“I’m sorry?” she responded.
“Pieter Bruegel. Have you heard of him?”
At a complete loss, Rachel shook her head. She had just given the earl the answers he had been searching for, for two years, and instead of exhibiting any joy or relief, he brought up this Bruegel.
“He was the greatest Flemish painter of the sixteenth century,” he explained.
“My education has centered on literature and poetry, my lord. I am afraid I know very little about art.”
He smiled, but uncertainty flickered in the depths of his eyes. “I understand. Will you let me compensate you for your trouble in coming here today?”
Oh God, now he was going to try to reward her for the lies she had just told him. Her conscience bucked at the thought. “No, thank you.” Rachel jumped to her feet. “I expect nothing.”
“But you didn’t have to come. At least let me send some flour and eggs and other foodstuffs to your cottage—”
“No!” What would the miners think if the earl started sending her barrels and crates? “I-I don’t need anything,” she amended.
He didn’t look convinced, but in the face of her adamant refusal, he sketched a slight bow. “As you wish.”
“Then I will be on my way.” Rachel pulled her cloak tighter and turned to leave, but he caught her by the elbow. His fingers seemed to burn through the fabric of her cloak and dress, making her aware of him not as an earl, but as she knew him that one night, as a man.
“If you will wait here, I’ll have the carriage brought around. There is no need for you to walk. In any case, I would like to show you something before you go.”
She agreed to stay so he would release her, but as soon as he left the room she headed for the door. She had already done what the miners wanted her to do. She had no desire to see whatever it was Druridge planned to show her, and she certainly didn’t want to ride in his carriage. She couldn’t withstand his scrutiny a moment longer. Being in his company made it impossible to forget his strong hands on her body, his soft, firm lips at her temples, her neck, her br**sts.
But just as she reached for the knob, the smell of the food caught her about the neck like a shepherd’s crook, and she thought of Geordie. He was hungry. The earl would never miss a tart or two. The servants would clear the remains of the meal, possibly even throw them away.
The idea of waste proved unbearable. Grabbing as much as she could carry, Rachel hid the food under her cloak. Then she let herself out and ran most of the way home, feeling as much like a thief as if she’d stolen the earl’s silver.
Truman stood in the empty drawing room, staring down at the tray.
“Here is the painting you requested, my lord,” Linley said, coming in behind him. “I had it covered, but—” He fell silent when he realized that, besides them, the room was empty. “She’s gone?”
Truman didn’t answer. He went to gaze out the front window, but he could see no sign of Rachel.
“Shall I take the painting to her house?”
“No, don’t bother.”
“What is it?” Linley pressed.
“She took the food,” Truman replied.
“Sorry, my lord?”
“Rachel. She’s hungry.” Truman felt his gut twist when he remembered how many times her eyes had cut to the tray. She had wanted it, needed it, but she had been too proud to eat it. She hated letting him see her weakness, and he hated the fact that her pride made it almost impossible for him to help her.
“I don’t understand, my lord. Are you talking about Miss McTavish?”
“Yes.” He turned his attention to his butler. Over the years he’d spent more time with Linley than his own parents and because of that the boundaries between them sometimes blurred. Their relationship felt more like father and son these days.
“She said she was doing fine, never better,” he explained. “Yet there were dark circles beneath her eyes. And suddenly, out of nowhere, she tells me her father lit the fire that burned the hall and killed Katherine. Only she showed very little emotion when she said it. She seemed more frightened or agitated than anything else.”
Linley’s tufted eyebrows raised above his round spectacles. “So you asked her about the missing painting.”
“No. I hadn’t gotten that far yet. She had never even heard of Bruegel, so it seemed pointless. That was why I asked you to get Peasant Wedding Feast, to see if she would perhaps recognize Bruegel’s style.” He had just purchased the painting, which hadn’t been part of his father’s original collection. So far, they hadn’t been able to locate any that were. But the more time passed, the more certain Truman became that his father’s favorite, Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, was missing before the fire so much as scorched the walls.
“An excellent plan.”
Truman shrugged. “It was worth a try, even though I doubt Jack set the fire or stole the paintings, at least on his own. If it were that simple, I would have figured it out months ago. But… why would Rachel lie?”
At first, he’d thought she’d been grasping for a way her conscience would allow her to accept money from him. She was obviously going without, which meant her brother couldn’t be faring much better. But when she flatly refused everything he offered, again, he had to reconsider that assumption.
“Do you want me to do some more checking, my lord? Perhaps have her watched?”
Truman rubbed his face. “She is not to be bothered in any way. Just keep an eye on her cottage and make sure whomever you use has no obvious connection to me. Something about her whole confession didn’t feel right.” He had to reach the truth and, more and more, he believed Rachel was the key. But it was the food that troubled him at this moment. She was going hungry, and because she wouldn’t accept anything from him, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Or was there?
He whirled to face his butler. “Linley, please have Mrs. Poulson send a ham, a turkey, eggs, flour, sugar, salt, nuts, wine and some fresh fruits and vegetables to the McTavish cottage. See that the food gets there as soon as possible. And tell whoever accompanies it that it’s to be left to rot by the front door if Rachel won’t accept it.”
“Aye, my lord.”
To hell with Rachel’s bloody pride, Truman decided. He wasn’t going to sit back and watch her starve.
Geordie was home alone when Rachel returned. She looked around the sparsely furnished cottage in surprise, then put the tarts and sandwiches she’d taken from Blackmoor Hall on the table. “Where is Mrs. Tate? She said she would keep an eye on you while I was gone.”