A Rumored Fortune Read online

  © 2018 by Joanna Davidson Politano

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-1402-4

  Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  “Everyone loves a treasure hunt—pair it with a heroine you can’t help but love, a hero you can’t help but swoon over, and a family mystery that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat, and you end up with A Rumored Fortune. This book is a treasure in itself and one you won’t be able to put down!”

  Roseanna M. White, bestselling author of the Ladies of the Manor series and Shadows Over England series

  Praise for Lady Jayne Disappears

  “In this delightful debut, a sweet romance, Politano pens a clever story-within-a-story full of Victorian intrigue and ghosts. . . . Older readers who miss the great gothic romances of Victoria Holt, Phyllis Whitney, and Mary Stewart will enjoy Politano’s tale, as will readers looking for a chaste romance.”

  Booklist

  “Witty, heartfelt, and elegantly penned, the story captivates readers from the first page to the last.”

  RT Book Reviews

  “In depicting Aurelie’s dogged pursuit of finishing her father’s work, Politano also poignantly explores the rules (spoken and unspoken) of nineteenth-century English society in this excellent tale.”

  Publishers Weekly

  This book is heartily dedicated to the two people

  whose presence resounds through this novel.

  First, to Rose,

  dear friend and godly example.

  It is her family history that was

  the inspiration for this novel,

  when she told me the captivating story

  of her ancestors and their buried money . . .

  and what it eventually cost their family.

  Second, to my wonderful Vince,

  who is the basis for this novel’s hero.

  I remember walking down the aisle toward you

  and hearing the strains of a song

  that has proven more true

  than I even knew at the time—

  “God gave me you.”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Endorsements

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

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  35

  Excerpt of the Next Intriguing Romance Novel

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Joanna Davidson Politano

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  1

  Never let common sense stand in the way of a great legend, they say, and there’s wisdom in that. Because on occasion, those great legends turn out to be true.

  —Notebook of a viticulturist

  Somerset, England, 1866

  “I say Tressa Harlowe’s dead. It’s the only explanation for it.”

  I didn’t set out to eavesdrop, but some conversations are simply too interesting to avoid overhearing. Especially when the topic discussed by these strangers is me. In such cases, I had no choice but to absorb every word, for wasn’t it my business even more than theirs?

  I gazed from my shadowed corner of the dim room at the greasy little man who spoke these words and thanked my lucky stars I’d lost my way in the rain and wandered into this place.

  The brutish man beside him tore off a hunk of bread and plunged it in his mug. “Dead? Ach, no. She’s too smart for that.”

  His mousy little companion hunched over his mug as if his frame couldn’t support its own weight. “Either way, she’s been away from the castle for months. It’s the perfect opportunity, Hamish.”

  I could hardly wait to hear what opportunity my absence afforded them. I leaned forward and reached for my tea, drawing it into the folds of my cloak as I listened.

  “So what exactly are you asking me to do, Tom Parsons?”

  I breathed deeply in anticipation of the response, and my senses were flooded with the putrid scent of the place.

  “I’m suggesting we avail ourselves of an abandoned treasure. No different than mining, simply digging for gold.”

  Hamish thunked two meaty forearms on the rough counter. “Look, you know how I feel about thieving from the rich. But this is different. I’ll not go stealing from the likes of Tressa Harlowe. Much as I need that new horse, I won’t do it. If that hidden fortune exists, and that’s a mighty big if, well then, she deserves it.”

  “It seems everyone loves that little princess of the castle.” Tom Parsons wrinkled his nose as if he could offer no suitable reason for this affection toward me. “Have you even met the girl?”

  “Aye, a good many years ago, but you can tell who she is even from afar. Such a lot of life packed into a little mite of a girl.”

  “I daresay I’d be full of life if I stood to inherit 10,000 a year.” The man’s narrow lips pinched with resentment. “What does that girl need with a fortune anyway? Won’t she have a hundred rooms all to herself one day? I’ve two up, two down, and ten people to fill them.”

  What did he know about rooms? Little good it did to have a hundred rooms or a thousand if they were mostly devoid of life.

  Parsons spoke again, sniffing at his drink. “It’d be mad not to take such an opportunity. It’s like a golden egg with no goose to guard it.”

  “Ach, you’re a fool.” Hamish threw his head back to down the last of his cider and then thunked the heavy mug back onto the counter. “She’ll be back when she hears what’s happened. Any day that fancy carriage of hers will come rattling down the road, spraying mud on all us common folk as she comes to claim her own.”

  I froze, straining to hear the rest. What? What had happened at my home? Father’s summons now seemed ominous rather than exciting.

  The proprietor strode through the crowd then and approached me, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “There’s a man willing to take you to Trevelyan’s outer gates, but no further. He’s waiting by the door.”

