“Polite, as always,” Harry said. “Where is the charming Mrs. Waterstone? I understand congratulations are in order.”
Confusion rippled across Waterstone’s face. “Congratulations? On my poverty?” He sniffed. “Dufton was so enraged by the loss of my daughter’s hand, he took things out on me.”
“You mean the loss of Marsden. I doubt he cared whether Lucy came with it or not.”
“I’ll assume you came to gloat at my misfortune.” He waved his hand about. “Feel free. I’m a pariah. A poor one.”
“I paid you more than I should have for Pendergast.”
Waterstone huffed. “A gentleman must keep up appearances. Not that you would know anything about that,” he scoffed. “I don’t regret one bloody thing I did to you. You don’t belong in this world. Cozying up to the Duke of Granby to further yourself was clever, mind you, but you’ll never be accepted.”
Well, Harry supposed there was something to be said for honesty.
“My congratulations is on the news of your forthcoming child. Oh, and on fleecing my wife out of ten thousand pounds. Clever of you to elicit her sympathy by saying I’d called in your debts, which we both know I have not. But if you approach her again, I will.”
Waterstone’s brows raised. “Ten thousand pounds?” A bark of laughter came from him. “Do I look like I am in possession of such a sum? Look around you. I’ve nothing. And I haven’t spoken to that stupid chit since she left London. You made sure of that. Now, get out.”
Uneasiness shifted in Harry’s mid-section. Something wasn’t right.
Lucy had clearly stated that Harry had called in her father’s debts and that, along with a child, was what had compelled her to give Sally such a large sum. She’d also said Waterstone was bedridden. Taken ill.
“Where is Mrs. Waterstone?”
The older man’s lips thinned. “Away,” he said in a tired voice.
“And is she with child?”
“Sally?” he snorted. “Not by me. After Lucy mucked things up, she left. I think she’s…taken a lover.” Waterstone sat, deflating in an instant. “I’ve nothing now. No wife. No business prospects. Certainly, no wealth to speak of, thanks to you. All I have left is my horses,” he said brokenly.
“I thought you sold your stallions and mares.” Lucy had said as much.
“I would never.” Waterstone looked at Harry, aghast. “Sell my horses.”
“Only your daughter.”
“She would have been a countess. Now”—he sneered at Harry—“she’ll be nothing more than a mother to your passel of ill-bredbrats. Rest assured, I wouldn’t welcome Lucy if she begged me. She is a disgrace.”
“Good to know.” Harry rose and strode towards the door without bidding Waterstone good day. He needed to return to Yorkshire. Mrs. Waterstone was far more clever than he’d given her credit for.
30
Lucy walked down the stairs, Buttons and Boots leaping at her skirts and threatening to trip her as she descended. Thank goodness for the kittens. They were an excellent distraction while she waited for her husband to return from wherever he’d gone. Harry hadn’t bothered to let her know his destination, but it was either Marsden or London, she assumed.
Which was fine. Really.
After Harry had made his horrid accusations, Lucy had stayed in bed for the better part of the day, staring into the fire and allowing Boots and Buttons to jump all over her. In a fit of pique, she hadn’t stopped Boots from gnawing on a pair of Harry’s boots or Buttons from shredding a pair of trousers.
She was angry. Furious. Heartbroken. Her husband had called in Father’s debts after promising not to. Sally was with child. Harry had put Lucy in an impossible situation. But not a murderous one.
Mrs. Bartle had wisely said little when she brought breakfast.
Granted, Harry had every reason to be outraged. Lucy should have told him when Sally had first appeared instead allowing herself to be blackmailed. But she’d been afraid of his reaction—and with good reason, it seemed. He’d fled the premises after accusing Lucy of plotting his murder with Dufton. A man she’d repeatedly told Harry she detested.
Bartle stood at the bottom of the stairs awaiting her.
If anyone knew where Harry had gone or when he would return, it would be the older man, but Lucy refused to ask. “I’ll be in the garden, Bartle. I think you two could use some fresh air.” She looked down at Boots and Buttons. “Come along.”
The kittens followed at Lucy’s heels, tumbling over each other and sliding across the floor.
