Page 38 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
“You said your father left everything to your uncle?” Mr. Upton asked after a whispered consultation with Minerva.
And there it was. For ten years, she’d been grateful to her father’s younger brother for moving into her father’s house so they could keep it, allowing her and her mother to stay in their home, however diminished. He’d even paid her mother’s funeral expenses.
“Father had no other family,” she whispered. “Not that I know of. Estates pass to the next male, not to women.”
“Does your uncle know where you are?” Rafe asked angrily.
Overwhelmed, she shook her head again. She couldn’t do this anymore. Rashly, she declared, “He thinks I’m dead.”
TWENTY-THREE: RAFE
Rafe wanted to shoot someone,or beat them up, or anything to release his rage. He’d probably have to start with ducking Verity in a pond.
She still wasn’t telling them the whole truth.
“We should take these up to the manor.” Minerva began wrapping up the papers. “If the thief decides it’s easier to burn down the cottage than find them, they’ll be safe. For what little use they are.”
Had someone really killed Miss Edgerton to steal these scraps of nothing? And why now? Considering Verity claimed the painting depicted her father... The story had more holes than a sieve.
“You’ll have to bend them enough to hide in a basket. The cottage may be watched. I’ll go up with you.” The curate stood and helped his intended to rise.
“I don’t want to put anyone in danger,” Verity whispered miserably. “I should leave. I just don’t know where to go.”
“If you’re dead, no one is looking for you,” Rafe said callously, trudging down the stairs. What the devil did she mean, she was dead? She was alive and looking like all the temptresses in Hades, even in those damned demure widow’s weeds.
Which she’d probably worn for ten years,since her father’s death. Was she even widowed? No husband had been mentioned. The lady was a consummate liar.
And apparently,dead.
In the kitchen, he whacked off a slice of ham. He needed his own place. Why was he hovering, worried, over a lying, conniving... dead person?
Discussing hiding places, Paul and Minerva departed with the painting hidden in a basket of dirty linen. Fine, maybe the manor’s laundress would wash them.
Verity didn’t come down. Mrs. Underhill clucked and ladled broth from a kettle she’d started earlier. “You shouted at the poor thing. Hasn’t she been through enough?”
“What has she been through?” he demanded, cutting ham into the broth. “Has she told you?”
“Why, her friend was murdered before her eyes! Now she’s all alone in the world and that lawyer will sell the cottage right from under her. Men move on, but women want a home.” She carried the bowl up the stairs.
Rafe slurped the broth and went looking for heartier fare. He was here for the food, he reminded himself. They’d eaten almost everything. “If you want supper, we have to go to market,” he shouted up the stairs. She must keep coins on her person for the thief to merely steal a hat.
Where diddeadwomen get money? From a bank. She’d arrived with Bosworth. Did the banker know her? He should question the next time the man stopped in. Rafe had a poor opinion of money men but he might enjoy a lowly soldier like him having the authority to question a banker.
“I don’t have a hat.” She descended the stairs much quieter than he had, looking defeated but still willing to help.
“Dead people don’t need hats.” He slammed on his tattered bicorne. “We’ll see what Lavender has. Aren’t you supposed to visit her?”
Clasping her hands, eyes downcast, she nodded and drifted, hatless, toward the back door.
He felt like an ogre. Either she was an exceedingly good actress—or she was a victim of some sort. Right now, she definitely behaved like a victim, and his stupid Sir Galahad inclination kicked in. He really needed to stifle that antiquated proclivity.
“Is it safe for Mrs. Underhill to stay here?” she asked as he held the door for her.
No, it damned well was not. It wasn’t safe foranyof them to stay here while a killer believed they harbored evidence, if that’s what this was all about. He was just a lowly soldier who took orders, not a general who understood strategic planning.
He returned to the stairs and shouted up them. “Mrs. Underhill, would you like to go to market for us? I’m taking Mrs. Porter up to the manor for a fitting.”
She slowly emerged from the loft, carrying her soup bowl, a cloak, and a bonnet. “Has Mrs. Porter eaten?”
