Chapter Four

It was so late by the time Letitia was able to visit Randolph’s room that she wondered whether she should wait until morning to seek him out. But, eager to hear his opinion, she slipped through the door and was glad to see a candle still burning near the bed.

‘Are you awake?’

‘Well, if I wasn’t, I am now,’ Randolph grumbled, but Letitia noticed that he put aside a book, so he must have been reading. His ill mood probably was due to his continued occupation of this bedchamber, a suspicion that he soon confirmed.

‘I feel like I’ve been cooped up here for ever.’

‘You can’t come out now, or Oberon will surely make plans for departure, for he has nothing to hold him here…yet.’

Randolph said nothing, but glared at her over his half-spectacles.

‘Only a few more days,’ Letitia promised. ‘Once we have dosed them, I will have more faith in our plans.’ Without giving him the opportunity to argue, she went on. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘I think I’m lucky I didn’t get caught sneaking around the house in my nightshirt,’ he muttered. ‘Your son’s valet seems to have eyes in the back of his head.’

Letitia dismissed his complaint with a wave of her hand. ‘Well?’

He sat back amongst the pillows and sighed. ‘I do not like to discourage you, especially since I am the one responsible for your high hopes, but it does not look good to me.’

‘Why?’ Letitia asked.

‘From what I could see, which was precious little, mind you,’ Randolph said, ‘they do not even like each other.’

‘Well, I would be disappointed if they did,’ Letitia said. ‘I don’t want him to befriend her. I want him to fall passionately in love with her.’

Randolph shook his head. ‘I don’t see how that is going to happen when they are barely civil to each other. You could have dined out on their animosity.’

‘Ah, but both are strong emotions, one sometimes standing in for the other,’ the duchess said. ‘And I’m so pleased that he is feeling something that I must account it a good sign.’

Randolph shot her a questioning look, and Letitia wondered if she had said too much. She looked down at the hands in her lap. ‘He was much affected by his father’s death; I fear he was thrust too soon under the mantle of ducal responsibilities. He rose to the occasion admirably, of course, but he changed. I’ve often wondered if something happened while I was…grieving, but Oberon has kept his thoughts to himself. I worry about him, Randolph.’

He said nothing, and she sought to explain. ‘He began distancing himself from his home and his family, spending more and more time at the town house in London until it has been his primary home for years now. I don’t understand why he won’t visit the place he so loved.’ Or his mother, she did not add.

‘It’s not as though he’s gambling away his inheritance,’ Letitia said. ‘Far from it, for he has several gentlemen overseeing everything from the farms at Westfield to foreign investments. So how does he spend his days?’

When Randolph did not answer, she went on. ‘He attends social functions, frittering away his time at one ball or rout or salon after another.’

‘There are worse activities,’ Randolph said.

‘Yes,’ Letitia admitted, for she had told herself that many a time. ‘But there are better ones.’ And she hesitated to think what his father would say, if he knew that his heir was gadding about among a society he had held in contempt. Her husband had devoted his life to his family and public service, championing charities and improvements, so that he had left the world a better place. Letitia felt her eyes well up at the loss of her husband, far too soon, and she swallowed.

‘Somehow he doesn’t seem the type to be engaged in such frippery,’ Randolph said, interrupting her maudlin thoughts.

‘I know,’ Letitia said. ‘He is far too intelligent. He is well read, but beyond that he doesn’t appear to have any interests.’ Even worse, he didn’t seem to care. Although she assumed that her son loved her, he was so composed that she had begun to wonder if he felt anything at all.

But tonight, there had been little hints that he was not his usual urbane self. Perhaps it was not the behaviour she had been hoping for, but it was something. And she was heartened by it. She rose to her feet and smiled to herself.

‘I don’t believe it will be too difficult to turn this passion of his in a more positive direction,’ she said to Randolph. ‘All we need is for Queen’s Well to work its magic.’

Rain had been battering the windows since breakfast, making Oberon wonder why anyone would want to seek out more water. But he did not refuse when his mother insisted he accompany her to the Pump Room for their private tour. What he had learned the evening before only made him more curious about the Suttons and their dubious enterprise.

‘It appears that Miss Sutton has rather grandiose plans for her spa,’ he said casually, once they were settled in the coach for the short drive. ‘I wonder where she is getting the funding for such a venture?’

