God, how he hated Caro Moncrief! It was her stubbornness alone that was stifling him, making him wait the full seven years until the law would declare his uncle dead, instead of going through the motions herself. He didn’t have five more years. He didn’t even have five more months.
But he did have one last card to play against her, one final trump that she’d never expect. That is, if she were even still alive. When his footman, his head bandaged, had haltingly confessed that an armed man had kidnapped the lady in the attic room, it had been all George could do not to shout with joy. If a ransom note had appeared, he was determined to ignore it, but when the hours stretched into days with no word, he’d allowed himself to imagine, quite delightfully, how that huge, violent brute had seized Lady Byfield for his own amusement. To have her gone so effortlessly was a true wonder, a sign that surely George’s luck was changing for the better.
Perkins cleared his throat again. “Good day, Mr. Stanhope. The porter will show you out if you’ve forgotten the way.”
“Not yet, Perkins.” George reached into his coat for the letter, his trump card. “You’re determined to be deuced illmannered to me, but you won’t be so quick to be rude once you’ve seen this.”
He snapped the heavy writing paper open and sailed it across the desk. A nice flourish, he told himself. “It’s from my grandmother, the dowager countess. Her hand’s a bit rickety, but if you take your time you can make it out well enough.”
The lawyer lifted the letter gingerly, almost as if he expected it to bite him, and turned it over to finger the dark green seal stamped on the back.
“Oh, it’s genuine enough, Perkins,” said George, enjoying the other man’s discomfiture. The letter had come as a surprise to him, as well, the first he’d ever received from his grandmother. He could barely remember her face and doubted she could do any better by him, but there was no point in sharing that with the lawyer. “She wrote to me because she doesn’t trust you, and you can guess why she didn’t write to Caro. Fourteen years she’s chosen to live on the continent instead of being forced to meet the little harlot who bewitched her Frederick. Consider that well, Perkins. Fourteen years that poor old lady has been in bleak exile.”
Perkins hooked his spectacles over his ears and quickly scanned the letter. He remembered the dowager countess all too well, and he doubted that even fourteen years would soften her to the point she’d be considered a poor old lady. As for the bleak exile—he’d arranged her allowance at Lord Byfield’s request, and there were entire towns Perkins could name that got by quite nicely on less.
“I can understand why she would wish to return home,” said the lawyer as he read, “but that’s her own decision, not one for the courts. I certainly can’t see why she would think her vendetta against her daughter-in-law would give her legal precedent for rushing the proceedings regarding her son. That right remains with the present Lady Byfield.”
“But certainly a lady of her stature in the country—”
“Would be treated much the same as anyone else,” concluded Perkins. The old countess’ letter was sprinkled with her usual obscure threats and insults, and it pleased him to know they’d hold little weight with anyone now if she returned to England. “Oh, I suppose she could try to buy a judge or two, but the dowager countess would find that the present earl and countess are generally well liked throughout the county, and public sentiment wouldn’t be in her favor.”
“But to deprive a lady her age of the satisfaction of seeing her family’s noble lineage continued, to watch an ancient title wither and languish while she waits in vain for the offspring of the rightful heir to bring her joy in her final days—”
“I can read your grandmother’s words better than you can recite them, Mr. Stanhope,” said the lawyer, privately doubting whether George Stanhope knew the meanings of half the words he was trying to quote as his own. “I suppose she is looking to you for these great-grandchildren? I didn’t realize you yourself had such prospects in the matrimonial line.”
George smiled smugly and plucked at his cuffs. “The youngest daughter of the Marquis of Coverdell has indicated she would smile upon my suit, once, of course, my estate and title are confirmed.”
“Of course,” said Perkins dryly. He refolded the letter and held it out to George. “In five years, I’ve no doubt they will be. In the meantime, please express my regards to your grandmother when you write to her next. Good day, Mr. Stanhope.”
“Wait. Damn you, Perkins, wait!” Panicking, George refused to take the letter as he tried to think of another way. He’d been so sure that his grandmother’s letter would be enough that he hadn’t considered what would happen if it wasn’t. “What happens if Caro don’t come back? What happens if she decides she prefers this highwayman fellow, and doesn’t return home ever again?”
“You’re asking me what would happen if her ladyship disappears entirely and completely, and thereby abandons her responsibilities?”
George nodded eagerly. “Then I’d be the one to start having them both declared dead, wouldn’t I? Then it would be my decision, and I wouldn’t have to wait on the whim of some selfish little tart playing at being a lady!”
The lawyer’s eyes were icy behind his spectacles as he leaned across the desk and stuffed the letter into George’s hand. “What would happen, Mr. Stanhope, is that I would immediately suspect that her ladyship had met with foul play. And you, sir, would be my first choice as the villain.”
The sun was nearly at its peak when the hired carriage came to a halt near the last of the merchant wharfs. With two vessels scheduled to sail with the next tide, the wharf was crowded with activity: final bits of cargo and supplies being hauled or trundled aboard, sailors making teary farewells to wives and sweethearts, merchants with ventures giving their last orders and advice to the captains and their mates.
The tavern at the foot of the wharf was busy, too, with the majority of both crews embracing the final opportunity to become blissfully inebriated before the long voyages ahead. Some had brought their tankards to sit on the benches outside, singing and swearing happily in the late morning sun as they made life briefly miserable for any women who walked too close. With war in the air, life beyond this day was uncertain. If their ships were stopped by a short-manned frigate in the channel, any one of these merchant seamen could find themselves navymen by nightfall—reason enough for drinking and calling to the lasses one last time.
The sailors watched the carriage’s arrival with curiosity, craning to see better when the driver swung the door open for the passengers. The lady’s ankle when she lifted her skirt to step down was neat and trim, more than worthy of admiring comment, but the lady herself was swathed in deep new mourning, her veil so dark that even on this sunny morning no hint of her features showed. At once the sailors looked away, the more pious ones crossing themselves. On sailing day, no man needed so sharp a reminder of death and grief.
The lady leaned heavily on the driver’s hand, her head bowed beneath her hat and veils, and when the carriage’s other passenger, a tall, grim-faced gentleman also dressed in black, climbed out and took her arm, she swayed against him, eager for support. As they slowly made their way down the wharf, sailors, merchants and longshoremen alike stepped from their path, raising their hats in respect.
“I don’t like this, Jeremiah,” whispered Caro beneath her veils. “To hide in mourning when I pray to find Frederick alive must be wrong.”
“Steady now, lass, don’t turn skittish on me,” murmured Jeremiah as he patted her hand solicitously. “That’s nothing but superstition, pure and simple.”
“But he never wants me to wear black! White, that’s what he wants, always white. He says that even if I outlive him, I’m not to wear mourning, and I don’t—”
“Caro, stop it now,