Through the Smoke Read online

  ALSO BY BRENDA NOVAK

  HISTORICAL ROMANCE

  Of Noble Birth

  Honor Bound (originally available as The Bastard)

  CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

  Whiskey Creek Series: The Heart of Gold Country

  When We Touch (prequel novella)

  When Lightning Strikes

  When Snow Falls

  When Summer Comes

  Home to Whiskey Creek

  Take Me Home for Christmas (forthcoming)

  Come Home to Me (forthcoming)

  Dundee, Idaho Series

  A Baby of Her Own

  A Husband of Her Own

  A Family of Her Own

  A Home of Her Own

  Stranger in Town

  Big Girls Don’t Cry

  The Other Woman

  Coulda Been a Cowboy

  Sanctuary

  Shooting the Moon

  We Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

  Dear Maggie

  Baby Business

  Snow Baby

  Expectations

  ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

  The Bulletproof Series

  Inside

  In Seconds

  In Close

  The Hired Gun Series

  White Heat

  Killer Heat

  Body Heat

  The Last Stand Series

  Trust Me

  Stop Me

  Watch Me

  The Perfect Couple

  The Perfect Liar

  The Perfect Murder

  The Stillwater Trilogy

  Dead Silence

  Dead Giveaway

  Dead Right

  Every Waking Moment

  Cold Feet

  Taking the Heat

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2013 Brenda Novak

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance

  ISBN-13: 978-1-477-80876-4

  ISBN-10: 1-477-80876-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013906526

  TO UNCLE JIM. THANKS FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT. YOU HAVE BEEN A WONDERFUL EXAMPLE OF LOVE AND KINDNESS.

  CONTENTS

  Dear Reader

  Homines quod volunt…

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dear Reader:

  I’m so excited to bring you this historical romance! Jane Eyre was one of my favorite books when I was a girl (it’s still one of my favorites). I love the gothic feel of it, the air of mystery and, most of all, the heart-pounding romance. So when I first started writing, I set out to create stories in a similar vein. Then my career took a different turn and I ended up writing contemporary romance. After forty-something books, I’m finally returning to my first love. I hope you will enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  In case you’re interested, I also have two other historical romances that have been published so far, Honor Bound and Of Noble Birth. And for those who are willing to read another genre, I’m currently writing a smalltown contemporary romance series. Come meet the longtime friends who’ve made Whiskey Creek the “Heart of Gold Country” with When Lightning Strikes, When Snow Falls (nominated by RT Book Reviews magazine for Book of the Year), When Summer Comes and Home to Whiskey Creek (with more on the way). Information about these and my other works can be found on my website at BrendaNovak.com. There, you can also enter to win my monthly drawings, sign up for my newsletter, contact me with comments or questions or join my fight to find a cure for diabetes. My youngest son suffers from this disease. So far, thanks to my generous supporters, my annual online auctions (held every May at BrendaNovak.com) have raised more than $2 million.

  Here’s wishing you many hours of reading pleasure!

  Brenda Novak

  Homines quod volunt credunt.

  MEN BELIEVE WHAT THEY WISH TO BELIEVE.

  PROLOGUE

  Northeastern Coast of England

  January 1838

  He’d kill her. Just as soon as he could get his hands around her delicate neck, he’d stop the black heart that beat beneath all that misleading beauty and put an end to his own misery.

  Although Truman Stanhope, the Earl of Druridge, had come all the way from London to Newcastle-Upon-Tyne and had a bit farther north to go before he reached his home, blind fury caused his pulse to pound as fast as the hooves of the horses that were pulling his coach. His driver had been pushing the poor beasts so hard it’d been necessary to stop and change them out at every opportunity. But he was determined to reach Blackmoor Hall in record time, to confront his wife as soon as possible.

  “How dare you?” he muttered over and over. It wasn’t enough that he’d lost his beloved parents to a terrible carriage accident shortly after he’d married Katherine? That the child she bore him had lived only six months—and died under mysterious circumstances, circumstances that made him suspect she might have had something to do with it?

  He glared down at the letter she’d sent him, at all the lies written in her perfect penmanship. Did she really think he was so addle-brained? So terribly gullible as to believe the child from this new pregnancy could be his?

  My Dearest Husband,

  I am pleased to share this good news with you, so pleased, in fact, that I dare not wait until your business has concluded in Town and you have returned home. Knowing how eager you have been to have a child—

  He noticed that she did not refer to their firstborn. She never did, never had. Since the moment little Jeremy entered the world, she’d ignored him, and Truman feared it was his love for the child that had given her the incentive to do what he believed she did. She’d seemed singularly determined to destroy him, no matter how far she had to go.

