Petra studied a painting of a sad looking matron seated with a dog on her lap. The dog was an ugly looking little beast, more closely resembling a pig. The woman’s head was overly large and her body, in relation to the dog’s, was drawn all out of proportion. A terrible work of art to be sure. She hoped the artist was not richly compensated. Next she perused a gruff, elderly man with a shock of white hair.
Another hour later, finally bored with her study of the portraits, Petra stopped a passing servant to ask the direction of the library. The Somerton gardens were wild and overgrown, but she’d spied a stone bench from her bedroom window. A perfect spot to read.
* * *
Brendan stretchedthe muscles of his neck, turning his head back and forth. He threw the weather-beaten rucksack on the table. He was pleasantly tired and sore.
After an early breakfast with his mother, Brendan had made his way back to the cave he’d visited the day before. The cave was nothing special. Not even so much as a fossilized leaf or fern. He had looked for the telltale line of blue and yellow, but there had been no sign of Blue John in the cavern. Brendan wasn’t surprised. His father’s obsession with finding the mineral on their estate hadn’t produced fruit thirty years ago and was unlikely to do so now. Still, Brendan was compelled to look.
Blue John, or calcium fluorite as Brendan had been taught when studying at Oxford, was the reason behind his father’s disappearance. Mother insisted Reggie had been searching for the rare mineral when he’d gone missing. Maybe Reggie had found a deposit and before he could return to share the news, he’d fallen into a hole in the limestone and broken his neck. He wouldn’t be the first person, nor the last, to fall prey to the numerous holes littering the moors.
Reggie’s body had never been recovered nor a trace of him found, even though half the county had gone looking for him. Mother still teared up when she thought of that day. Knowing the area as he did, Brendan thought it likely his father’s body lay at the base of a ravine or in a cave somewhere, swallowed by the earth. Brendan preferred his version of his father’s disappearance to the gossip.
Brendan reached up with his forefinger to touch the scar bisecting his eyebrow, remembering the punch he’d thrown at one of the taverns in Buxton. The drunken son of one of the mine owners had felt it necessary to relate the tragic events of the disappearance of the former earl, not realizing the man’s son had sat at the bar next to him. When the man stated Reggie had had a secret mistress and had fled to America with her, Brendan had gone a bit wild.
Stretching again and pulling a chair over, Brendan decided, no matter his aching arms, it had been best to be away from Somerton today. He’d left the estate at first light, determined to put Petra out of his mind. She was only a girl and a rather prim one at that. Brendan was reckless by nature and the thought of Petra lying upstairs in a guest room was far too tempting.
Thankfully, the object of his lust hadn’t come down for dinner last night, although he had not been spared the presence of Lady Marsh. Brendan found Petra’s mother to be the most frivolous, annoying woman he’d ever met. She had chattered incessantly throughout the meal, pausing only to take a breath, or take a forkful of roast before launching into another overly long story about Lady Upton’s ball, or dissecting the gown another lady had worn to the opera. Questions had flown from her lips about Pendleton and his family. Shooting a look Brendan’s way, Lady Marsh had made sure to give Brendan and his mother a glowing rendition of Simon’s courtship of Petra, as if she suspected Morwick wanted to ravish her daughter. By the end of the meal, Brendan had wished to strangle himself with the cravat his valet had carefully tied around his neck despite his protests. Finally, Lady Marsh seemed to have exhausted herself, and had bid him and his mother good night. He wondered if Mother also had had a headache for he certainly had.
Brendan returned his attention to the matter at hand. Picking up the rucksack, he untied the flaps and spilled the day’s gatherings across the table. He hadn’t expected much from the cave as it was too far from Pendleton land to have any Blue John. Still, there might be something equally as valuable. Copper or tin. Possibly lead. Brendan did not mine on his own land but he was a partner in several mining enterprises, most north of Buxton. A geologist by trade, though he’d not finished his schooling, Brendan’s knowledge and skills made him much sought after by the consortiums who ran the majority of the mines in the area. He surveyed. Studied. Told them where to start digging. Sometimes when a group of paleontologists or fellow geologists came up from London, Brendan would act as a guide through the miles of caves and moors surrounding Somerton.
