“I’m very well aware,” Mrs.Milton hurled back.
“Then you know that in order for Cloverton Hall to avoid fiscal ruin, things must change. It’s not profitable, Aunt. It hasn’t been in years. My uncle spent money on foolish things, without an eye toward securing the future.”
Mrs.Milton lunged forward and slapped her palm across Mr.Wainbridge’s face.
Olivia winced.
Mr.Wainbridge recoiled.
“How dare you speak of my husband in such a manner!” Mrs.Milton cried, her jowls shaking. “He was no fool.”
He stared but did not retreat. He smoothed his hair, which had fallen forward in the slap, and sniffed. “I did not say he was a fool. I said the money was spent in a foolish manner, and that I will not apologize for. I will correct the financial situation of Cloverton Hall and its holdings, and you will not stop it, regardless of how many times you slap me.”
Mrs.Milton’s face flushed crimson and trembled with rage. “Will you then be the heir responsible for shaming the family’s name? For bringing dishonor down on over half a century of prosperity and goodwill?”
He scoffed. “On the contrary, madam. I’ll be the one to save it. You loved your husband and I’ve no doubt he was a kind man, but his decisions have had consequences. Yes, this house is grand, but what is that if the upkeep is unmanageable? It’s on its way to ruin! Yes, I fully intend to sell what I can of the collection. And I hope against hope that someone sees value in it.”
Refusing to concede, Mrs.Milton pointed her finger at him. “I will expose you for what you are.”
“By doing so you would expose the truth of how your husband left this estate. Then what? I’d proceed with caution if I were you. I’m attempting to protect Uncle’s reputation and going about thisbusiness as quietly as I can. If you cause a fuss, imagine what will be said! Tongues will not stop wagging with the gossip.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No, ma’am. You asked what my intentions were. And I have told you.”
For several moments a painful silence reverberated around the room.
Then Mrs.Milton spun on her heel and stomped from the room, leaving Olivia with her host.
Reeling from the awkwardness of the encounter, she turned to Mr.Wainbridge.
He bowed but said nothing.
She curtsied and hurried to follow Mrs.Milton from the room at a distance, unsure of what to do or say.
If anything of what Mr.Wainbridge said was true, then he was truly in a difficult situation. Simultaneously, her view toward Mrs.Milton was shifting. She’d accompanied Mrs.Milton on this trip with the intention of looking over the woman’s private collection, nothing more. Nothing should matter except the pieces she was evaluating. And yet, the cold manner in which the woman treated her nephew alarmed her.
It saddened her, but unfortunately heated discourse after a collector’s death was common. As intriguing as any collection might be, they were really just items to be bought and sold. In this particular case, Olivia sensed Mrs.Milton was viewing these pieces as a way to keep her husband alive. To still feel him. Sense his presence. Mrs.Milton was grieving, and Olivia knew all too well that grieving did not often make sense.
***
Lucas remained still in the library. Should he intervene? He’d had no intention of eavesdropping, but it was impossible not to overhear the argument between aunt and nephew.
When the shouting subsided, the footsteps retreated, and all was again silent, Lucas abandoned his position at the library’s table and rapped his knuckles on the ajar door that separated the library from Wainbridge’s study.
Wainbridge had returned from the hunt not a quarter of an hour prior. Mud had splattered his boots and buckskin hunting breeches, and his coat hung askew. His normal congenial expression had darkened, and he motioned for Lucas to enter. “We’ve been found out.”
Lucas placed a stack of portfolios he’d been carrying on a table beneath the window. “So I heard.”
“How that woman thinks she has any say over what I do with my property is beyond me.” Wainbridge crossed the cluttered room to the sideboard, snatched up a decanter, and uncorked it. He poured two glasses, then lifted them. “Somehow she found out about you and what you do.”
Lucas accepted the outstretched glass. He knew the most likely source of that information—a woman with eyes the color of topaz. In this moment he could expose the true nature of MissBrannon’s identity. But to what result? At the end of the day, based on what he’d overheard, Mrs.Milton was not interested in selling or distributing the Cloverton collection.
“What a nightmare.” Wainbridge, drink in hand, flopped into the chair behind his desk, propped his muddy boot up on thedesktop, and took a swig of the amber liquid. “Why can’t she see and understand that this must be done? If I do nothing, Cloverton Hall will be lost to debtors. Then what?”
The words resonated with Lucas. He knew far too well the fear that came with standing on the precipice of ruin. He sat in a wingback chair opposite the desk. “My opinion? She’s mourning her loss and trying to hold on to the life she once knew. You’re not the first man to attempt to sell parts of an inheritance and have family members resist.”
Wainbridge shook his head and took another drink. “Would you believe that I never visited Cloverton Hall before I inherited it? I met my uncle once when I was twelve, and I’d never met my aunt. I was told that Cloverton was a massive estate, that it was fabulously wealthy, and that my aunt and uncle enjoyed a great deal of power and influence. Their influence has proven to be true, but other than that, nothing is as I expected.”