  Think of it, she wrote. Now, if God grants us a son, you will have an heir to your lands and title. At last our prayers have been answered.

  “Prayers,” he growled, feeling the rage boil up again. “Prayers?” He’d long since quit asking God for any type of a child—boy or girl—with Lady Katherine. He didn’t think she was stable enough to be a mother. There was something wrong with her, something vital that was missing. He’d seen it time and time again in that odd, blank stare of hers. In her spiteful, cutting words. In the way she laughed at anything that brought him misery.

  The letter went on to say she must have gotten pregnant that night nearly three months ago, when he was intoxicated and, although she’d represented it differently, desperate enough that he nearly took her back into his bed. He’d started to kiss her, to touch her—his body had demanded a release after the many months he’d remained celibate—but he hadn’t finished the act. He’d thought of Jerem
y and been unable to finish. As drunk as he was, he had not been so drunk that she could rewrite history.

  So what was this really about?

  He wished he couldn’t answer that question, but it was all too obvious. He’d left her alone long enough that she’d grown desperate for a way to cover her betrayal. After three months, or maybe longer, she was probably beginning to show and knew she had to explain the pregnancy to him somehow. Waiting until he returned and found her big with child would look too suspicious. So she’d penned this letter full of false excitement, hoping to disarm him with her “good news” and hope of an heir.

  Instead her words had brought all the hate he’d begun to feel for her rushing to the surface.

  “Are you well, m’lord?”

  It was his driver, calling out to him from the box on top. Truman had been so silent on the trip that William kept checking on him.

  “Fine,” he responded, but his mind wasn’t focused on his answer. He was wondering who the father of this child could be. The way Katherine flirted and fawned over every man she met left him with so many possibilities. She’d spent a great deal of time in London, both with and without him, and loved nothing more than inciting him to jealousy.…

  He crushed the letter in his hand. “Damn her!”

  “Did you say something, m’lord?”

  He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. But he didn’t bother to explain. They were already passing through the black-iron filigree gate and charging up the drive to Blackmoor Hall. It was Sunday morning. With any luck, the servants would still be at church and he’d have the chance to speak to his wife alone. Katherine had mentioned that she had “taken to her bed lest she risk the well-being of their child.”

  The irony of her being so careful, after what he believed she’d done to little Jeremy, made his muscles bunch. Heaven help him. He was finished, he promised himself, and he’d tell her so. He would get a divorce, no matter the consequences to either of them. He would not live with her another day. Or maybe once the baby was born, he’d have her committed to Bedlam.

  Jumping out the moment the horses came to a stop, he ran into the house and shouted her name.

  Chapter 1

  Creswell, England

  February 1840

  Something tickled. Rachel McTavish squirmed, trying to reach the spot just beneath her left breast that itched so mercilessly, but the layers of her shift, corset and wool dress nullified the efforts of her fingers.

  Perched on a ladder propped against the shelves of her mother’s bookshop, she glanced around the empty shop and through the front windows. It was early yet. No carts or carriages rumbled past.

  Plunging one hand down the neck of her dress, she closed her eyes and scratched. Ahhh… blessed relief!

  The bell tinkled over the door. Rachel’s eyelids flew open to find a man standing just inside the entrance, staring up at her with a mocking smile on his lips. Only it wasn’t just any man—it was the Earl of Druridge. Although Rachel had never seen him at such close proximity before, she would have recognized him anywhere. She had feared he might come to call. His solicitor had visited her thrice already.

  Her scalp tingled with apprehension and embarrassment as she extricated her hand from inside her bodice.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Miss McTavish.” His voice was a deep baritone, thicker and richer than honey. “I can see you are quite busy, but I think you know why I am here.”

  Ignoring the subtle taunt, Rachel descended the ladder, half-wishing she could stay where she was, well out of his reach. She felt like a bird unwisely abandoning the safety of its cage to flit about the nose of a cat.

  But she knew the relative security of the ladder was an illusion. The earl was nothing like his small, bespectacled solicitor, in looks or in manner, and would not be so easily routed.

  “I have nothing to say to you, sir. I’ve told Mr. Lewis and your butler, Linley, so before, and on more than one occasion.”

  “So you have.” He smiled but no kindness entered his amber-colored eyes. “Perhaps they didn’t mention that I am willing to make your cooperation well worth the effort.”

  Lord Druridge possessed a full head of dark, wavy hair and stood several inches taller than most men. Once on an equal footing with him, Rachel had to tilt her head back to look into his face, a visage hard and lean enough to remind her of the hungry wolves fabled to have roamed the countryside. Although he had probably just shaved, the shadow of a heavy beard darkened his jaw. And he was wearing gloves, but she’d heard that scars from the fire at Blackmoor Hall two years ago marked his left hand, extending as far up his sleeve as one could see.