‘Oberon, please do not be so rude as to enquire again,’ his mother said. ‘It was bad of you to do so during supper.’

‘I don’t see why, for it is a business, is it not? I would think they would be eager to put their case to prospective financers.’ In fact, Oberon was surprised that his mother, stricken as she was with nostalgia, had not been solicited. He slanted her a glance. ‘They haven’t approached you, have they?’

‘Certainly not,’ she answered. ‘Miss Sutton is too gently reared to speak of such things.’

Oberon’s brows shot upwards. Miss Sutton was practically in trade, and he could think of no good reason for her silence on the subject. Although he doubted she was running a swindle, there was always the possibility that her investors wanted to keep their participation quiet. And in his experience, such secrecy meant they were up to something, whether Miss Sutton was aware of it or not.

Oberon frowned, unwilling to believe that she was a knowing participant in anything unsavoury, only to shake his head. Such thoughts led to misjudgements, mistakes or worse, no matter whether he was in London or in a remote village. And he would do well to keep that in mind, he realised, as he entered Miss Sutton’s lair, the infamous Pump Room.

While his mother exclaimed in delight, Oberon assessed the place coolly. Although the main room might be light and airy on a good day, with its tall, arched windows on three sides, the rain cast a pall over the interior this afternoon. Or perhaps the dearth of patrons made it seem devoid of life. The neatly polished parquet floor was empty except for some tables and chairs clustered at the perimeter, where those who did not wish to mill around, socialising, could partake of the waters in seated comfort.

It was at one of these small tables where Miss Sutton’s aunt, Miss Bamford, sat waving her handkerchief in their direction. An empty-headed creature who provided little beyond haphazard chaperonage, she was an odd companion for Miss Sutton. The boy was there, too, though he seemed more like a typical youth than anything else. But where was his sister?

Despite Oberon’s best intentions, he felt a frisson of anticipation as he scanned the area, and when he saw her, his reaction was as baffling as it was difficult to disguise. He had assumed that the long evening before spent acting as host in Mr Pettit’s absence would have inured him to whatever appeal Miss Sutton presented—but it had not. He felt just as he had the first time he had glimpsed her standing in the shadows behind this very building, like he had been struck by some powerful force in his gut or perhaps lower…

‘Miss Sutton,’ he said, with a nod.

‘Your Grace,’ she answered. Was there a breathlessness to her tone? Oberon didn’t flatter himself. She probably had rushed to greet the visitors. She took a seat at the table next to her aunt and Oberon joined them. They were not obliged to obtain their own waters, but were served by a robust young female in a starched apron.

‘None for me, thank you,’ Thad said.

‘Nor I,’ Oberon added.

‘Drink up,’ his mother urged. ‘It will do you good.’

Oberon frowned as he eyed the liquid. ‘So it is said of every spring in England, from the fountains of Bath to the meanest dribble coming up from a farm field that the cows refuse to taste. Each is supposed to cure everything from boils to consumption, but I don’t put much faith in those claims.’

‘Actually, Queen’s Well has never been associated with a specific cure,’ Miss Sutton said, which was hardly surprising since she seemed to argue with him at every opportunity. And yet Oberon felt, not irritated, but pleased by the byplay.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ his mother murmured with a sly smile. Apparently, her nostalgia for the waters knew no bounds.

However, after Oberon had downed half of the wretched brew he realised that neither his mother nor Miss Bamford had touched their glasses and he lodged a protest.

‘I’m afraid I’ve had my share this morning,’ Miss Bamford said. ‘I must admit that it is rather nice to have one’s own supply. No more need to buy bottles of Epsom.’

‘And you?’ Oberon asked his mother, lifting a brow. After all, she seemed to be the spa’s chief supporter.

Smiling as though privy to some private amusement, she shook her head. ‘Oh, I’ve no need of it,’ she said. Oberon opened his mouth to enquire further until he remembered that such waters were known purgatives, so he held his tongue.

Since it appeared that the only other person drinking was Miss Sutton, Oberon lifted his glass in a toast. ‘To Queen’s Well,’ he said, speaking words he’d never thought to utter. And somehow the noxious drink was made palatable by her surprised smile as her gaze met his own. Like the finest of emeralds, her green eyes were beautiful, rare and glowing with light, an observation that seemed to send heat surging through him.