Brendan walked over to the windows, throwing open the heavy drapes to allow the late afternoon light into the study. This had been Reggie’s space, and Brendan never felt closer to his father than when he was here. Books and surveys crowded every available space. Equipment for testing samples along with an assortment of ropes and tools for climbing were littered across the floor. The walls were hung with sketches and watercolors, all done by Reggie. In addition to his interests in geology and nature, Brendan’s father had been a gifted artist.
Dumping out the contents of the pack, Brendan pushed up his sleeves. A beautiful nut-colored stone laced through with bits of green rolled out and across the table. The rock wasn’t valuable or particularly interesting, but it had reminded Brendan of Petra’s eyes.
Frustrated at having her invade his thoughts again, Brendan shoved the stone to the side.
He was treading a dangerous path. One had only to look at his mother and see the damage love had done to her. Katherine had been the only woman who’d stirred his affections so strongly, and in the end, he’d let her go rather than marry her as her father had wished. Besides, Katherine had wanted London and Brendan still did not. He couldn’t live his life trapped in and amongst the filth of the city, teeming with people. Brendan hadn’t been Katherine’s first lover, so he hadn’t been compelled to do the right or honorable thing. In the end, Katherine chose Whitfield. Whitfield had died six months ago, right about the time Arabella had married, and Katherine had returned to her mother at Brushbriar. She’d made a point of letting him know of her availability and the lack of impediment her widowhood presented should he wish to strike up their previous relationship.
But after his return from London, Brendan had no interest in Katherine, nor any woman. That bothered him far more than anything else.
He looked toward the edge of the desk. The stone resembling the hazel of Petra’s eyes winked at him as it caught the sunlight.
Damn.
6
Petrafinallyfound the library. Even after seeking directions, it had taken her a solid fifteen minutes to reach her destination. She didn’t hold out much hope Morwick would actually have anything of interest in his library, but his motherhadspent a portion of her life at Somerton. Perhaps there was something to draw her interest.
Rows of books lined the walls and stacked in rows behind a well-used leather couch. Tiptoeing around the books, afraid the least bit of movement would cause them to topple, Petra approached the bookcases first.
A dull scratching sounded.
“I’m sure there are mice living in the walls,” she said out loud. “Poor things made their way down a hallway and can’t figure out how to leave.” Petra ran a finger over the row of books facing her, grimacing at the dust coating the bindings.
Cluttered and disorganized, the library was much like Somerton itself. There seemed no rhyme or reason to the way the books had been placed on the shelves, other than utter chaos. Moving to another bookcase, Petra found this section to be less dusty and the books grouped together. She saw dozens of books on the same topic. Geology. Another grouping was all on paleontology. She wasn’t quite certain what that was, though she’d heard of geology. Lady Cupps-Foster had said something about Morwick studying geology.
“I’ve no idea exactly what that means,” she whispered to the books.
There was an entire section on gritstone. Several books in German. Another section on mineralogy. Nothing remotely tempted her. Or would tempt anyone. Petra turned away with a sigh and turned toward a smaller stack leaning against the arm of the couch.Novels. Some looked quite lurid. These books could only belong Lady Cupps-Foster. Morwick’s mother apparently had a particular interest in the adventures of Lord Thurston. Petra was thrilled. She’d always wanted to read Lord Thurston but hadn’t been afforded the opportunity.
Lord Thurston was the hero of a series of somewhat shocking novels deemed too risqué for proper young ladies. The books detailed the adventures of a nobleman who becomes a pirate after his father disinherits him. Mother forbade Petra from evenmentioningLord Thurston, let alone reading his adventures.
“But she’s ill.” Petra picked up “Lord Thurston’s Revenge” and stuck it under her arm.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape
Petra wrinkled her nose and tried to keep from sneezing at the dust. The sound appeared to be coming from behind the bookcase. Petra pictured a score of mice, all sharpening their tiny claws on the stone walls. Vermin were known to inhabit old, drafty castles and certainly at least part of Somerton qualified. She sincerely hoped not to meet any of the home’s furry residents. Exiting the library, she tapped one finger against her lips, struggling to remember the shortest way back toward the stairs when the scraping came again, a bit louder. The rhythm was steady and purposeful.
