“The Bingley whelp visited Lady Montrose today,” he said in his coarse accent. “My sources say he has found the brat.”
Winters sat forward. “Impossible. We have looked everywhere.”
“And yet he found her by chance. In Hertfordshire.”
“This changes everything. If her grandmother recognizes little Miss Montrose, we may secure the business shares.” Winters grinned. Yes, all would go splendidly. He could satisfy his debtors and continue as he always had, leaving the management of his company to lesser men whilst he enjoyed the profits.
“How do you reckon that? The old bird has refused to sell. She be the trustee, and coulda done it years ago.” Jarvis folded his arms and frowned.
“Lady Montrose will not want her precious grandchild entangled in trade. Henry told me often enough that his family disapproved. Though his mother kept in touch, she did not visit more than once a year.” By his estimation, the girl had not yet reached her majority, either. Her grandmother would still make all the decisions.
“Then why’d she keep it so long?”
“People are odd when they mourn. I imagine she held on to it because surrendering it would be admitting defeat. We must confirm whether Bingley’s son has truly found Elizabeth Montrose. Then we wait for the right moment. We must time it perfectly. The girl must be acknowledged publicly before we approach.”
“I’ll keep me eye on ‘em,” Jarvis promised.
“You have done well.” Winters tossed him a bag of coins. “For expenses.” Jarvis weighed it in his hand and nodded, satisfied. With a short bow, he tucked it into his pocket and departed.
“Twelve years,” Winters said to the empty room. “Twelve years of waiting, and soon it will all be mine.”
He had plagued the lady in countless ways over the years—sending false reports, hiring strangers to approach her with claims of being her lost granddaughter. He had never expected any of them to succeed. He had wanted to break her spirit. Once she abandoned hope, she would declare her granddaughter dead. Montrose’s will had been explicit: should no family remain, his partners would gain control of his business interests.
There must be thousands of pounds by now.And soon, it would belong to him.
January 2, 1812
London
Bingley
Dear Sir,
My mistress refuses to see reason. I have delayed sending her letters for now, but I cannot do so for long without discovery. Lady M. plans to attend the theater on Twelfth Night. Her box is number five and overlooks the stage. Secure a seat nearby, and ensure that Elizabeth is wearing the brooch. I shall arrange for both you and her to meet my mistress during the intermission.
Jameson
“Well, we have a way forward.” Thankfully, Jane, Elizabeth, and Darcy had joined him and Caroline that morning. Bingley had told them all, including what he had learned from Jameson.
“That poor woman!” Caroline cried, aghast. “How could someone take advantage of another in such a way?”
“It happens all too often,” Darcy replied gravely. “I have fallen victim to such schemes myself.”
“How would your parents feel about attending the theater?” he asked Jane. “It is short notice. I am uncertain whether we shall secure seats.”
“My box is available. And it is very near box five—close enough that Lady Montrose will be able to see everyone inside.” Darcy took Elizabeth’s hand. “If this fails, shall we continue to try?” he asked.
Elizabeth shook her head. “No. I shall have my happiness, even if Lady Montrose does not recognize me.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and offered him a sad smile.
“Then let us prepare.”
A note was sent to the Bennets, and they agreed to attend the theater three nights hence. Now, all they could do was wait.
Bingley lacked patience. He paced endlessly when Jane was not present to distract him. He pored over old letters, once more questioning who had sought to eliminate the entire Montrose family. Could it have been a relation, eager to advance in the line of succession? Yet, no new heir had ever been declared. The Montrose earldom remained without an earl.
Could it have been something else? His father had never been the same after that night—ever wary, always glancing over his shoulder. Perhaps a business associate had arranged the deaths, some affront by Montrose having provoked their wrath.
“It sounds like a gothic novel,” he muttered aloud. Still, he forced himself to consider it. The idea that revealing Elizabeth’s existence might yet endanger her continued to haunt him.