Either that or the waters she forced on him were poisoned.

Oberon waited a long moment, but when he felt no queasiness, he allowed himself to be talked into a tour of the building. His mother claimed to have seen it all before, as did Miss Bamford, and though Thad looked eager to show off the facilities, his aunt querulously demanded his attention. That left Miss Sutton with only Oberon to guide around her domain, a prospect that obviously left her dismayed.

In fact, Oberon thought she would demur, but when he rose to his feet and gave her a curious glance, she joined him, her chin lifted. With a few words of explanation, she gestured towards what Oberon could already see: the new floor, the window seats and the curved counter behind which the drinks were dispensed.

The public displays did not interest Oberon so much as the personal, though he hardly expected to find evidence of mysterious doings. Still, he made it his business to investigate and so turned towards the stairway to the upper floor, inclining his head in question.

Although Miss Sutton seemed none too eager to accompany him up there alone, she was not one to back away from a challenge and soon was leading him up the steps to a wide hall lined with doors. For a moment, they stood in the dim, deserted corridor, silent but for the rain outside, and with no one else present, Oberon was acutely aware of his companion.

Miss Sutton, too, appeared to be unnerved, for she moved away from him and cleared her throat. ‘Since the spring waters are relatively warm, we wanted to provide immersion, but right here in the Pump Room, not at a separate, more public site.’

Having been to the vast pools at Bath, where patrons of both sexes and various levels of hygiene milled about in the same unpleasant stew, fully clothed, Oberon recognised the advantages of this sort of arrangement. Obviously, Miss Sutton had done her research, and the smaller scale of the accommodations meant she would not have to build a pool in the near future, if ever.

Throwing open the nearest door, she waved towards the interior as if in dismissal, but Oberon was interested in a more thorough exploration—or perhaps a few more stolen moments alone with his guide. Brushing past her, Oberon heard her swift intake of breath and felt his own, swift reaction. In the ensuing silence, the sound of his boots were loud upon the tiled floor, which would serve well against spills. A neat fireplace against one wall would ensure the desired warmth in the room itself, while a window could be opened to let in the summer breezes.

‘We will have servants to fetch the waters, of course, but eventually hope to install shower baths and piped water,’ Miss Sutton said, following him into the small space. ‘For complete privacy.’

Oberon turned to look at the low bathing tub with its sloping sides that would provide easy access to patrons. ‘So the bather can totally disrobe,’ Oberon said, pausing to glance at her.

She flushed. ‘Well, yes, in order to receive more direct benefits of the spring waters.’

Oberon could see other benefits as well, as he eyed his companion. Although not given to whimsy, he could imagine steam rising from the waters, moisture thick in the heated air, and the corresponding slick skin of a certain spa owner, naked, her dark hair falling loose and damp…

Despite Oberon’s practised mask, something must have shown in his face, for Miss Sutton flushed and looked away. A pulse pounded in her throat that Oberon would have liked to examine more closely, and he felt the temptation rise, swift and unwelcome. Thankfully, before he could act upon it, his quarry turned and hurried from the room, as if the devil himself was after her. And perhaps he was.

Or maybe the waters had had an adverse effect, after all.

Oberon stood to let Pearson help him on with his coat, having risen early for the opening of the Pump Room later this morning. Although normally he would have taken little heed of such an event, he was curious to see who might be in attendance, including the elusive investors. Despite spending more time in their company, he was still uncertain about the Suttons and their motives in reviving Queen’s Well.

For a name so tied to Philtwell, they remained an enigma. After the fire that had closed the spa, all traces of the family had disappeared, or at least no one was telling Oberon anything. Accustomed to coaxing even the most close-mouthed to speak, he was growing frustrated.

‘Did you find out anything from the servants?’ he asked over his shoulder.

‘I’m afraid not, your Grace,’ Pearson said.

After an earlier servant had proven to be a liability, Oberon had made certain he would be better served in the future. Pearson was not only discreet and loyal, but was useful as an extra pair of eyes and ears, making Oberon entrust far more to the man than his grooming.

‘The Sutton staff is all newly hired and knows nothing more of their employers than one might expect,’ Pearson said.

