CHAPTER 9
The solicitor’s office towered over the square, its leaded glass windows narrow and dark. Inside, the air was cold, dry, filled with pipe smoke and sealing wax. Dust clung to the corners, avoiding the polished oak. Lydia admired the setting. It was a stage, and she meant to own the performance.
She let Caldwell see her as she was: a wrinkled crimson skirt from travel, muddy boots, a lock of hair loose. Maximilian followed, immaculate as always, his face unreadable. The countess had stayed back at the inn. The solicitor stood at their entrance.
“Miss Montague. Your Grace,” the solicitor's voice rasped. He gestured to the leather chairs, their arms worn by generations of anxious hands.
“Mr. Caldwell,” Lydia said, seating herself. His gaze slid over her boots, lingered on the mud, then retreated.
His smile was practiced, hollow. “I trust your journey was tolerable? These roads can be treacherous.”
“Less so with proper escort,” Lydia replied, flicking a look at Maximilian. “But we are not here to discuss rural engineering.”
Caldwell bowed his head, shuffled a stack of parchment, and produced a single sheet. “You have come regarding the Montague estate?”
“And to confirm the terms of my aunt’s will.” Lydia leaned in, noting the way his lips thinned at the mention of Eugenia.
Maximilian adjusted his cuff, silent but pointed.
“The will is conventional,” Caldwell said. “The estate is yours, pending survey and inventory. There are encumbrances—minor debts, parish obligations—but nothing to impede transfer.”
“And the east wing?” Lydia asked. “Your letter was silent on that. Yet the housekeeper has long insisted it was unfit for habitation.”
Caldwell’s smile collapsed. “I am no engineer. I deal in documents, not mortar.”
“Then speak to the documents,” Lydia pressed. “Or are the locked rooms a trade secret?”
He shuffled papers without purpose. “The east wing was sealed years ago. Repairs were begun, then abandoned. Likely a matter of funds.”
“Funds were not lacking,” Maximilian said quietly. “Lady Eugenia’s letters suggest another cause.”
Annoyance flickered across Caldwell’s face before the mask returned. “The last owner was… unconventional.”
“An understatement,” Lydia said. “I have read the inventory. Curious, is it not? Missing silver, vanished Ledbury armchairs, gaps in the library catalog. Heirlooms do not simply vanish.”
His fingers tapped the desk. “Servants help themselves. Items lost in transit. Sold to cover debts. It happens.”
“But the east wing is locked,” Lydia countered. “How do heirlooms walk out of locked rooms?”
Caldwell paled. “There is no intent to deceive. The estate is ancient; records are older still. We do our best?—”
“I am sure you do,” Lydia cut in, her smile sharp. “But your best is not enough. I will see the housetomorrow. If terms are misrepresented, I will take it to the magistrate.”
The clock in the corner seemed to hold its breath.
Maximilian leaned forward, tone steady. “Mr. Caldwell, if you have more to say, now is the time.”
Caldwell wet his lips. “Rumors. The staff is unsettled. Figures in the east wing, noises at night. Lady Eugenia dismissed them, but the rooms remain sealed. I am not able to speak beyond that.”
“Who is?” Lydia asked.
“No one. The steward is dead. The rest dispersed.”
Maximilian Ashcombe commanded a room. The solicitor’s office, walnut-paneled and steeped in intimidation, was no exception. He let Lydia spar with Caldwell, admiring her precision, until he decided the duel had gone on long enough.
He rose slowly, his height asserting itself in deliberate increments. His hands settled on the desk with finality, silencing even the clock.
“Mr. Caldwell,” he said, his voice resonant with command. “Miss Montague deserves full transparency regarding her inheritance. You will not insult either of us with evasion.”
