Page 85 of A Treacherous Treasure

“Yes, of course.” There was a slight pause, then Mr. Heywood fell to one knee and clasped his hands together. “Mrs. Rebecca Heywood, I pray you will take pity on my desperate state and say you will accept me as your husband, for I find I cannot be happy unless we two are one.”

His eyes reminded her of a frog’s, bulging, as sweat beaded on his pale forehead.

Rebecca’s stomach felt sick, as it had the night before, when Thomas walked past her on the terrace, coldly refusing to look at her.

“Mr. Heywood, please forgive me, but I’m afraid I cannot accept your proposal of a marriage between us. I am truly sorry to give you pain, and I pray you will not be overly hurt by my refusal.”

Perhaps she should have postponed her answer, saying she needed time to think it over. After all, if he was found to be involved in criminal activity concerning the buried treasure and the constable’s death, he would soon be in jail. But the thought of marrying him was so abhorrent to her, she felt it was better to tell the truth.

Rather than appearing hurt by her refusal, his expression turned dark. In fact, his eyes, which she had thought were blue, suddenly seemed to turn black.

“You dare to refuse me?”

“Pardon me, but did you just ask me if I dared refuse you?” Her thoughts went to her gun, the one she had used to shoot Mr. Fogg. But it was upstairs in her bedside table drawer.

Gilbert Heywood made a strange noise through his teeth, as if trying to speak but unable to come up with the right word.

“I am sorry you are disappointed, Mr. Heywood, but I think it best if—”

“But you danced with me two times. You gave me every encouragement that you would accept my suit. And now you refuse me, and with such finality? This estate was my uncle’s. It rightfully belongs in the Heywood family. This is Heywood House. What were you before you married my cousin? Nothing but a tradesman’s daughter with no fortune and no connections.”

“Mr. Heywood, I must ask you to leave.” Rebecca reached for the bell to call a servant.

“Stop.” Gilbert Heywood leapt at her and grabbed her wrist.

“Unhand me.” Rebecca purposely raised her voice and tried to pull her hand free.

Gilbert only tightened his grip, driving his thumb into the middle of her wrist, sending a horrible aching pain through her hand.

“Let go of me!” Her voice sounded high-pitched, almost hysterical.

Finally, he let go, and she quickly moved away from him and rang the bell.

“I am going. But if there is anything I can do about it, you will neither inherit this estate nor be granted the treasure that my great-uncle buried here.” He stalked quickly from the room before the servant could arrive, his boot heels ringing on the marble floor as he exited the house.

Rebecca’s breaths were coming fast but shallow. She hurried to the window, standing away from it so he wouldn’t see her, as she watched Gilbert Heywood leap into his carriage and start down the lane from whence he had come.

Rebecca’s hands shook as she gingerly touched her wrist where the odious man had just grabbed her, squeezing so hard it still ached. How had he dared to accost her so in her own home?

Truly, she could have screamed and her servants would have come running, but she was as frightened, now that it was over, as she had been when Mr. Fogg had come into her room in the middle of the night. To think of marrying a man such as that, a man who would accost a lady in her own home. It made her stomach twist and a shudder go through her.

She could easily believe he was the man who was ultimately responsible for both Arthur’s and Mr. Fogg’s murders.

Fearing her knees would no longer hold her, she sank down in a chair and put her head in her hands.

After a few moments, she heard the rumble of carriage wheels on the lane outside. Had Gilbert Heywood returned? She jumped up and hurried to the window. Should she run upstairs and get her gun? Or send for the grooms and the other male servants? Her heart pounded as the carriage turned the corner, then saw it was Mrs. Heywood returning.

Rebecca turned and fled from the room and up the stairs. She could no more face Mrs. Heywood than she could fly through the air like a bird.

Once she was safe in her room, she dressed—as quickly as she could with shaking hands—into her riding habit. There was only one place she could think to go, and that was to the Westbrooks’ home. She suddenly longed to be there.

When she was relatively certain that Mrs. Heywood had gone to her bedroom, Rebecca left her room, treading lightly down the stairs, and then out to the stable. She had the groom saddle her horse, and she rode toward the Westbrooks’ home.

~ ~ ~

Thomas watched through his bedroom window as Gilbert Heywood stepped out of his carriage.

He had half a mind to yell through his open window and tell the man to go home. What could he mean, coming to Wyghtworth? He must not yet realize that Strader had accused him to the authorities. Either way, Thomas was in no mood to entertain the man.