‘No late night meetings? No secretive visitors?’ Oberon asked. The revival of a spa could provide a convenient excuse for certain forces to gather, and the remote location guaranteed no notice would be paid to such assemblies—at least not by any official authorities. Dissidents, traitors, and spies, including the changing faces of enemies and allies over the course of the country’s long wars with France, could be hatching plans and no one would be the wiser.

But Pearson shook his head and Oberon realised he needed another source of information. Although he rarely used the post, especially for anything sensitive, he might have to send out some enquiries, couched in the most casual terms. ‘I fear I’m forced to write to London.’

‘I could deliver your correspondence, your Grace,’ Pearson offered.

‘Yes, but that would look odd, and by the time you returned, we might be on our own way back to London anyway,’ Oberon said. His mother had not spoken of departing, but she would not tarry here indefinitely, and Oberon had no reason to linger unless he found something worthy of his interest.

‘Perhaps you should speak with Mr Pettit,’ Pearson said. ‘He does not appear to be as ill as reports would claim.’

Occupied in the careful tying of his neckcloth, Oberon did not turn his head, but slanted a glance at the man who was brushing the back of his coat. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘I have seen him.’

‘And how did you manage that?’ Oberon asked. Whenever he tried to meet the man in whose home he was residing, he was fobbed off by his mother, who claimed her cousin was not yet ready for visitors. ‘My mother hovers over his room like a hawk.’

‘He was not in his room,’ Pearson said, ‘but sneaking around the lower floor.’

Accustomed as he was to the sort of intrigues to be discovered in London, for one startling moment Oberon wondered whether his mother and her so-called relative were conducting a liaison. The dowager’s sudden visit to a cousin he did not recall had been curious from the start and even more so since their arrival.

‘It was last night during supper,’ Pearson added, when his employer stiffened.

Since his mother had not left the table, a tryst was unlikely, and Oberon loosed a low breath of relief. Should his mother be entertaining any gentleman, he did not care to be on the premises.

But Pearson’s sighting proved one thing: Pettit existed. Oberon was beginning to wonder if the man was a figment of his mother’s imagination. And perhaps their strange behaviour could be explained by Pettit’s illness. He could be suffering from fevers that influenced his mind, or worse, an advanced case of the clap, which would explain both his seclusion and his wandering.

Oberon frowned, less than eager to interview such a subject, especially when there were more promising prospects. ‘Perhaps I can pry the boy or the aunt away from Miss Sutton long enough to question them,’ he said.

‘Very good, your Grace,’ Pearson said as he gave Oberon’s coat a final brush and stepped back. ‘And might I suggest that, in this case, there is the possibility that the family is just what they seem.’

Oberon turned to eye Pearson closely, for the valet did not comment without reason. ‘You think I am looking for something that isn’t there?’

Pearson did not nod, but inclined his head formally, as if acknowledging the likelihood. ‘Hardly an unusual pursuit for someone in your position, your Grace.’

Oberon frowned. He could not discount Pearson’s opinion, for the man was a good judge of character. And Oberon had enough sense to realise that he might be using the Suttons to occupy himself, instead of kicking his heels until he could return to London.

And yet questions about the family remained, not the least of which was his own response to the young woman. Although it had been some time since Oberon had parted from his last mistress, that did not explain Miss Sutton’s disturbing effect upon him, a detail that he had not shared with anyone, including his valet.

He had never been prey to feminine wiles, nor was he the type whose head was turned by a pretty face, an indifference that had served him well in his work. When he indulged, his preferences were for polished blondes who moved in the best circles and were well practised in discretion.

Since Miss Sutton was a far cry from those women, Oberon was at a loss to explain his reaction. And Pearson, who was not in possession of all the facts, could not make an accurate judgment. So Oberon thanked him with a nod, shot his cuffs and turned to go, his determination unwavering.

He was going to find out all he could about Miss Sutton—and then put an end to his fascination with her.

Glory hurried ahead of Thad and Phillida, anxious to reach the Pump Room. After her unsettling experience the other evening, she had insisted on keeping the keys to the building in her possession, so she would have to let the servants in when they arrived, before admitting the public.

