A Worthy Gentleman. Anne Herries

      John drove his horses hard for some minutes. He was determined to put some distance between himself and Sarah, determined that he would not give into the voices in his head telling him to turn back.

      He had been a fool to weaken over Elizabeth’s ball. Seeing Sarah again was bound to bring him pain. Besides, if Charles was right, he had an enemy. Someone who was bent on ruining him and perhaps worse.

      John was not certain he could prove his innocence if it came to a trial at law. He had spent some time with his agent the morning that Andrea had killed herself. Afterwards, he had gone for a long walk alone, needing to sort out his thoughts. His path had taken him to the far side of the estate. At no time had he been anywhere near the river, but could it be proven? He had some ideas that might be foolish nonsense, and yet he could not help thinking that he might know the writer of the letter. The hand had been disguised, of course, and yet he had his suspicions.

      If he were forced to prove his innocence, it might be only his word against another’s. He believed that a man had written the unsigned letter. John might be acquitted by reasonable doubt, for if he could not prove his innocence no one could prove his guilt. However, the mud would stick. People would say that there was no smoke without fire. Even if he were merely called before the local Justice of the Peace, some would think him a murderer. John had told his friends of the threat, believing that they ought to be aware that he might be disgraced at any time.

      ‘You might prefer that I did not attend Elizabeth’s ball, Daniel.’

      ‘Damn it, John! Do not dare to say such a thing to me again. None of us would believe such a wicked lie.’ Daniel had been outraged.

      ‘But others will,’ John had pointed out with a wry smile. ‘Some will cut me, I make no doubt. You could be tarred with some of the filth they may throw at me.’

      ‘Anyone stupid enough to think you a murderer will no longer be welcome in my house,’ Daniel said, looking grim.

      Charles had said much the same. Neither of his friends was prepared to think the worse of him. John had thanked them for their loyalty, but he knew that he would find a rather different attitude in others should the rumours become common knowledge.

      ‘Speak to Tobbold,’ Daniel had advised him. ‘He will get to the bottom of this if anyone can, John. It is a pity that you did not keep the letter. If you should receive another, make sure you retain it as evidence. Someone is out to ruin you. You have an enemy, my friend, and you must fight back. He must not be allowed to get away with this, whoever he may be.’ Daniel frowned. ‘I suppose you have no idea who it might be?’

      ‘No, none at all,’ John said, though it wasn’t quite true. He had wondered, but his suspicions seemed so ridiculous that he could not bring himself to voice them aloud. ‘I have racked my brains to no avail. I thought that perhaps Andrea’s father might blame me, but he was disgusted by the letter sent to him, and the first to bring this matter to my attention.’

      ‘I am at your service,’ Charles told him. ‘If there is anything I may do to help, John, you have only to send word.’

      ‘The same goes for me,’ Daniel agreed. ‘I am certain we can sort this out between us, John. I shall make inquiries myself, because there is more to this than we yet know—but you must speak to Tobbold. Your enemy is a dangerous man and may not be satisfied with your ruin.’

      John was feeling better for having confided in his friends. Both had declared him perfectly sound of mind, which meant that he might be dealing with more than one enemy. And at least one of them was able to come and go in his own house!

      John found it difficult to understand how that could be. Many of his servants had worked for him for years, and some for his parents before him. He would have sworn that every one of them was loyal. Why had this person turned against him? What had he done that deserved this?

      John had puzzled over it, but could find no answer. Perhaps his enemy had bribed one of the maids to place Andrea’s things amongst his, hoping to unnerve him? It had certainly given him a nasty shock the first time, but afterwards he had begun to suspect what was going on. When he returned home he would ask his housekeeper if any new maids had been taken on in the past few months.

      And why was his enemy trying to ruin him? Was it because Andrea had taken her own life? He had wondered if Sir Andrew had written his own letter in order to threaten him, and yet he could not truly think it. His father-in-law had known that her child was not John’s—how could he blame John for the fit of despair that had driven her to take her own life?

      Who else would want revenge for her death? John could think of no one. She did not have any brothers or sisters, and her mother had died when she was but a child.

      So perhaps it was nothing to do with Andrea. Perhaps she was merely the tool being used against him. John frowned as he slowed his horses to a steadier pace. He had no idea where to start looking for clues. He could tell Tobbold what had happened so far, but he could give him no help in solving the mystery.

      It was possible that this nonsense might be something to do with Sir Courtney Welch—or even Sir Montague Forsythe. John had been involved in both those affairs. He had helped when Charles had been desperate to discover his sister’s whereabouts after Forsythe had had her abducted, and John had also played a big part in scuppering Sir Courtney’s attempt to force Arabella into marrying him. It was also possible that he had trodden on someone’s toes for quite another reason, though he did not know of anyone who had a right to hate him. He had not insulted anyone, nor had he ruined another