“You know how I am when faced with injustice,” he said. “She doesn’t deserve any of this. An honest man uses whatever means he has to make it right.” If he could free her from Irving, perhaps the weight he carried would ease.
Ramsey gave a measured smile. “You can depend on me to do whatever you ask.”
“I’ve never doubted it.” He gripped Ramsey’s shoulder in silent thanks, then turned and entered the house.
He passed through the hall, his pulse in time with his strides. The scent of Sir Lionel’s sickly cologne lingered in the air. He was tempted to tell the man his wife brayed like a donkey in bed, that her lover was forever demanding her silence.
At the study door, Irving’s coarse voice carried through the panels, insisting Beattie account for the delay. Dominic cricked his neck and flexed his fingers, though instinct urged him to curl them into fists.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He sauntered into the roomkeen to look upon the blackguard who’d chosen the wrong adversary.
Beattie made to move. “Shall I fetch refreshment, sir?”
“No. These gentlemen are leaving. You’ll remain until they do.”
“I’ll leave once I have what I came for,” said the pudgy man in the ill-fitting coat, easily sixty if he was a day. A sheen of perspiration clung to his upper lip.
The sight of him made Dominic’s jaw tighten. This was the man who meant to claim her. What in God’s name had Harland been thinking?
Dominic allowed himself a faint smile. “Tickets for the Masque are reserved for the well-bred. I’ll need proof of your lineage if you mean to take part in the frivolities.”
Sir Lionel scoffed. “You know full well why we’re here.”
“Do I?” Dominic replied. “Last time you came with unfounded allegations. I indulged you then. I won’t today.”
Today, he would not rely on violence, but on the skills he had honed while playing host to the depraved.
Irving reached into a leather satchel as creased as his brow. He pulled out a bound document and brandished it as though it were a royal decree. “I’ve come to claim my property. It’s all here in the contract. Signed by the girl’s own father before he passed.”
Dominic fell silent, though his blood roared in his veins. “Did Sir Lionel not offer counsel?” he said smoothly. “Did he not quote from Blackstone’sCommentaries on the Laws of England?”
The men shared confused glances.
“Explain the problem with the contract, Beattie.”
Beattie stepped forward. “At three and twenty, a lady has full legal capacity and is not bound by her father’s authority. The courts look unfavourably on marriages arranged forfinancial gain. With the father deceased, any supposed obligation lapses. And no money ever changed hands.”
Dominic gave a smug grin. “Even if Miss Harland were here—and let me be clear, she is not—you have no legal right to enforce the contract.” He tipped his chin at Sir Lionel. “As magistrate, you know that.”
Irving was undeterred. “Here’s a document dated the day before Mr Harland’s body was pulled from the river.” He thrust it at Beattie. “Miss Harland accepted Bank of England notes to the value of three thousand pounds, the balance payable upon exchange of vows.”
“By accepting the notes, Miss Harland agreed to the terms,” Sir Lionel added, his tone thick with self-satisfaction.
A cold suspicion slipped beneath Dominic’s composure.
Ink had ruined more lives than bullets. These men were capable of far more than petty contracts. He didn’t doubt Miss Harland, only the hands that drafted the paper.
He took the document from Beattie and scanned it, noting the date and signature. She couldn’t have visited Irving after the ball. He’d already examined the timeline. And had she fleeced the fellow, she would not be living in a small cottage on an estate steeped in sin.
One detail stopped him cold.
The clerk’s signature. Edward Brown.
The missing witness?
A common enough name. Too common.
Yet coincidence had a habit of circling him like a vulture.