The suddenness of the opening meant that few would attend beyond residents of the area, but Glory was determined to gain their approval. And she had posted notices to newspapers as far away as London with the hope that word would spread and Queen’s Well would again become a destination for travellers.

Although she refused to let her expectations run away with her, Glory was thrilled at the prospect of her dream finally coming to fruition. From the looks of the pale sky, she couldn’t have asked for a better day. Drawing in a deep breath of the still-crisp air, Glory wondered how anyone could prefer the choking haze of London to this peaceful village, empty at this hour except for a couple of other early risers.

Abruptly, Glory’s admiration of the scenery turned to wariness, for she realised that one of those early risers was striding right towards her. Hoping that it was not Dr Tibold, intent upon more trouble, she now wished there were more people about.

‘Miss Sutton!’ At the hail, Glory paused, uncertain, only to realise the man approaching was not wearing a frock-coat, so likely was not the physician. However, her relief at recognising Mr Goodger, the butcher, was tempered by the man’s sombre expression.

‘Miss Sutton, I’m glad you’re here,’ he said. ‘I was just going to send my Bob for you. I saw it first thing on my way back from my cousin’s house.’

Saw what? Glory wondered. At her blank expression, the man inclined his head towards the Pump Room and Glory glanced towards the white-painted building and the neat grounds, with a surge of pride. But as she looked closer, she realised that the hastily erected sign announcing the opening was no longer on its post.

And the entrance… Glory felt her heart trip as she saw that the main doors were askew.

She picked up her skirts and ran. Ignoring Thad and Phillida’s exclamations from behind her, Glory didn’t stop until she reached the post. But the missing sign was not on the ground, and she was forced to look elsewhere, finally spying something poking out of the newly planted lilacs. There she found the painted notice broken into pieces. As she stared numbly at the symbol of the spa’s resurrection, Glory heard Thad’s voice ring out in the stillness.

‘What the devil?’ he said. ‘How could it fall this far? Was it blown off its hooks?’

‘It didn’t fall or blow down,’ Glory said. ‘Someone did this deliberately.’

‘Oh, my.’ Phillida sounded breathless when she reached them and Glory hoped she wasn’t about to faint. ‘This is dreadful! Dreadful!’

‘But why would anyone smash the sign?’ Thad asked.

Phillida’s shaky voice rose to a high-pitched wail. ‘Maybe it’s a warning not to open the well.’

‘What?’ Glory turned to face her aunt.

Phillida paled and clutched at Thad’s arm. ‘I simply… I didn’t want to say anything, but I’ve heard some rumours…’

‘From whom? I thought you decried the lack of society here,’ Glory said.

‘Well, it’s certainly not London—’ Phillida began, but a glance from Glory stopped her from arguing that point further. Instead she eyed her niece grimly. ‘Some of the older people, those who were here for the…fire have implied that the spa is…is ill luck for the village.’ Faltering, she looked at Thad. ‘I thought you were going to tell her.’

Thad grunted. ‘It seemed a load of nonsense, so I wasn’t going to repeat it.’

But Phillida, always superstitious, ignored his scorn and looked at Glory, her eyes wide. ‘You don’t suppose it’s cursed, do you?’

Glory swallowed the sharp retort that came to her lips and drew in a deep breath. ‘The only curse would be that of villagers who are out to ruin Queen’s Well.’ Unreliable workers and shadowy trespassers were one thing, but this was a blatant act of destruction.

The thought made her glance towards the building itself, and she realised that the sign was of little consequence when compared to all the other work that had been done. Leaving Thad to gather up what remnants he could, Glory hurried towards the entrance, fearful of what else she might find.

The doors were open, not wide enough to draw attention, but enough to bode ill, and Glory steeled herself as she pushed on the heavy wood. Vaguely, she was aware of Thad’s warning behind her to be careful, but she was too stunned to heed him.

Just a few days ago, the interior of the Pump Room, restored to its former glory, had dazzled the Duchess of Westfield. Now, the tables and chairs that had lined the main room were overturned, some of them broken. A heavy pier glass had been shattered, its shards littering the new parquet floor.

