At this he laughed. “Old. Ancient. Beyond my prime.” And then at her scowl, “I shall be thirty on Saturday.”
Ambrosia watched him closely. “Your appointment, then, has something to do with your birthday?”
He smiled and lifted his glass as though in a toast. “I am expected at… a party.”
“So you have family in Margate?” she pressed.
He seemed to mull over her question before answering. “I suppose you could say that.” What on earth did that mean? “Do you have family in London?”
“No, just… the townhouse.”
“But not an heiress?”
Ambrosia had to fight to contain an unladylike snort. “Only in the most technical sense, I suppose.” At his questioning look, she added, “I was not the intended recipient, you see. I’m the beneficiary of a clerical error on Mr. Bloomington’s part.”
Harrison had mistakenly left Autumn House to her when he’d signed off that ‘all of his worldly belongings not designated to others be left to his loving and devoted wife’.
The first mistake was that, when he’d written the words “loving and devoted wife” he’d been referring to his first wife—who was now long since passed away. The second being that the townhouse, along with a trust to cover staffing and maintenance, had somehow been omitted from the properties listed to go to his brother.
When the oversight had come to light, and Ambrosia did not object, her brother and sister-in-law had acted as though Ambrosia was electing to leave them destitute—they were not—instead of simply choosing to take advantage of the first hint of good fortune she’d seen in years. Winifred had turned a dark shade of purple. Milton had clutched his chest. The dramatics had been pointed and unceasing for the entirety of her time under their care.
Mr. Beckman was watching her over his glass of ale. “So it was fate?”
“It was the devil’s work, according to my brother-in-law.” Ambrosia exhaled. “If you ask him, he’ll tell you I’m a sorceress.” She had discussed this with no one but Mr. Moyers, the solicitor, and Mrs. Tuttle, of course.
To fulfill the requirements of the will, for more than a year, she’d remained living with two individuals who resented her very existence. When they had deigned to show her any kindness, those moments had been poorly veiled attempts to persuade her to do ‘the right thing,’ and that that would be to revert her inheritance to Milton, of course.
The eighteen months since Harrison’s death had been long and tense.
Watching her dining companion now—so at ease, so unaffected—Ambrosia couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever feel that way herself.
It was strange, yes, but also liberating, to speak of these things with someone who was not quite a stranger… someone who had no personal stake in any of it.
“Are you…une sorcière, madame?"
Ambrosia shook her head. “If I was, I’d have worked my magic years ago.” She grimaced.
Mr. Beckman’s eyes were twinkling. “Perhaps you ought to have murdered him after all.”
“You shouldn’t…” Ambrosia shook her head. “He was well into his sixth decade. He died of infirmities and old age.”
Watching Harrison take his last breath, though, Ambrosia could not say she hadn’t felt some measure of relief, if not satisfaction. In that moment, as she’d felt the shackles of her long and arduous marriage at last fall away, she’d vowed never to marry again.
“Were you his porcelain doll, then?” Mr. Beckman asked, tearing a chunk from the loaf of bread between them.
Ambrosia blinked. “What do you mean?”
He offered a lazy shrug. “Was it a marriage of convenience? No… passion?”
As the meaning behind his question became clear, her jaw dropped. “That’s entirely inappropriate?—!”
“That is not a ‘no’.” His smile tilted. “A white marriage, then.”
Heat surged into her cheeks so fast it made her ears burn. “I will thank you not to speculate on matters that are none of your concern.”
“Too late, ma chère. I have my answer.”
“You are wrong, you know.” The words barely escaped before Ambrosia snapped her mouth closed. Unfortunately, her marriage had been real… in every way. But such talk was completely unsuitable for the dinner table—with a strange man, no less! And yet, he’d somehow managed to pry it out of her.