  I stiffened as his direct address lifted my cloak of obscurity. “Thank you, sir.”

  “But save yourself the trip. With all the goings-on at Trevelyan, they won’t be looking for help.”

  Me, in service?
The mud and rain must have done more damage to my appearance than I’d thought.

  Both men at the bar pivoted to face me as the man spoke, their two pairs of eyes seeing me for the first time. I fancied a light of recognition glowed from Hamish’s face, but Tom Parsons merely observed me with a hint of annoyance at the interruption.

  I rose and pushed back my shoulders, bestowing a gracious parting smile toward them both. “Good evening, gentlemen.” I moved past them, holding my breath as I squeezed between the tightly packed patrons, and then turned back. “You are most correct, by the way. The fortune does exist. I’ll warn you though, it’s guarded by the princess of the castle, and I suggest that you do not underestimate her.” With a polite smile, I turned again toward the door and sailed through the crowds.

  Outside, rain poured off the metal roof of the porch, creating a curtain between me and the waiting cart. I ducked and ran to the vehicle, where a man hoisted me into the dark chamber and slammed the door behind me. We only traveled a mile or two, for our own carriage had been nearly home when it had broken down, but the silent drive seemed endless. Perhaps by the time I reached Trevelyan and found help, the driver who’d stayed behind with Mother would have the carriage repaired.

  Looking up at the impressive fortress before us, I wondered how those men could even doubt the existence of Father’s legendary hidden fortune. I’d only glimpsed it once, but I’d always known of it, like one knows of the queen without ever meeting her. The idea of it had long haunted me, and I’d peppered Father with questions about it until one day when he’d given me his most direct answer on it. “I’ll tell you where it is when I’m dying,” he’d said with his usual gruff dismissiveness, and I’d accepted that answer.

  At that time in my life, I believed him.

  2

  What you plant, you should harvest and enjoy without delay, for one never knows when his time will be up.

  —Notebook of a viticulturist

  Disembarking at the gates, I sprinted toward an abandoned barn and huddled under the eaves to wring out the ends of my sopping wet cloak and peer up at my destination. Trevelyan Castle’s three towers sliced upwards through the curtain of smoggy rain, rising from the gray hills that embraced it, and I deeply dreaded what I should find there. The matter is urgent, said Father’s missive that had called Mother and me home from abroad, and I couldn’t imagine what would have made him write such a thing, or what would have made him write at all.

  When the carriage harness had broken as we’d rounded the coastal road a ways back, Mother had of course seen it as a bad omen, for she could spot bad luck in a sunny day in July. But now, with the troubling words of that Hamish man from the inn sweeping through my mind, the whole world held an eerie chill that even I could not dismiss as I neared my home.

  A shock of utter aloneness bolted through me as the cold wind penetrated to my skin. It was not the sort of isolation that lifted in the presence of others—it sat much deeper and longer-lasting than that.

  The rumble of horse hooves thudded through my reverie. On the wooded path snaking through our woods, a black-cloaked rider leaned into his massive stallion, grasping his mane as they thundered toward me through the rain. A shiver convulsed me and I tucked myself into the shadows. What had that stranger been doing at our home? His beast panted closer, looming large and terrible. The rider turned to look at me, rain spraying off his dark curls under the hood, and I caught sight of nearly black eyes set in a strong, stubbled face.

  Leaning back in one graceful move, the stranger reined in his horse and redirected him toward the barn where I crouched. A slash of lightning illuminated the wild eyes of the stallion as he pounded closer, and I shrank deeper into the shadows. Willing myself to be invisible, I watched them approach, and then the horse danced to a stop in the mud outside the barn.

  “What are you doing here?” The rider’s voice was low and harsh as the thunder. As if I was the invader on my own estate.

  “Walking to the castle.” I had to nearly shout above the storm.

  “Not very effectively. Get on.”

  I hesitated at the sight of his rain-soaked leather glove outstretched to me, but this severe man was the only human I’d seen since the driver from the Dark Horse Inn. He guided his mount under the eaves and gripped my hand, then lifted me easily behind him onto the horse at a precarious side-angle that thankfully kept me from straddling the beast in my skirts.

  Propriety made me hesitate at the nearness of this stranger, but one glance at the steep hills before us had me slipping my arms around him and anchoring my hands on his chest. Dignity would have to make way for safety. I leaned my rain-drenched body against his back, sinking into its solidness, and the first jerk of the horse had me nearly squeezing the life out of the man. I moved close to his ear and shouted an apology over the sound of pounding hooves and thunder.

  In response he covered my hand with his, pressing it to his rising and falling chest with a remarkable combination of strength and gentleness. “Hold on as tight as you need.” That rare bit of masculine tenderness surprised and comforted me as I sat atop his horse and trembled.