Behind her, Glory heard footsteps approaching, but she was frozen to the spot. Only the sound of Phillida’s wail made her move, and she turned to see Thad catch their swooning aunt. For an instant, Glory wished for someone strong to lean on herself, and a certain tall, dark figure came to mind, but she pushed the vision away and forced herself to keep going. Passing by the main stairway, Glory headed towards the rear rooms that were closed to the public, just to make sure…

‘Careful!’ Thad called out again, his voice revealing just how shaken he was.

In response, Glory slowed her pace, though she suspected that whoever had been here was long gone. Still, the thought of meeting the person responsible in one of the shadowy back rooms gave her pause. It was not that long ago that she had stood alone in the darkened structure, sensing another presence, and she halted her steps to listen intently.

When she heard something coming from a room ahead, Glory was tempted to call Thad, but she knew he had his hands full with Phillida. Again, she cursed her lack of a pistol and wondered whether she ought to step outside and call for help. But who would respond?

It seemed, as always, that the Suttons were on their own. Reaching down to pick up a broken chair leg, Glory held it like a cudgel and inched forwards until she could hear the sound more clearly. Unless someone was tapping on the walls, it was too rhythmic to signal a presence, so she continued on, her makeshift weapon at the ready.

The doors to the rooms stood open and Glory carefully moved towards the one from which the noise emanated. Peeking around the door frame, she slumped against it, for though nobody stood inside, they had left their mark. Cupboards were flung wide, their contents of cups and glasses strewn upon the floor. The chaise where Phillida so often reclined lay upon its side, a curtain flapping against it, caught by the breeze from an open window.

Glory nearly sank to her feet and wept, but she heard a scratching noise and turned, heading into the other room. Although armed with the chair leg, she gripped it, frozen with terror, when she saw a flash of something in the dimness. Her low cry sent it racing past her, and she stepped back, teetering off balance as a cat leapt to the window and bounded away.

Although Glory would have liked to blame the creature, she knew that no animal had been responsible for such destruction. She leaned shakily against the door frame, unable to summon the wits to move, until she saw that the rear entrance was open as well. The door stood askew and a shadow moved across her line of sight.

The thought of the perpetrator standing outside, gloating over his handiwork, spurred Glory’s flagging courage. Lifting her broken piece of wood, she pushed at the door with her foot, ready to bring down her club upon whoever lurked outside. But she only gasped in shock when she saw the figure standing there.

Westfield.

Glory blinked in astonishment, unsure whether to thump the man roundly with her cudgel or drop her weapon and throw herself into his arms. But the latter impulse was so unnerving that she simply stood where she was, gaping at him.

Handsome and elegant, he didn’t seem at all embarrassed to be discovered. He lifted one dark brow as his gaze swept over her. ‘Does everyone receive this kind of greeting, or am I privy to special treatment?’

When Glory didn’t answer, his brows drew together, and his manner changed. ‘What is it?’ he asked, and for a moment, she thought she glimpsed something other than indifference in those dark eyes. The urge to go to him was nearly overpowering and he stepped forwards, as if in response. But a shout from Thad halted him.

‘Glory? What the devil are you doing with the broken furniture?’ Thad asked. He took the chair leg from her numb grasp and would have pulled her back inside, but then he saw Westfield.

‘Your Grace! What the…uh, how do you happen to be here?’ her brother sputtered. Apparently, even Thad was surprised by the duke’s appearance at the scene of the crime, and as Glory’s scattered wits returned, she waited to see just how the nobleman would explain his presence.

‘I was summoned by young Bob here,’ Westfield said. He gestured behind him, and a ginger-haired lad stepped out from behind the trees.

‘Mr Goodger sent me,’ the boy explained. ‘To fetch the magistrate—seeing as how something looked to have gone wrong at the Pump Room.’

‘Mr Pettit, the magistrate, being indisposed, I came in his stead,’ Westfield said. He lifted both brows as though questioning whether the Suttons objected.

Glory might have, but she couldn’t seem to summon the words, and Thad welcomed him heartily. ‘Oh, yes, thank you for coming, your Grace. We’re most grateful to have your help.’

Were they? Glory wondered, for her own feelings were decidedly mixed. The duke had seemed to be against them, which made it hard for her to trust his offer of aid—or trust him at all. But somehow the sight of him acted as a restorative, and Glory’s despair began to give way to a slow, steady resolution that this would not be the end of Queen’s Well. And no one was going to stop her.

Not even Westfield.