  “Your man mentioned a large purse, but I am not interested. My father is dead. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Your father may be dead, but by the narrowest of margins, I am not.” The earl took a step toward her, his face losing all pretense of civility. “I won’t rest until I learn what happened the day the fire killed my wife and the child she carried—”

  “Someone else’s babe, by all reports.” Rachel uttered the words before she could check them, but once they were out, she refused to feel the least penitent, despite the sudden clenching of Lord Druridge’s jaw. Most likely no one had ever dared say such a thing to his face, although the villagers, even his own servants, gossiped about his late wife’s many dalliances and anything else that had to do with him or his family.

  “Already I see you know more than you led my solicitor to believe,” he said, catching her in her own words. “Please, continue to speak freely.”

  “I know nothing. Only that you had as much reason to set the fire at Blackmoor Hall as anyone,” she said. “Mr. Lewis told me what Linley claims to have found, but I don’t believe it. And I am not so impressed with your power or your money as some might be. I will not let you intimidate me.”

  The earl’s hand snaked out to grab her elbow. “If you are not intimidated, you should be,” he said. “I hold the lease on this building as well as your home. I could turn you and your family out, and will do so if I must. I will have my answers, one way or another.”

  Fear raised the hair on Rachel’s arms as she tried, unsuccessfully, to pull away. She wanted to put some distance between them, to escape the subtle smell of soap that clung to his body. “Isn’t it enough that you had my father sacked when you knew—had to know—he was dying?”

  He released her, but his body remained taut, like a tightly coiled spring. “I sent your father away from the colliery because he was a blustering drunk with a penchant for starting trouble. He’d been warned before.” The earl made an impatient gesture with his hand. “But I haven’t come to justify my actions. Believe what you will of me, Miss McTavish, only speak the truth. What do you know about the fire at Blackmoor Hall?”

  “My father had nothing to do with it.”

  “More than one man has pointed me in his direction.”

  “Because Lewis and Linley go around plying various miners with their insidious questions, and my father is a likely scapegoat. He had just lost his job; he was angry. He said some things he shouldn’t have, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  The earl’s eyes seemed to glow with an inner light. “Neither does it give him much to lose.”

  Rachel lifted her chin. “He had his family. He wouldn’t have wanted us to suffer because of his actions—”

  “From what I know of Jack McTavish, he rarely took the suffering of others into consideration,” he broke in. “Regardless, I am not looking to falsely accuse anyone, even a ghost.”

  “Then look elsewhere for your murderer, my lord.”

  “I will go where my questions lead me. Unfortunately for both of us, they have brought me here.”

  “A waste of your time, surely.”

  “Not if you hope to retain your home.”

  She swallowed hard. “More threats, my lord? Well, consider this: If you turn us out, you will never get your answers.”

  Rachel look
ed past him through the window, hoping someone would enter the shop so she wouldn’t have to be alone with him any longer. But she saw, for the first time, that a liveried footman stood outside. No doubt he worked for Druridge and had been set there to ensure his master’s privacy, as if the presence of the Druridge carriage wasn’t enough to discourage all but the boldest of souls from entering.

  “It would seem we have reached an impasse,” he said.

  Feeling helpless in the face of his persistence, Rachel eyed him. The earl could send his solicitor or his trusted butler to press her or appear any number of times himself, and he could stay as long as he liked. She could do nothing about it. To make matters worse, her mother was bedridden with a raging fever. If he turned them out, they’d have nowhere to go.

  “Please, let us be,” she said, lowering her voice. “My mother is ill, I have a young brother to care for, and I have much to do here. I cannot help you.”

  He skewered her with a pointed stare. “Believe me when I say I am sorry for your misfortune, Miss McTavish. But I think you can help me, and if you know what is good for you, you will. You may have no interest in money, although it appears you sorely need it”—his gaze ranged over her simple dress, making her doubly aware of its threadbare state—“but I have something of much greater value to offer.”

  “I don’t care what you have, my lord. You can evict us if you want, but my answer will not change.” Brave words, for a coward.

  “Even for a competent physician to attend your mother?”

  Rachel’s breath caught and held. A physician? Besides an old drunk called Smedlin, Creswell had no expert in the healing arts. And thanks to the terrible weather over the previous two weeks, she had been unable to convince anyone more capable to traverse the long road from Newcastle.

  “I doubt a doctor could do anything more than I have—”

  “You don’t know that, do you?”

  She’d been bluffing when she’d thumbed her nose at his threat to toss them into the street. She could never allow him to do that. The promise of a doctor baited the hook better still.…