“I might have given Estwood that impression, my lord. But…it isn’t true.” Father lowered his gaze, fingers nervously drumming on the table. “I merely enjoy his efforts to gain hold of it.”
Dufton gave a quiet laugh. “I don’t object to you toying with Estwood as long as there is nothing more to it.”
“There is only one way to have Marsden, my lord.” Father’s eyes darted to Lucy. “And an agreement has already been made. I’m a man of my word, after all.”
He was not, as a handful of his previous investment partners could attest.
“Rest assured,” Father continued. “I only seek to rid myself of Pendergast.”
“I hope for your sake he doesn’t find out what you plan to do.” Dufton tilted his head, stroking the stem of his wine glass. “I’ve no desire to be caught in the middle of whatever war you’re waging. My help is restricted to your current situation. Do not drag me into it.”
Two red spots appeared on Father’s cheeks. “I understand, my lord.” He nodded in Sally’s direction which, thankfully, stopped her prattling.
Coming to her feet with a jerk, her stepmother said, “Shall we leave the gentlemen to their brandy and business, daughter?”
Gladly. Lucy stood obediently, mind turning over each word spoken between Dufton and her father as she followed Sally out of the room.
2
Lucy trailed Sally to the drawing room without protest, wishing she could ask about Marsden and knowing she could not. The name lingered at the edge of her mind, a vague memory she should recall but could not quite grasp. Sally would never tell her anything, and it was unwise to give away that she’d been listening. As to Pendergast and Estwood, she wasn’t entirely sure what Father had done to gain Pendergast, but whatever it was had likely resulted in his falling out with the Duke of Granby since the duke and Estwood were close friends.
What Lucy did know was that Father had paid double what Pendergast was worth, which had been ridiculous under the circumstances. She’d seen the numbers on the ironworks and knew that while the business had been profitable, it hadn’t merited such a high purchase price. She’d seen the documents pertaining to the sale tossed carelessly on Father’s desk. He’d stormed about the house in a frenzy for nearly a week prior, yelling at his secretary, summoning Hopps at all hours, before returning several days later, triumphant. He’d crowed to the solicitor about finally ‘putting that filthy mongrel in his place’as he’d gone to his study.
Estwood must have been thefilthy mongrel,though Lucy hadn’t known it at the time. To be fair, Father used the slur on a great many people, but she should have guessed, given how much he hated Estwood. After all, Estwood had dared to invade polite society and reach above his station. A blacksmith’s son. Gerald Waterstone took it as a personal affront.
Just as he had when Estwood had expressed interest in Lucy.
She took a seat on the settee, pushing down the swell of regret, of chances not taken, of the blind obedience that was still part of her nature no matter the defiance knotting inside her. Lucy glanced at the cushion beneath her fingers, surprised to find a spring poking through the fabric because of a small tear. Sally was meticulous in keeping up the Waterstone home. Odd that she would have overlooked the stuffing threatening to spill out of the cushion.
“Let us enjoy a glass of ratafia, daughter.” Sally took a seat on the other side of the settee, casually tossing a pillow over the tear to hide it from view.
“Very well.” Lucy kept her words soft and barely discernible out of habit, though there was no one but Sally to overhear her horrifying impediment.
“What do you think of Lord Dufton, Lucy?” Sally said as the butler placed a glass of ratafia on the table at her knee before departing with a bow.
“I find him to be polite.”
Sally took a sip from her glass. “He’s certainly handsome, don’t you think? Utterly charming. I confess, when Mr. Waterstone first introduced us, I was quite taken with him.”
Lucy merely clasped her hands.
“And Dufton invited you for a carriage ride.” She gave a deliberate sigh. “If not for Mr. Waterstone, I might be jealous.”
“Hmm.” Lucy lifted her own glass and took a careful sip. Dufton was hardly smitten with her, though he’d made his interest clear with the invitation of a carriage ride.
Sally’s lips pursed. “I shall speak plainly, Lucy.”
Splendid.
“Mr. Waterstone and I both agree it is well past time for you to wed. Your poor father has despaired of you ever making a match, given your”—her fingers fluttered in the direction of Lucy’s mouth—“affliction. Dufton’s attention is most welcome and fortuitous, don’t you agree?”
Lucy took another mouthful of the ratafia. She detested the overly sweet wine but as with everything else, her opinions were unimportant. Just as protesting that her lack of dowry probably accounted for some of her undesirability would have been useless. Any suitor who approached Lucy would have been made aware that she had no dowry, which, in turn, would have meant a great deal of gossip. The pompous Gerald Waterstone stealing his daughter’s dowry would be just the thing for the gossips.
And appearances wereeverythingto Father.
“Goodneth,” Lucy said, hating the lisp invading her words. She took a slow, deep breath.
Compose yourself.
