frown, she left, returning with a young fellow hardly more than ten years of age, who clutched his cap, but did not stand upon ceremony.

‘Your Grace,’ he said, a bit breathlessly. ‘I came right away, as soon as I saw. I left one of the other lads there, but I told him not to do anything until we heard from you.’

‘What is it? Have you found a trespasser?’ Westfield said.

‘Worse, your Grace,’ he said. ‘There’s a man down at the Pump Room. You’d better come take a look.’

Westfield was soon on his feet, closely followed by Thad and Glory, although she knew he would prefer she remain safely tucked away with the others. But the Pump Room was hers and she was determined to see for herself what had happened.

As she soon discovered, the downed man was someone Westfield had set to keep watch on the building during the night hours. A quick reconnoitre revealed that his daytime counterpart was standing by the front entrance, blithely unaware that his fellow was lying prone among the trees at the rear of the building.

But, apparently, Westfield’s connections extended to a rabble of boys of various ages, whose duties encompassed watching the entire village for anything remotely suspicious. And it was one of these young fellows who had come across the man who was still breathing, but knocked unconscious, presumably by a large stone that lay near him.

Glory shuddered at the sight, her own encounter with falling rocks still fresh in her mind. She and Westfield could well have ended up in such a condition—or worse. Bending close, Glory was able to rouse the man with some of Phillida’s hartshorn, while one of the boys ran for a physician.

With aid, the fellow was soon sitting up, seemingly unhurt beyond a nasty bump on his head. But he remembered nothing after hearing a noise in the trees during the night, which meant the Pump Room had been unattended for some time. Glory glanced towards the door at the rear of the building, and Thad, who was standing closer to the building, verified what they all suspected.

‘It looks like the lock’s been broken, perhaps with another rock,’ he said.

Glory rose shakily to her feet. ‘But why? We’ve closed for business,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that what they wanted?’

Thad only shook his head, baffled, while Westfield headed towards the door. He pushed it open and carefully stepped inside, followed by Thad and Glory. Suddenly weary, Glory did not know if she even wanted to see what had been done to the interior. They had barely recovered from the previous vandalism; she was not sure that she could do it again.

But this time, Glory saw no telltale windows open, no broken glass or strewn papers, and she began to breath easier. Perhaps whoever broke into the building didn’t have enough time to wreak the kind of havoc they had before. The villagers were more alert, especially the younger ones, and…

Glory’s thoughts trailed off as they entered the main room, where the tables and chairs lined the walls, undisturbed. She loosed a sigh, only to follow it with a gasp as Westfield walked towards the pump itself.

‘What the devil?’ Thad said.

The new parquet around the pump had been pulled up and pieces tossed haphazardly aside, while the very foundation beneath had been broken, leaving nothing except a gaping hole to the earth below. Even the well itself did not appear unscathed, and Glory was only thankful they weren’t standing knee-deep in the precious waters.

‘You better stay back, Glory,’ Thad said, walking cautiously on what was left of the floor. ‘It looks like someone took a pry bar or an axe to this whole area.’

Glory simply stared, appalled, while Westfield knelt down to examine the damage. After a cursory glance, he rose to his feet. ‘Well, now we know,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t the closing of the Pump Room that they were after, although that fell neatly in with their plans.’

‘What, then?’ Glory asked, baffled.

‘What might one look for at the site of Queen’s Well?’

‘The source of the waters?’ Glory asked.

But Thad swung round with a cry of dismay. ‘You don’t think they found it, do you?’

‘Found what?’ Glory asked.

Westfield lifted a dark brow. ‘The Queen’s Gift.’