Lucy didn’t read French, but she knew enough to ascertain the book had something to do with numbers, in fact, the entire shelf was filled with similarly titled books by someone named Fourier.
“De remetallica,by Georgius Agricola,” she said aloud, moving to another shelf. This section seemed devoted to metallurgy. Lucy walked to the next bookcase and found essays on the Greeks, Romans,Principles of Geology,and lastly something calledLord Thurston’s Revenge.A novel. Seemed a bit out of place, given Harry’s taste in reading.
Leafing throughLord Thurston’s Revenge, Lucy was delighted to find it was about a lord who becomes a pirate. Perfect. Tucking the book beneath one arm, she wandered over to one of the chairs and settled, enjoying the warmth of the fire.
Bartle arrived with her tea and a plate of biscuits as she dove into Lord Thurston, pushing aside all thoughts of Dufton, who would have made an excellent villain for any novel. A tiny wave of guilt struck her as she spared a single thought for her father and Sally.
But only one.
20
“Are we certain of the validity of this union?” Waterstone groused. “I’ve never heard of Vicar Randall. He could be a fraud, for all we know. Paid for by this man”—he pointed a finger at Harry— “to undermine me.” He glared at his solicitor. “Hopps, do something.”
There was little Hopps could do under the circumstances. He was a sniveling little mouse of a man who was rapidly crumbling under the pressure of his employer and having to face Harry’s own solicitor, Banby.
“The witnesses were the Duke and Duchess of Granby,” Banby stated. “Vicar Randall is the nephew of the archbishop. I believe you’ve already been apprised of both these facts, Mr. Waterstone. There is little to refute.”
Waterstone pounded one fist on the arm of the chair. “My daughter was coerced.”
“Really?” Banby said. “Will your daughter attest to that?”
“She is to wed the Earl of Dufton.” Waterstone’s cheeks flushed. “It has been decided. This is an aberration.”
“Yet you have failed to produce a marriage contract attesting to that fact, sir. Nor was there any public announcement of abetrothal.” Banby pinched the bridge of his nose. “No banns, for instance.”
“She wed without my permission,” Waterstone insisted.
“It is my understanding that Mrs. Estwood is well past the age of consent. The ceremony has been duly performed. She was not coerced,” Banby sighed. “Your daughter is legally wed to Harrison Estwood. The documents have already been filed.”
Poor Banby. He sounded bored. Waterstone had been talking in circles for an hour. And even though Harry had pointed out that Dufton knew about the value of Marsden and meant to cheat him, Waterstone still considered the earl a better choice.
“The Duke of Granby should be ashamed of himself for abetting such a travesty.”
“I’ll be certain to let him know,” Harry interjected smoothly, enjoying this entire affair far more than he should, though by now the meeting was growing tiresome. The only reason they were still here, at Banby & Fitz, was to finalize the sale of Pendergast, but Waterstone had taken the opportunity to demand an annulment once more.
He was tenacious. Harry would give him that much.
“Calling into question the character of the Duke of Granby and suggesting he and the duchess conspired with Vicar Randall to do you harm, Mr. Waterstone, is patently ridiculous,” Banby said. “There isn’t a court in England that will entertain your theory. Nor would the archbishop be inclined to offer his support”—the solicitor raised his voice a fraction—“while you malign his nephew.”
Banby pulled out the documents pertaining to Marsden, which Hopps had, under duress, reluctantly produced. “The Marsden entitlement prohibits any sale of the property, now or in the future. According to the tenets of Joshua Marsden’s will?—”
Waterstone made a disgruntled sound. “He was addled. Joshua Marsden was not in his right mind.”
“—the parcel of land in Yorkshire, the Cleveland Hills to be exact, is to be kept by a direct descendent of Joshua Marsden,” Banby continued, ignoring the outburst. “If Mrs. Estwood were to expire, the land would go to her eldest child. If there is no child, the ownership reverts to a convent.” Banby consulted the document he held. “At the Scottish border, which operates an orphanage where I believe Mr. Marsden was raised.”
Waterstone stomped back and forth, twisting the ends of his mustache in agitation. “Intolerable. How can that possibly be legal?”
“The husband of Mrs. Estwood is permitted full use of the property for the duration of the marriage.”
“What happens ifhedies?” Waterstone’s eyes narrowed into slits at Harry.
The solicitor looked to the heavens for patience. “Mr. Waterstone?—”
Harry held up a hand. “What did I tell you would happen if you continued to persist in this matter, Waterstone?” He said carefully to Lucy’s father. “Do not make the situation far worse for yourself. Take the sum I’ve offered for Pendergast and be done.”
“Threats.” He pointed at Harry. “You heard him. Didn’t you hear him, Hopps?”
Hopps looked as if he wished to fade into the paneling of Banby’s office.
