Through the Smoke Read Online Free PDF

from the elements, was certainly more inviting than fighting Mrs. Tate’s stubborn ass.…
    He reached for her cloak again, and this time Rachel relinquished it into his hands so she wouldn’t continue to drip on the rug.
    The rattle of a tea service came from the direction of the door. Mrs. Poulson entered, laden with a silver tray filled with tea, cakes, scones, fresh butter and clotted cream.
    Rachel hadn’t realized until that moment how terribly hungry she was. She had been so exhausted when she left the bookshop, and so concerned for her mother, that fatigue had overwhelmed her before she could eat any supper.
    The housekeeper seemed to sense her interest in the food. Mrs. Poulson gave her a sidelong, piercing gaze that made it quite apparent she resented having to serve a commoner, someone no better than herself. But when the earl turned, she lowered her eyes to the floor. “Will that be all, my lord?”
    “Yes. Please bring me word the moment the doctor is ready.”
    She curtsied. “As you say.”
    The door thudded shut behind the bony woman, and Rachel swallowed, trying to ease the dryness of her throat.
    “Won’t you have something to eat, Miss McTavish?” The earl indicated the food at her elbow. “You look as though you might faint.”
    The smell of the freshly heated scones rose to Rachel’s nostrils, causing her mutinous stomach to clamor for sustenance, despite her preoccupation and worry. Careful not to reveal her near starvation by cramming it into her mouth, she took a cranberry scone.
    The earl touched nothing on the tray but watched her intently. Rachel couldn’t raise her gaze without encountering his thoughtful golden eyes, eyes that held the promise of the interrogation to come.
    A twinge of conscience caused her to push the tray away long before she had satisfied her hunger. Betraying her mother’s most heartfelt wishes, and the memory of her poor dead father, didn’t come easily. Like Persephone, she was making a deal with the devil. She was warming herself at his fire, dining on his food—
    He cleared his throat, and she glanced up.
    “Who set the fire that killed my wife, Miss McTavish?” On the surface, his voice remained unchanged, dispassionate, but a strong undercurrent revealed his eagerness for her answer.
    “If you think I can tell you that, my lord, you are sure to be disappointed.”
    “Someone knows what happened that day.” The flames cast moving shadows on the side of his face. “According to my sources, your father received a large sum of money two weeks before the fire. I would like to know where it came from.”
    This was the question Rachel had expected, yet defensiveness, in place of honest answers, rose to her lips. “Would it be too difficult to believe he received some sort of inheritance? My grandfather’s patronage is, after all, how my mother came into possession of the bookshop, is it not?”
    “Did he?” The earl’s eyes glowed with the same tawny light as the fire.
    Rachel wondered if he could see right through her. “Receiving a large sum of money doesn’t necessarily make him guilty of anything.”
    “Especially if you can prove its origins.”
    The hiss of the fire grew louder. Suddenly, Rachel felt scorched by its heat. Her father had hated the earl as far back as she could remember, even before Tommy’s death.
    She hated him, too—or, rather, she didn’t know him well enough to hate him personally, but she hated what he stood for. He was responsible for the miners’ terrible lot. Underpaid and overworked, they suffered too many accidents like the one that had claimed Tommy’s life. The long hours of crouching and crawling in narrow tunnels had stunted the growth of some and distorted their bodies. Others had miner’s lung, the disease that had killed her father. Yet the earl lived in luxury, apparently indifferent to their difficult existence.
    “Miss McTavish?” he prompted when she didn’t speak.
    “Someone paid my father to fire