Page 74 of An Affair at Stonecliffe

Priscilla’s brow rose a little in surprise. “Alone?”

“Lady Rutherford’s son and his governess are with us, of course,” Carlisle lied smoothly, then went on, “I am sorry to intrude, but we would very much like to speak to Lord Haverstock. I wrote him about a rather important matter and have received no answer. Time is of the essence, I’m afraid.”

“My father is somewhat disinclined to receive visitors,” Priscilla replied. “Perhaps my brother or I could help you.”

“That’s very kind of you, but it regards a business arrangement Lord Haverstock had with my father and Lord Drewsbury many years ago. I myself have only recently become aware of it.”

“My brother has taken over much of our father’s business matters,” Priscilla countered.

Timothy chuckled. “I fear my sister exaggerates my share of the estate business. Priscilla does most of the work. She’s always been ahead of me in math. Even Sprague—” He broke off and turned his head away. Priscilla’s eyes were suddenly moist, though she blinked it away immediately.

Noelle felt a wave of sympathy for them; clearly their brother’s death still affected them. She said gently, “I am so sorry for your loss. We don’t mean to disturb you or your father. But I fear this business is separate from anything in your estate.”

“It has been, well, rather secret,” Carlisle said. “I discovered its existence only a few days ago. And it is rather important. I promise we will not bother Lord Haverstock for long.”

Priscilla’s eyes were curious, and Noelle suspected that it was more than their pleas that made her say, “Yes, all right. I’ll take you to my father.”

She led them down the hall and into another short corridor, stopped at a closed door and knocked, saying, “It is I, Papa.” Without waiting for a reply, she opened the door and stepped inside. “You have visitors.”

Noelle and Carlisle followed her into the room. It was dim, with heavy brocade curtains pulled across the windows, the only light coming from a candelabra placed on a desk. A man with the same unmistakable Haverstock freckles, though slightly faded, in a fleshy, dissipated face sat in a wingback chair, a glass of light brown liquid beside him. From the rather strong smell and the blurred look in Haverstock’s eyes, Noelle suspected that the liquid was alcohol.

He made a faint motion as if to rise, then sank back into the chair. Noelle and Carlisle went closer. His daughter closed the door and sat down in a chair beside it, so quiet and unobtrusive that one could almost forget she was there. Noelle wondered if Priscilla already knew about the trust or if she would be hearing it for the first time today.

“Lord Haverstock, I apologize for the intrusion.” Carlisle bowed politely and introduced himself and Noelle.

“Lady Rutherford...” The old man repeated, frowning at Noelle. “Who—”

“I am Adam Rutherford’s widow,” Noelle explained. The man looked worse close up. His face was flushed and puffy, the shadows beneath his eyes almost purplish, deep grooves running down from his mouth. She thought of Lady Lockwood’s words about him—“he’s sadly diminished.” He was diminished indeed.

“He’s gone, too.” The old man shook his head. “All our sons. Poor Adam. Poor Sprague.” He turned toward Carlisle. “Not you. You’re Horace’s boy? Yes, I can see it in your eyes. Come. Sit. Sit.” He took a large gulp and lifted his glass to Carlisle. “Join me, won’t you? Cabinet’s over there.” He waved vaguely. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up—it seems I’m a mite unsteady.”

“Thank you, sir, I’m fine.” Carlisle and Noelle sat down across from him.

Haverstock turned his eyes to Noelle. “Easy to see why Drewsbury’s son chose you. Did you know my son? Sprague?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not.” She noted that he did not mention his other son.

“I knew Sprague a bit, sir,” Carlisle put in. “He was a year or two behind me at school. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The old man nodded. “Been a year now. A year and a month.”

“It must have been very hard for you,” Noelle said. She wondered if the man had always been like this, sitting alone drinking in a gloomy room in the middle of the day, or if Sprague’s death had sent him on a downward spiral.

“Sprague was...” Lord Haverstock shook his head, swallowing hard. “No matter. He’s gone now. Nothing can bring him back.” He straightened a little. “What did you want to ask me?”

“It’s about an agreement made by my father, Drewsbury, Nathan Dunbridge’s father, and several other men about thirty years ago. Lady Lockwood said—”

“Good Gad, do you mean she’s still alive?” He let out a little grunt. “Don’t know why I’m surprised. She’ll be here long after all the rest of us are gone, no doubt.”

“Probably.” Carlisle gave him a faint smile and returned to the subject. “Lady Lockwood told us that you were a member of that group. You used to meet at Frobisher’s.”

“Oh, yes. We were the cock o’ the walk back then. At least, we thought we were.”

“I was hoping that you could tell me about this agreement—you invested money, with the idea that it would be inher—”

“Agreement!” Haverstock almost spat the word. “Damned curse, that’s what it was. It’s killed us and our sons.”

“I’m sorry, Lord Haverstock, but what do you mean? What’s ‘killed’ you?”