Page 12 of A Treacherous Treasure

Someone would have to be summoned to help arrange things for the funeral. Rebecca knew that anyone with the wealth and social standing that the Heywoods enjoyed would have hired a funeral furnisher, if they were in London. But out here in the countryside, she did not imagine there was a funeral furnisher near enough. Would her mother-in-law know who to engage?

If she did not, Rebecca would speak to the housekeeper, Mrs. Atwater, or the butler, Mr. Adler.

Rebecca might also have to take over her mother-in-law’s household duties of conferring with Mrs. Atwater and the cook, recording expenses and ensuring the necessities had been purchased for the week. After all, with the stipulations of Arthur’s new will, Rebecca would be in charge of everything, including the house, land, and tenants. The responsibility for them would also fall to Rebecca.

Besides that, her mother-in-law had taken to her bed. But would she be offended by Rebecca taking over, especially if she did notkeepto her bed? It could turn into a very awkward situation. Would Mrs. Heywood even accept that Rebecca was the new owner?

She caught sight of Mr. Westbrook and the constable striding across the lawn to the front door. Thanks be to God, they had not got themselves killed.

The men came inside.

“Won’t you sit down? I can have some more tea brought.”

“No, thank you, I will only stay for a minute,” Mr. Fogg said. “I wanted to let you know that we found another hole, this time closer to Mr. Westbrook’s property, which must have been where you saw the culprit this morning. What he is digging for, I can’t imagine, but I think it best that you not go for any more solitary walks on the property until he is caught.”

“Of course,” Rebecca said.

“It’s a very good thing Thomas Westbrook was nearby and had a gun, or you might have been killed.” Mr. Fogg lowered his head, but the look coming from beneath his bushy eyebrows was strange, unreadable.

A shudder went through her. Truly, she might be lying beside Arthur now in the drawing room, and her mother-in-law would not mournher, would she?

That thought made her want to laugh, which would be completely inappropriate in this moment.

“Thank you, Mr. Fogg. I am grateful for your help.” Again, the laugh tried to bubble up and she had to press her hand to her mouth to stop it. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t slept much the night before. Perhaps she was so tired she was becoming hysterical. She had once giggled uncontrollably when she had stayed up most of the night helping care for her little sister who was sick.

Truly, Rebecca sometimes wondered why she was so different from other people, who seemed so quiet and able to control their emotions perfectly well—Mrs. Heywood notwithstanding. Rebecca, on the other hand, was not only prone to laughter, but of speaking the truth out loud, even when it was inappropriate. And in polite society of 1811, the truth was often inappropriate.

“I would walk out with you,” Mr. Westbrook said to the constable as he was leaving, “but I have a quick matter of business to discuss with Mrs. Heywood.”

“Of course. Good day.”

What matter of business could Mr. Westbrook have to discuss with her? Did he wish to buy her husband’s property?

When Mr. Fogg had left, Mr. Westbrook glanced up and down the hallway, then came back into the room and said in a quiet voice, “Do you truly have no inkling as to why the man could have been digging on your husband’s property?”

“No. None at all.”

Mr. Westbrook came to stand closer to her, but not so close as to be improper, but the way he gazed into her eyes made her heartbeat stop and then lurch into motion again. When was the last time Arthur looked her in the eyes? She couldn’t even remember.

“Had you never heard your husband tell of a treasure chest of gold doubloons buried somewhere on his property?”

It was a strange question, but there was something familiar about what he was asking. Then she remembered. “I did hear him speak of it once. But he told it as a tale his grandfather once entertained him with when he was a child. He did not think it was true, and yet he bade me not to tell anyone. Could it be?”

Mr. Westbrook raised his eyebrows. “It could, or at least it could be that someone thinks it’s true.”

“What should I do?” Rebecca whispered.

“If we could figure out why the person is digging where they are digging—did they have a reason for thinking the treasure was buried there? Hear a story about the treasure that indicated where it might be? We might be able to catch them in the act. Either way, tonight I can return to the spot where he was digging and try to catch him.”

“Do you think that is prudent? He might shoot you.”

“I will have my own guns. Besides, the constable won’t do anything, and you need this person to be caught.”

“But if any harm comes to you . . .” She didn’t think she could bear it, but she didn’t want to say that. Mr. Westbrook might get the wrong idea and think she had affectionate feelings for him. The truth was, she was far from feeling affection for any man. She might never feel anything for a man again.

“Do not worry. I survived the Peninsular War so I believe I will survive a treasure hunter.”

“Very well. But do be careful.”