“Ah.” And then the duke’s gaze focused on Gemma. Did he notice the nasty bruise on her head? Did it matter to him? Mr. Thurlowe had implied last night that the duke might be behind the stunt. Seeing him this close, she’d place money on that suspicion.
She glared right back. And he’d not receive a curtsey from her.
His answer was the half smile someone would save for a kitten who amused them.
Well, she was no kitten.
Winderton turned his attention from Gemma to the group as a whole. “Did I interrupt?”
“No, you arrived just in time,” Mr. Thurlowe said. “Let’s be on with it.”
The earl frowned. “Why, thank you, Mr. Thurlowe, for making my work here easier. Ah, here is my tea.” Clarissa placed the hot mug on the table before the earl and backed away.
At that moment one of the Society members made a pretense of wiping his nose on one of the curtains. Gemma charged forward, ready to grab the man by the ear and give it a twist for having the manners of a schoolboy, except to her astonishment, Lord Marsden was ahead of her.
“Sweeney, leave the building.”
“My lord, I need to be here.”
“No, you don’t. Not until you have some manners about you. Out.”
Sweeney appeared ready to keep contesting the issue until Mr. Thurlowe stepped in. “You need to leave.”
For a second the man hesitated, casting an angry look around the room. He then grabbed the curtain, giving it a hard enough yank to tear it off its rod, and bolted out the door, the bell heralding his departure.
“Great. We have that done,” Lord Marsdensaid as if he wasn’t troubled at all by the makeshift circumstances. “Very well. I believe we all understand what is at stake. This situation is a bit unorthodox but I see no reason to postpone this hearing for me to shave. Mrs. Estep, please tell me your story.”
“Gemma—” she started to correct him and stopped. Let him call her whatever he wished if it meant she could have The Garland. She stepped forward.
Lord Marsden gave her a very male look-over. She ignored him, choosing to focus on a spot over his head as she told her story.
“My uncle Andrew MacMhuirich was the only family I had and the same was true for him.” She was proud that her voice didn’t betray her inner turmoil. “I visited him last year around the time the village was holding the big dance of the season. I helped him make rook pies and it was a good evening between us. The next day I continued my journey to London. I wrote a letter to my uncle Andrew that I had arrived and shared with him the news that my husband was dead—”
A sympathetic murmur from the women went around the room.
“—and had been for some months prior to my traveling to see him—”
“Estep? Captain Paul Estep?” the earl interrupted.
Gemma blinked in surprise. “Yes?” she hedged, wary.
“I knew him. He was probably the most disreputable scoundrel in the Horse Guard and they have more than their share. You actually married that man? He never acted married.”
Dear God, this was a terrible turn, and Gemma decided only the truth was her ally. “No, he didn’t. And yes, by all accounts, including mine, he was a scoundrel.” She braced herself, waiting for Lord Marsden to reveal to one and all the disgraceful way Paul had died.
He didn’t. Instead, he nodded. “Go on with your story.”
“My uncle wrote back and this is his letter.” She held the letter up. “He expressed his condolences and then informed me that what washisismine. That is what he says in this letter.”
“A letter?”Mr. Shielding challenged boisterously. “No will? Only a letter? Well, then there is our case. A letter is not a will.” He smiled his superiority. Mr. Thurlowe stood with his arms crossed. He didn’t pay attention to Mr. Shielding but watched the earl.
“May I see it?” Lord Marsden asked. She handed the letter to him and he took his time reading it. That might have been necessary. Andrew had not had the best penmanship.
At last, he placed the letter on the table and looked to Mr. Shielding. The earl’s manner had undergone a change from under-the-weather rakehell to a man in control of his intellect. “Mr. Shielding, you are serving as the spokesperson for the other side? Or will it be Mr. Thurlowe?”
“You are the lawyer,” Mr. Thurlowe said to his compatriot.
Mr. Shielding was happy to take charge. “Our case is simple, my lord. The Logical Men’s Society has been using The Garland for close to fifty years. It is our home, as it were. We believe Old Andy wished the building to go to us. Furthermore, I say again, a letter is not a legal will.”