  Thank you, God, for the rescue. I shall accept this man as your hand in human form outstretched to me. Please let it be so.

  I closed my eyes as the horse’s hooves found solid ground at each stumbling step, and I relished the cool sea breeze on my hot face in unladylike surrender. My hair clung in wavy clumps to my cheeks, which were already slimy with mud, and a sense of urgency returned to my spirit. Mother, my little butterfly mother adorned in her own sort of gossamer wings, would be waiting in that broken-down carriage with our hired driver for me to send a rescue.

  Bracing against a fresh deluge of rain, I clung to the rider and took in the familiar scents and sounds of Trevelyan Woods. So many childhood memories, both sweet and lonely, hung about the castle and the land around it.

  When at last we crossed the drawbridge and stopped under the red timber overhang, I relaxed my grip and peeled myself away from my rescuer. The urgent words of Father’s missive swirled around me then, and fear gripped me anew. I glanced at the massive entrance for reassurance, that familiar arched doorway buried in the stone wall, and it was just as I’d left it. Nothing terrible could have happened if everything looked the same, could it? With a quick grunt, my rescuer turned and swung me to the ground.

  “Thank you.” My words were indeed heartfelt as I looked past him to the downpour we’d just galloped through. The barn that had sheltered me was nearly out of sight. “Mr. . . .”

  “Vance. Donegan Vance.”

  The man’s dark eyes engaged me from atop his horse, and I found it hard to draw mine away. He had quite an effect on me. I wished I could be indifferent toward this stranger, but he held a kind of horrible fascination for me. Rain dripped off the black curls that framed his face and traveled down his jaw.

  “Thank you, Mr. Vance.”

  He gave a brief nod of acknowledgment, and then with one mighty yank of his arm, he spun the horse and galloped away in a splash of mud and rain. It was almost like a fairy tale, being rescued this way. Perhaps that’s what made the man so handsome. Impossibly so. I watched the horse and rider charge back into the storm together, and then heaved a sigh and turned to my home and whatever awaited me there.

  And suddenly, as I stood wet and chilled on the stoop of Trevelyan, hope flooded my breast. I remembered with billowing delight that this return was different—Father had sent for us. He wished us to be home.

  I stepped up to the door and banged on the heavy wood. After a pause I repeated the effort. With a clank and clatter, the door opened. Framed in the glow from indoors stood our housekeeper, who remained as unchanged as the house.

  “Margaret!” I leaped into her woolen-clad arms, a wonderful sense of home washing over me at the sight and smell of her. “Oh Margaret, how glad I am to see you.” I pushed back and grasped her arms, words spilling out fast and breathless. “It’s been a dreadful night full of ad
ventures of the worst sort. The carriage has broken down and we should send someone immediately. Mother is waiting, and you know how she is. We’ll have to fill her with five pots of strong tea and a tonic before she’ll be able to tolerate life again.”

  Her crooked little smile stilled my words. “Oh, Miss Tressa. How sorely we needed you.” She squeezed my arms affectionately, pulling me out of the storm and into the house.

  As I stepped inside, I couldn’t help throwing one more backward glance toward the darkened woods. To my surprise, the stranger and his massive horse had paused some distance away, watching the castle. As soon as I had stepped into the shadowy interior of the house, the man once again bent into his steed’s neck and urged the animal to carry him farther away.

  “We weren’t expecting you this quick. Not at all.” Into the warmth and muted candlelight of the narrow receiving hall Margaret guided me, and then to the dim gallery that needed three stories to properly display our collected portraits and statues. “This room’s the only one with a fire blazing at the moment, miss, but we’ll have that fixed for you.”

  I soaked in the warmth of the fire and smiled at this maid who had often created a sense of sunshine in my dreary life over the years, but trouble clouded her sweet face. I wondered why.

  “It’s perfectly all right if you haven’t had the tart made yet for my homecoming, you know. We didn’t tell you we were coming.” I peeled off my gloves and handed them to her. “I should like to see Father at once. No, I shall need a thorough cleansing first. I’m afraid I’m wearing half the mud in the forest. Is Father in his study?” My numb fingers fiddled with the buttons of my traveling cloak.

  She discarded the gloves and attended to my cloak with bustling efficiency, avoiding my gaze. “Let me just help you with that.” She then busied herself with sending John the groom on his errand and caring for my poor cloak. Her high little voice seemed higher, more pinched than I remembered. “He’ll have my lady brought up to the house posthaste, miss. Perhaps you’d like tea and a warming bottle for your feet.” And without awaiting my reply, she hurried through the echoey room and disappeared through the service entrance.