“An’ it’s been over a month,” Thornick complained. “’Ow long did ye expect the money to last? We got families to feed. Bills to pay.”
“I guess you should have thought of that before you tried to rape Rachel McTavish.”
“Ye said we could ’ave whatever fun with ’er we wanted,” Thornick said, obviously appalled by Wythe’s comment.
“That’s true,” Henderson concurred. “Ye even said to make it rough. That there would be a bonus in it if we would.”
“Or ’ave ye forgotten?” Greenley asked.
“That didn’t include rape,” Wythe replied.
“It didn’t exclude it, either.” Collingood again. “Just ’ave Cutberth pay a friend of ours for a little more than he actually hews, an’ ’e’ll slip us the difference. Problem solved.”
“Except that Tyndale keeps too close a watch on the mine’s productivity. Cutberth would never do it anyway. He’s scrupulous about that sort of thing. You know him and his bloody ideals. He will risk his job to start a union, but he won’t steal a halfpenny, even from a man who’s rich as a king.”
“Cutberth’s a man of integrity,” Henderson said.
“Don’t act like he’s some kind of hero,” Wythe snapped. “If he knew you were the ones who approached Jack, he would turn you in so fast your heads would spin.”
Henderson didn’t let that deter him. He jumped in to defend Cutberth again. “Because he’s an ’onest man. We all know that, an’ we respect ’im for it.”
“Honest or not, he had better watch himself,” Wythe said. “When I am earl, I won’t tolerate any secret meetings. And there will be no profit-sharing, either.”
“Profit-sharing?”
The rocks were beginning to cut into Rachel’s back, she was pressing into them so hard. The earl wasn’t here. She should go. But she was learning so much, so much she could take back to him, providing Cutberth hadn’t killed him. They thought Cutberth admirable; she was no longer so sure.
“Forget it, for now,” Wythe said.
“Sounds as if ye’re plannin’ to take over soon,” Greenley said.
“It won’t be long.” The earl’s cousin sounded supremely confident.
“It will if ye don’t start payin’ up,” Thornick said. “Ye ’ave three days. Then we go to Druridge.”
From what Rachel could tell, Wythe didn’t seem the least bit frightened. “It won’t do you any good. By now those paintings have been destroyed. I sent someone over to do it hours ago. He won’t have the proof necessary to save his own neck, regardless of what you say.”
“Our testimony will count for somethin’!” Greenley said.
“It will show you are out to get me—the man who sacked you. Nothing more.”
Rachel had heard enough. She needed to get out before they decided to leave and discovered her listening in.
She had just started for the lift, however, when the arguing got worse. Wythe shouted that he refused to let anyone threaten him. Then she heard two gunshots, fired in rapid succession followed by an exclamation of surprise and some groaning, cursing and scuffling.
Covering her mouth to keep from screaming, she started to run. But once she reached the lift, she was so shaken she couldn’t climb into it. She fell on her first attempt. She managed to get in on the second, but she feared she was making entirely too much noise. Surely Wythe had heard the crash of her lantern when she fell.
She didn’t want him to know anyone else had been in the mine, but she didn’t have time to gather what she had brought.
It doesn’t matter. Go. She had to reach the surface. Fast.
Footsteps pounded toward her. Apparently, he had heard. She grabbed the rope attached to the pulley but was so filled with panic, she couldn’t lift the cage, didn’t have the strength for it.
A light appeared as someone rounded the corner, and she heard a shout: “Stop right there!”
It was Wythe. She had no idea what had happened to the others, but they didn’t seem to be coming.
Were they dead? She feared they were and knew this mine would be her grave too, if she couldn’t haul herself up.
Staring at the darkness above her as if she could fly toward it, she yanked on the rope. It took all of her willpower and every last ounce of energy, but the bucket began to rise, inch by inch.
“Come on,” she muttered, straining for all she was worth. She managed to lift herself another few feet and some more once again. But she wasn’t going nearly fast enough. Wythe reached the rope system she was using before she could get all the way to the top, and he began pulling her back down.
Truman sat on his horse, side by side with his butler, staring up at the brothel. Although they were gone now, the paintings had been there. He was sure of it. According to the girl who had let them in and allowed them to search, Elspeth had removed four large, rectangular objects from the attic two days ago. They had been loaded onto an old wagon and taken somewhere—she didn’t know where. Then, shortly after supper, Elspeth had packed her bags and left.
“For good?” he’d asked.
“She told me I could ’ave the brothel, my lord.”
He had no idea what Madame Soward had planned. But at least he had encountered some evidence that the Bruegels had existed after the fire. That alone made Truman feel as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The mysterious objects she had removed, together with his memories, made him feel confident if they hanged him for Katherine’s murder, they would be hanging an innocent man. He wasn’t the one who had hurt her. He wasn’t guilty of starting the fire, even in his rage. He had merely shown up at the wrong time, and he had nearly lost his life, just as she had.
If not for Wythe, he would have died. So… who had started the fire?
“We had better hurry, my lord,” Linley said. Truman had encountered his butler while following Cutberth to the village after their meeting at the mine. He had wanted to see what the sacked clerk might do, wanted to make sure he wouldn’t visit some of the miners on his way home and stir up trouble. But just as he approached the outskirts of the village, riding well behind his quarry so he wouldn’t tip him off, he had found Linley plodding along the same road. And once he’d heard what his butler was about, he had eagerly accompanied him to the brothel, where they had searched every room—whether they interrupted what was going on inside them or not. Fortunately, it had been a slow night for business.