“My father is in Nottinghamshire as we speak, drawing up a new will for Sir Richard to be completed before his wedding.”
“His wedding?” Jack said. “To whom?”
“Miss Anne Deuxhill, I believe. She’s the daughter of a baronet—a spinster of eight-and-twenty. Her father feared she would never find a suitable match at her age.”
“And he thought a man of sixty better than nothing?” Brandt snarled.
“Sir Richard is a distinguished member of society, knighted for his service to Queen and Country. And he is a man of some fortune, who doesn’t have any heirs at present, so…” Percival stopped, apparently stupefied by Jack’s glare.
“Richard Astyr is a liar and a thief,” Jack thundered. “Kindly stop singing his praises like a caged canary and tell me when your father returns from Nottinghamshire.”
“I-in two days.” Percival stammered. “The wedding is tomorrow, and, as I said, my father went early to prepare the will. Sir Richard wanted it completed before…”
“Go on,” Jack said.
“Before his wedding night. He and his bride will be honeymooning in Belgium for a fortnight, and he didn’t want to wait until they returned to London to redo his will.”
“So, Sir Richard has taken a new bride because he is desperate for an heir and will return to London in a fortnight.” Jack glanced at Brandt, who mirrored his smile.
A loud knock echoed through the hallways, making Percival jump. “The other clerks have arrived for work. I’ll need to let them inside. You must leave.”
“You will make me a copy of Astyr’s new will when your father returns, or I will pay your papa a visit and present him with an IOU for fifteen hundred pounds plus interest.”
“I will. I will! But please, you must go now.”
Jack picked up his grandfather’s will. “I am taking the original. You can put the copy back in your archives as a placeholder. It’s not as though Edward Knoll will rise out of his grave and come looking for it.”
“But—”
“Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. We’ll be in touch,” Brandt said.
Jack patted Percival on the back. “Don’t worry, old fellow. You needn’t hide us from the other clerks. When your father returns, you can tell him that Mr. Jack Bastin, the writer, is impressed by his son and may soon seek council from Jebkin and Jebkin.”
*
A dewy mistblanketed the horizon and clouded Ottilie’s view from the window seat in the library. She sat with her stockinged legs curled beneath her and Mr. Bastin’s novel,The Renegade, open on her lap. She’d been enjoying the book more than the first time she’d read it. But now, Ottilie found herself scrutinizing the protagonist—a type of modern-day Odysseus, lost to his family whilst fighting a foreign war in a foreign land—and searching for clues about Bastin.
As she thought, she lifted her head and gazed out into the misty horizon.Didn’t all writers draw on their own lives for material?Dickens had used his personal struggles to writeDavid Copperfield, and it was well known he created his lively characters from those real-life ones he’d met or observed on London’s streets.
She ran her hands over the book’s blue leather cover. Bastin’s universe was one of immeasurable cruelty and deceit, but it also championed justice and celebrated man’s strength to endure. Could it be based on what he’d experienced in America?
Ottilie returned to her reading and became so engrossed in the story she failed to hear Benson enter the library; she looked up with a start when the butler alerted her by clearing his throat.
“A letter for you, Miss Hamilton.” Benson extended a silver tray, which held a single envelope and a letter opener in the shape of a miniature sword.
“Thank you.” Ottilie unfurled her legs, reached for the envelope, and saw the handwriting belonged to her friend Violet Thomas. Her spirits lifted. A friendly voice was exactly what she needed. The atmosphere in her aunt’s house had been frosty since the uncomfortable conversation in the drawing room two days earlier. And Ottilie had been grieved to find herself eating her meals alone. Her aunt had taken to her bed and eaten her meals in her room. Each time Ottilie checked on her health, the maid stated that Lady Hudsyn did not wish to be disturbed.
Meanwhile, Henry had disappeared to Kent, apparently to see about an emergency on his estate. But Ottilie knew the sudden “emergency” was a manufactured excuse to aid his escape from his mama. Her remarks had injured him, and he likely needed some time alone. He hated hiding his true self because of his mama’s ridiculous notions.
Ottilie picked up the miniature sword and sliced open the envelope.
“Will you be taking tea in the library, Miss Hamilton?” Benson asked when she returned the opener to the tray.
“Tea? Surely, it’s not time for tea yet. I only just ate breakfast.”
Benson stole a glance at the grandfather clock standing in the corner of the room, and Ottilie turned to look at the time.
“Half-after-two!” she exclaimed. “Have I been sitting here for over four hours?” As if in answer, Ottilie’s stomach emitted a low rumble. Benson stiffened and cast his eyes toward the window. She giggled. “I’m sorry, Benson. But you may as well get used to my demanding stomach. I am surprised it took this long to remind me to eat. It’s usually far more reliable. I’d like to have tea in the library if it’s permissible. Unless my aunt plans to join me in the dining room?”
