“Pa, you must tell them what you told me,” Liston said. “You must speak the truth.”

“Liston!” Bradshaw hissed at his son, swearing under his breath.

“The truth?” Lady Hartley directed her gaze to Liston, her expression softening a little. “What truth, young man?”

“My father is no murderer, but he has done wrong. Pa, tell them, for it might explain it all.”

Clifton shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fascinating Charlotte as she watched him. Here was a man quite different from the one she had met on previous visits. It seemed that Lady Hartley disarmed him a little further with every word and look she directed at him, in a way that neither the law nor Charlotte herself had been able to. It was really quite incredible to witness; though she did not know it, Lady Catherine Hartley would make an excellent detector.

“Nothing will be gained from it, boy,” he growled.

“And yet now all must be laid bare,” Lady Hartley said with velvet-clad determination.

Bradshaw rubbed his rough hands over his face and shrugged like a man who had agreed to put a noose around his own neck.

“Liston was not the only child here that summer,” Bradshaw said, looking at his son. “Times were hard—I needed my labour cheap. As usual I chose as my workers single men and maids, those who didn’t have family or other such commitments: bodies that were strong and willing to work for less if no questions were asked. But still, I needed more hands on the land.”

Lady Hartley was silent, but her eyes did not waver from Bradshaw’s face. Clifton held her gaze for as long as he could, and then it was as if all the energy within him drained away in an instant. His shoulders slumped, his eyes closed, his chin dipped as he turned his face away from her, unable to bear her scrutiny a moment more.

“Mr. Bradshaw, you told me you long for peace, and that you cannot confess to what you haven’t done,” Lady Hartley said. “So why don’t you confess to what you have done?”