Page 50 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
Verity had to draw closer to see which sketches she perused—the herbal, with all the sketches of dangerous plants as well as useful ones. The books weren’t hers. She wanted to keep them, but if they cost a lot, she couldn’t afford to pay the heirs what the Prescotts could.
So why had they sought her out?
“Do you believe Miss Edgerton drew these?” Mr. Culliver, the solicitor, asked, studying another open book over the top of his spectacles. When she didn’t immediately answer, he glanced up. “Are they part of the estate or might they belong to someone else?”
“Oh.” Verity hadn’t given it a second thought. She took the portfolio he pushed toward her. “Her former students visited and often left sketches, I believe. Some of the older ones—” she pulled out a yellowed, fading picture labeled hemlock, “—may have been drawn by her mother or grandmother. I’ve not had time to study all of them, but I did notice occasional dates.” She pointed at tiny numbers in the corner that seemed to indicate 1790.
“They would have to be published as a collection, then.” Mr. Prescott flipped back a few pages in his portfolio. A tall man of middling age, in a tailed frockcoat and starched neckcloth, he bore the air of a respectable gentleman. “Herbs From Garden Cottage, by the Edgerton ladies.”
Verity didn’t know why she was uneasy about the watercolors and sketches leaving the cottage. Perhaps it was just the fear of someone else being poisoned using information they might garner from the drawings. It didn’t seem right, somehow. But how could she possibly express her concern? She was not the heir.
Minerva, ever the colonel’s daughter and stern librarian, said what Verity lacked the words for. “Not all those sketches should be published. I daresay the ladies drew them for their own use, to pass on to the cottage’s heirs. They include the knowledge of poisonous plants that should not fall into the hands of scoundrels, as we have so recently learned.”
“But even poisonous herbs have valuable qualities,” Mrs. Prescott argued. “The hemlock Dorian is looking at can be used for breathing difficulties, especially in children. You need only ask your apothecary. She will tell you.”
Another woman who understood the use of herbs.Verity forced herself to think instead of quiver. The well-dressed lady was shortenough to have been the lady in black, but certainly not old enough. That didn’t make her any less likely to have been Miss Edgerton’s visitor that fatal day. Rafe had already ascertained the Prescotts had been in residence.
“Might we call in Dr. Walker and ask her opinion?” Verity asked, stepping out of the shadows she preferred even though she really had no say in any of this.
Mr. Prescott waved a dismissive hand. “What an apothecary has to say is neither here nor there. These are valuable drawings. We would like to purchase them. I don’t see that Mrs. Porter,” he bowed at her, “has any say in the matter.”
“Until we hear from the heirs, none of us have any say in the matter,” the solicitor reminded them.
The Prescotts seemed very determined to have the drawings. Were thedrawingswhat the thief had sought? The killer?
Bringing the books here may have been worse than leaving them in the cottage. Verity cast a worried look at Minerva. The petite librarian nodded curtly back, donned her spectacles, and began gathering up the portfolios. “If these are valuable, we shall keep them in the vault until we hear from the heirs.” Without apology, she carried off the sketches.
“Well, I never...” Mrs. Prescott exclaimed. Her charming smile vanished, and a frown formed over her delicate nose.
“Miss Edgerton was poisoned with one of those herbs,” Verity reminded her, daring to be assertive. “It is very hard for us to consider those pages falling into the hands of someone who might do harm.” She turned to Mr. Culliver. “Please, let the heirs know the danger, as well as the value, if you would? It is the least we can do.”
Before the Prescotts could argue further, Verity departed, just as Minerva had. Faith had never had good reason to develop a backbone. Perhaps Verity could learn from others how to strengthen it.
Although the confrontation left her wishing she was back at the cottage. If Miss Edgerton’s sketches were valuable, shouldthey have shown Mr. Culliver the horrible painting of the coach? It seemed so very personal... But if Miss Edgerton hadn’t specified it belonged to Verity, then it probably belonged to the heirs too. She should have asked Minerva. If the librarian wasn’t always so busy, Verity would like to think of her as a friend someday.
Lavender had returned to the gallery and finished removing the lace from the crushed widow’s hat. She was measuring it with her fingers when Verity entered.
“This lace will go splendidly with the bonnet Henri brought in the other day, the one that suits your Sunday gown.” She produced a straw hat with a high crown and long brim. “It’s a French style! With the black lace and some primrose-dyed silk flowers, it will be perfect on you!”
Verity widened her eyes and touched the tightly-bound, beautiful cream straw. She’d never owned anything half so stylish. “Lace and a ribbon? As an adornment, not a veil?”
“Exactly. And then there will even be lace left to attach to a fichu for your Sunday gown. You will looktrès élégant!” Lavender slipped the bonnet over Verity’s chignon and tightened the ribbons, then gestured at her cheval mirror. “Look for yourself!”
The sight of the splendid bonnet with the new-to-her, high-waisted, tea-colored morning gown finally stirred Verity’s feminine vanity.
She wasn’telegantshe reminded herself. She had all the grace of a milkmaid. Or the cow. But Lavender looked so eager... And Verity loved the new garments, which was all that mattered, she decided. Backbones didn’t require elegance. And the high waist did look splendid on her stumpy figure. “I will take anything and everything you find suitable. I trust your judgment more than mine. I shall need shoes for all this finery. I don’t suppose Mr. Lavigne can find shoes?”
“I’d rather he found a shoemaker,” Lavender replied, a trifle grimly. “But I shall ask.”
“I really must go back and sort out the cottage to see whatcan be salvaged. I cannot keep wearing these poor boots.” As much as Verity enjoyed the manor inhabitants, she longed for her own place. And poor Mrs. Underhill and Marmie needed a home as well. Perhaps the destruction wasn’t as bad as she remembered?
Verity borrowed a shawl to go into the brisk wind. She didn’t need Rafe to escort her. She’d been walking around London on her own for years. Well, she’d had a footman for the bank visits, but this was broad daylight, and she carried nothing valuable. An escort was silly. Admittedly, she’d felt brave in Rafe’s company, but he had the inn now. He didn’t need her.
Reminded of footmen... She glanced toward the stable and the new carriage. She hadn’t seen the manor’s coachman yesterday. She didn’t see him now. She ought to ask after him, though, just to settle her mind. He was much too tall to be the usual sort of coachman, like in the painting. And the possibility of lazy Luther following her here was ludicrous. Besides, footmen did not drive carriages. Still, she should ask when she had a chance.
Not brave enough yet to test a lonely walking path, she took the longer public drive down to the road. She had to pass the inn... and couldn’t resist stopping to admire the newly thatched roof. Workers were still finishing the older section over the lobby entrance.
Rafe was in the yard, carting a familiar-looking crate.Could that be?Lifting her hem and swinging her cane, she hurried excitedly into the trampled yard. “Are those my books?”
