‘He has been brooding over it ever since. And he was so pleased when he read your husband’s name in the visitors’ book at the Three Tuns. Because your husband was his employer. Did you…did you know him? I am sorry if you did. He was such a nice young man.’
Clare was sure she heard a kind of clattering noise as all sorts of things that had been puzzling her fell neatly into place.
Her husband’s uncharacteristically meek agreement to sign that visitors’ book at all, for one thing. She should have known he had an ulterior motive for doing so. And now she knew what it was. He’d wanted the local magistrate to know he was in the vicinity. He’d wanted to be able to discuss Mr Kellet’s drowning without appearing to be actively investigating it. And what better way to advertise his presence than to sign the visitors’ book in the establishment of the thrusting, ambitious Mr Jeavons?
That was the reason he’d chosen this resort to visit, out of all the places he could have taken her. His dislike for Clement was so intense she should have known he would not have come within a hundred miles. And as for telling her he wanted her to be able to mend fences… Her mind flew back to the way he’d settled himself in the boat, with his hat tipped over his eyes to ward off the sun. As though he hadn’t a care in the world.
Because he hadn’t really cared. Not about what was going to pass between Clement and her, anyway. Whatever reason he’d had for taking her to Peeving Cove, she was absolutely certain he’d never expected them to mend fences.
She came back to the room with a start, realising that the clattering noise was real. And that it wasn’t the facts falling into place at all, but the rattle of the tea tray as Maggie set it on the table before her. And now Clare was going to have to play hostess, while her mind, and her heart, was in complete turmoil. And her hands were shaking.
* * *
She wasn’t sure how she got through the rest of the half hour that Miss Hutton stayed. But the moment the girl had gone, she darted out of the house, as well. She didn’t even bother going up to her room to fetch her bonnet and shawl, let alone wait for Kendall to get ready.
She had to think. And she couldn’t do it in the cramped little rooms, surrounded by Rawcliffe’s servants. Loyal servants. There was only one place she could think of going. Only one place where she could be free to think.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘The Colonel is in the reading room, my lord,’ said Jeavons with an unctuous smile. ‘If you would care to follow me?’
‘I remember the way,’ said Rawcliffe curtly. ‘Though I should be grateful if you would make sure we are not disturbed.’
‘Of course, my lord, of course,’ said Jeavons, bowing several times in a way that put Rawcliffe in mind of a jack-in-the-box with a slack spring.
There was only one person in the reading room. An elderly man with bushy white eyebrows.
‘Ah,’ he barked, lowering his newspaper. ‘You must be Rawcliffe, eh?’
‘As you say,’ said Rawcliffe.
‘Didn’t take you long to get here,’ said the Colonel in an approving manner. ‘Good, good. Cannot abide time wasters.’
‘No more,’ said Rawcliffe, taking a chair facing the old man, and folding his hands over the top of his cane, ‘can I.’
‘Want me to get on with it, eh? Tell you straight out why I wanted to speak to you.’
‘Precisely so.’
‘Well, it’s about that young feller that drowned. Employee of yours, I believe.’ He crooked one eyebrow by way of query.
‘That is so.’
‘Nasty business,’ said the Colonel with a shake of his head. ‘Very nasty.’
The hairs on the back of Rawcliffe’s neck stood on end. ‘In what way?’
‘Well, feller came down here trying to pester Lady Buntingford, or so he said. Most put out, he was, that he had to put up here—’
‘Here? In the Three Tuns?’
‘Yes,’ snapped the Colonel, lowering his eyebrows into a scowl at the interruption. ‘That’s what I said—’
‘But why on earth would he stay here, when Lady Buntingford is his great-godmother?’