“This Brentfield match,” Mr Wilton declared with a nod. “It was the will, you know. I wrote it.”
“Mm?” the baron’s son murmured.
“There was a clause, you see. A clause.” Mr Wilton hiccupped, then pressed on. “The Duke could not touch the money without being wed. Couldn’t touch a penny.” He nodded emphatically, as though delivering weighty news.
“Mm?” the baron’s son repeated, barely following.
“Thing is,” Mr Wilton insisted, “I wrote it.”
“You are a solicitor,” his companion said mildly.
“No, no—you mistake me.I wrote it.Not the Duke. Not the duke who passed away.” He waved vaguely toward the countryside. “His wife… she wanted it. Wanted to make her son marry. Thought he never would otherwise.” He shook his head. “Poor fellow.”
Nicholas stared at them, stunned. His mind reeled. The clause had been falsified? Sebastian had acted under pressure that should never have existed? Nicholas’s stomach tightened. He could hardly comprehend the implications.
Should he tell Sebastian? His brother’s fury would be overwhelming.
Perhaps wait until we are home,he cautioned himself.
He hesitated, listening in again, but Mr Wilton was rambling about something else.
“Taxes...so many taxes nowadays. I do hate them.”
The baron’s son was nodding, his eyes unfocused. Nicholas looked away.
“Luncheon, my lord?”
Nicholas sighed and nodded. The smell of the stew caught his nostrils, and his stomach twisted painfully. He would stay for luncheon, and if Sebastian appeared, he would do his utmost to bring him back to the manor. Only there—in the quiet of home—could he deliver what he had overheard.
Chapter Eighteen
Evelyn sat upon the chaise-longue in the drawing room. She had spent most of the day in her chamber, avoiding everyone, but by three o’clock she felt certain that another moment of solitude would drive her entirely mad. Outside, a soft drizzle soaked the lawns, dripping from the elms and bringing with it the sweet, slaked-earth scent rising from the paths. She would have taken refuge in the rose garden had it been dry, but as it was, the only other place—besides the library—where she might go was the drawing room.
She had brought her sewing, though she found it impossible to concentrate. Every sound in the corridor made her start, fearing the Dowager Duchess might be approaching. Evelyn dreaded any confrontation with her; even the woman’s footsteps set her heart pounding, perspiration born of sheer terror trickling down her spine. The dowager’s barbs, her cold disdain, her outright hostility—they never failed to shake her.
She lifted the Shakespeare volume she had also carried with her. It served almost as a talisman, reminding her not only of Lucy and her mother’s love, but of that first moment in Birdcage Walk when she had looked into Sebastian’s eyes and felt something strike her—first in her body, then far deeper in her heart. Her gaze drifted down the page, not truly reading, only remembering.
“Let me speak to her! I need to speak to her!”
A man’s voice, furious and unmistakable, shouted from the hallway.
Evelyn shot to her feet, hurrying to the door.
“My lord! This is irregular…” the butler murmured as James pushed past him into the drawing room. He came straight to his sister.
“James?” Evelyn gasped. “Whatever is the matter?” A spike of fear shot through her. Her first thought—her worst thought—was of their mother. Something had happened to her.
“Evelyn. I must speak with you. Privately.” James cast a dark look at the butler, who glanced helplessly at Evelyn.
“Please have tea brought to the Small Parlour,” she told the butler. If James wished for privacy, it was one room the Dowager Duchess seldom used at teatime.
“There is no need for tea,” James blustered, but the butler had already fled, grateful for the errand.
“If he goes to fetch it, we shall have a little peace,” Evelyn said gently. “Come—there is somewhere we may talk without fear of interruption.”
James stepped back, allowing her to lead the way. She guided him to the Small Parlour, her heart thudding. It was scarcely more than an antechamber—three upholstered chairs, a fireplace, and a low table prepared for the tea service. Evelyn entered, waited for James to follow, then closed the door behind them.
“What is it, brother?” she asked at once.
