“The only threats,” Banby said in frustration, “issued today have been yours, Mr. Waterstone. Including your thinly veiled inquiry over my client’s possible demise.”
“But Marsden?—”
“Wasneveryours, sir. You’ve read the stipulation put forth by Mr. Marsden. Hespecificallyprohibited you from being ableto profit from the property or have use of it for any reason. Even while wed to his granddaughter, Maryanne Culbert. It’s right here.” Banby tossed out the document and pointed to a paragraph halfway down the page. “This meeting is at an end.” The solicitor glanced at Harry. “Unless there is anything else you would like to add, Mr. Estwood.”
“I’ve given you a fair offer for Pendergast.” Harry observed Lucy’s father, who bristled with impotent rage. “Given your circumstances, you should sign our agreement.” He nodded to another stack of papers beside Banby. “You won’t get this offer from anyone else, a fact of which you and I are both aware.”
Waterstone’s cheeks flushed with anger. “Fine. Take the blasted ironworks. You’ll spend a fortune making it profitable again,” he said with a curl of his lip. “How I enjoyed taking it from you. Destroying it. But that’s what you get, mongrel, for sniffing about my daughter’s skirts like some dog in heat?—”
Harry sucked in a breath. There it was. Finally. Therealreason Waterstone had taken Pendergast. Hadn’t he known as much?
“Well.” He gave Waterstone a bland look, though he wanted nothing more than to stab him with the pen in his hand. “Now I can grab at her skirts any time I like.” Banby would be upset about the mess if he attacked Waterstone. There would be blood all over everything. “Sign.”
“Lucy will soon realize how far she’s fallen. Shackled to a man little better than those working on the docks. Crude. Boorish. His only true talent imitating his betters.” Waterstone grabbed the pen and scribbled out his signature. “She’ll regret her actions. Rue the day she wed you.” He stomped towards the door, motioning to Hopps, who followed at his heels.
Waterstone’s little speech sickened Harry, because hewasonly a blacksmith’s son. Not good enough for Lucy. And a part of him believed every word her father uttered.
“There is one more thing,” Harry snarled.
The older man halted, lip curled in a sneer.
“Stay away from my wife.”
Harry leftBanby’s office and as the carriage rumbled forward along the winding London streets to his home, he stared at the passing scenery without really seeing anything but Waterstone’s sneering face. The meeting had unsettled Harry though it ended in his favor. The parting comments made by Waterstone had sown distrust and doubt inside him, each salvo launched with glee, grinning when his words hit their mark.
Should have stabbed him with the pen.
Once the proceeds from the sale of Pendergast ran out, which they would in short order, considering Waterstone and his wife had absolutely no sense of frugality, the situation would get worse. He would cajole Lucy. Guilt her into giving him financial assistance. And not even the threat of calling in Waterstone’s mountain of debt was likely to put him off.
Dufton was another problem.
The earl would still want Marsden. Might even be conspiring with Waterstone to regain the property this very moment. Convince Lucy it would be best if she were no longer wed to Harry. If not an annulment, perhaps…
What happens if he dies?
Dufton wouldn’t blink at ridding the world of Harry Estwood.
Lucy will soon realize how far she’s fallen.
Waterstone’s ugly words still echoed, enough to make Harry’s temples ache. He still saw himself standing at Granby’s ball before Lucy while she said the most vile things, each wordcutting him to the quick. The pained mortification that had struck him in the chest while Waterstone had watched and Lord Foxwood had burst into laughter. Rationally, Harry knew Lucy had been pushed to dismiss him, but a seed of suspicion still took root.
Damn Waterstone.
This morning he’d awoken to a soft warmth curled beside him, one slender hand pressed to his chest. The scent of lemon and verbena stuck in his nostrils. The idea that he wasn’t dreaming, that Lucy was truly in the oversized bed with her luscious curves pressed to him, had the breath hitching in Harry’s chest. The finest, most lovely thing he had ever seen…washis.
Sleep had erased the usual polite reserve from her beautiful features. Dark lashes fanned her cheeks, a spray of inky curls framing her delicate features. The rush of protectiveness, followed by a great deal of possessiveness and lust, had forced Harry from the bed, cock so stiff it had tented his trousers.
“Hell,” Harry cursed, looking down at his lap as the carriage rocked, unsurprised that the mere thought of Lucy had the blood rushing between his thighs. Maybe some of that desire would ease after he bedded her, though Harry doubted it. He forced his thoughts from his wife to more appropriate matters, like Marsden and Pendergast. The last thing he needed was Bartle bursting into laughter at the sight of him.
“Afternoon, Bartle,” Harry said, adjusting his coat at the sight of his ‘butler’ holding open the door as he exited the carriage. Jogging up the steps, he said, “Where might I find Mrs. Estwood?”
“Bit anxious, aren’t you?” Bartle winked. “I remember the feeling well after wedding Mrs. Bartle. Your bride is in the library, Harry,” the older man said with a grin, the scars decorating his face and chin distorting his lips.
Bartle’s ruined face no longer caused a rush of panic for Harry, but the sight of those scars never failed to give him pause. What if he hadn’t visited Pendergast that spring day? The fire might have destroyed more than a forge.
Because though Bartle was a terrible butler, he was more father to Harry than anything else.
Harry had no longer worked at Pendergast by that time, having made the first of what would become a much larger fortune. But just as he had stepped inside Pendergast to look for Bartle, the blast furnace had blown, sending flames and bits of metal into the air. Workers had rushed out, some with their clothes on fire.
