“No,” Ambrose corrected, “I am a man in love. And I believe Leonard is as well.”
“Now, hold on a moment.” Leonard was holding a hand up, vehemently shaking his head. “I never claimed love. I had shortly found her intriguing, yes. Attractive, most certainly. Clever, without a doubt. But that is not love. Love does not do what she did.”
“Whatislove, Leonard?” Ambrose asked, tapping his fingers to his chin as if he were Leonard’s physician and giving him sage advice that would change his life.
“I-” He stuttered on the word. “I don’t know. You tell me since you claim to have it.”
Langford scoffed, turning his face toward Ambrose. “Now you are such an expert on love? I remember having to tellyouthat you were in love myself.”
Ambrose hid a smile. “What can I say? You taught me well.” He turned his attention back to Leonard. “I’m afraid this is something you will have to figure out on your own, Leonard. I would not want to take the pleasure away from you.”
Leonard’s eyes widened. “I am begging you to help me. And I am not a man to beg. But I feel like I am losing my mind.” He looked between his friends. “Please.”
“By golly,” Langford breathed. “Heisin love.”
Leonard shot to his feet, his eyes wide and hands wild. “How can you tell from my incoherent musings!”
“Yes.” Ambrose nodded at Langford, and both men stood. “Most certainly in love.”
“Where are you two going,” Leonard said as the men made for the door. “I am clearly in need of help.”
They both chuckled, as if they found great amusement in his pain.
What friends they were.
“Go and speak with Mrs. Gillingham,” Ambrose said, turning back once he reached the door. “There is not much we can do for you at this point.”
And then the men had the audacity to leave.
Not even a full twenty-four hours had passed before Leonard received a letter from Langford, asking that Leonard come down to his work immediately. Which is how he came to be sitting across from him in his office.
“I did some digging,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “As I was working to get ready for my country bank, something about Mrs. Gillingham’s situation just kept nagging at me.”
Leonard nearly groaned. “Could we not discuss her, please? I know Ambrose wanted me to speak with her, and now you—who I thought was on my side—are bringing her up.”
“Yes, I am.” He stared at a file he pulled from a cabinet as he sat in the chair at his desk. “I found something,” he continued, clasping his hands over it. “And I thought you should at least know. Then you can do with it what you will.”
Leonard waited, afraid to look even more foolish than he already did. “What is it?” he finally asked.
“Honora Gillingham’s inheritance came from a woman named Mrs. Garvey.” His brow crinkled as he flipped through the file on his desk, then smoothed out when he found what he had been searching for. “Yes. A widow herself, Mrs. Garvey gave Miss Honora Gillingham two thousand pounds upon her death.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Leonard said. “Why would she say it was from her husband? Unless she wanted to make him out to be a man of better means than he was.” Ugh, he didn’t like speaking of this man. Which was petty since he was deceased and Leonard should instead be pitying him.
“I am wondering if there was ever a husband to begin with.”
“Wait.” Leonard held up a hand, closing his hands. “Why would you wonder that?”
“Because this inheritance was given toMissHonora Gillingham. I now remember her correcting me and saying it was Mrs. But what if she truly was a Miss?”
Leonard took the paper, glancing it over. He couldn’t even speak—he just stared at it.
“But there would have to be a marriage contract,” Leonard began, but quickly stopped. It wouldn’t surprise him if she had the resources available to forge such documents. He only shook his head.
“I think Ambrose was correct,” Andrew said, tucking the page back into its folder. “You need to at least speak with Miss Gillingham.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
With blood racing through her ears, Honora searched high and low, but no opal necklace was to be found. She had lit one small oil lamp by which she guided herself through Pratt’s single sparse room. A bed was in one corner, and a stove in another. In a way, she pitied him as she searched for the stolen item, but not enough to keep her from retrieving what did not belong to him.
