“Which is a bit surprising.”
“What do you mean?”
“My grandparents would have continued to pay to keep the story quiet. Their reputation, you know.”
“Or they might not have. I would have advised them against it. There’d be gossip and a bit of scandal, but it wouldn’t last more than a week.” George finished his drink. “You know the whole story now. Fortunately, it is behind you. You are free to rebuild what was all but destroyed.”
“At a great cost. And for that reason, I want justice,” Matt said. “I need those men you once hired to search again for Hardesty. I want the estate’s money returned.”
George leaned both elbows on his desk. “That might not be possible.”
“Then I’ll wring the money out of Hardesty’s hide.”
“We don’t know who he is. We could never find him.”
“I want to try again.”
George held his gaze a moment, and then shrugged. “You understand the sort of men I had to hire don’t work without coin up front.”
“I will pay.”
“Thank God for heiresses, eh?” George leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and half turning from Matt. “And there are no guarantees.”
“Find me good men, true hunters. Set them loose.”
George acted as if he thought better of the request, but then conceded, “It will take time, but I will do as you ask. I could weep over what has happened to Mayfield. I confess, I was worried when you took over. I knew what was going on and feared you would not have the stomach for it.”
“I’m an Addison,” Matt answered. “We do not let any slight go unanswered.”
“ ‘Stand fast,’ ” George said, quoting the Addison family motto, the one created by the first Duke of Camberly.
Matt nodded his agreement and stood. “Thank you for your time, George.”
His cousin jumped up from his chair and bowed. “It is my pleasure, Your Grace. I will see you on the morrow.”
Matt offered his hand. The men shook on their agreement, and Matt left.
He was not surprised when he reached his home to find his coach at the front door. His grandmother had returned from Mayfield. Handing off the by now exhausted mare to a stable lad, Matt entered the house.
Minerva came into the hall from a side room. She held a brimming glass of sherry in her hands. “Well?”
“There will be a wedding on the morrow.”
Her relief was obvious, and he understood.
Now that he’d stopped fighting the marriage, the weight of responsibility that had been his constant companion since he’d taken the title had fallen aside. His money worries would vanish. It was as if he could draw a full breath for the first time in what seemed ages.
That night, he enjoyed a rare beefsteak and a glass of whisky and embarked on a good night’s sleep—until he woke in the middle of the night and realized he did not have a groomsman.
He had not performed this most basic of groom’s duties, and it would be a telltale sign that he had not been interested in the marriage.
Matt jotted a quick note to his friend Soren, woke his butler, Marshall, to see that it was delivered, and then went back to sleep, convinced that he had saved himself from a major blunder.
Willa had a terrible night’s rest.
Part of the blame she placed on her hair. At night, she wore it in a long braid that was as thick as her wrist. When her body turned, the braid would sometimes be caught beneath her. She hated being woken that way.
Last night, it had happened several times, and whenever she woke, her mind would take over with a thousand thoughts.
