“No,” she breathed.
“Are you saying that I am mistaken?”
She blinked, shook her head, inhaled deeply. “No, but... the rejuvenation center is a joint project between myself and the Duke of Redding. You cannot go after that.”
“We can if you’ve used a portion of your inheritance on it. Or is Redding the sole proprietor?”
“We’re partners,” she said, as if struggling to speak. “He owns the majority but—”
“You’ve made a handsome contribution.”
“Well yes. I could not in good conscience allow him to—”
“And the rest of the funds?” Hayes asked, interrupting her once again.
Henry bristled. The man’s rudeness was becoming intolerable.
“I’ve some left.”
Hayes stared at her. “We’ll need to determine how much.”
“Do you mean to strip her of all her belongings?” Henry asked Hayes in anger.
“I am merely looking out for my client’s best interests,” Hayes said in a manner indicative of great ambition. All he cared about was winning, no matter who got hurt in the process.
“And the coin you are bound to receive if you win,” Henry argued, with every intention of bringing the man’s despicable character into focus.
“To support our case,” Hayes said as if Henry hadn’t spoken, “I present the medical journals of the late duke’s physician, Mr. Blaire.” He picked up one of five leather-bound books stacked on Robert’s desk and flipped it open. “This entry, for instance, dated November 1817, months prior to the duke’s death, reads: ‘His Grace shows increased signs of memory loss. When I mentioned the picture I showed him last week, he failed to recall the color of the flowers or that the sea could be glimpsed in the background.’”
“That can be easily dismissed,” Steadford said, speaking up for the very first time. “You would have to prove that the duke paid enough attention to that particular picture to register such detail. And besides,” he added, “Blaire is currently serving time for medical misconduct. I doubt his opinion will be well received in court.”
“There are numerous notes of a similar nature,” Hayes said, apparently choosing to ignore Steadford’s argument. “But I doubt we’ll even need them.” Hayes’s eyes hardened, and Henry straightened his back, preparing himself for whatever else the solicitor had up his sleeve. “I rather think Her Grace’s inferior background offers an excellent foundation on which to build an indisputable case.”
“You forget she was legally married to the previous Duke of Tremaine and that he amended his will so it would include her,” Mr. Steadford said.
“I forget no such thing,” Mr. Hayes insisted. “Indeed, I am counting on a good judge to be just as appalled as I am by Her Grace’s ability to snatch up a fortune that ought to have gone to the duke’s son and his relatives. So prepare yourself,” he added, pinning Viola with a glare. “I will pick your character apart until every aspect of it has been thoroughly scrutinized.” He paused for a second as if considering, then suddenly asked, “Who was your mother, by the way?” He leafed through some notes. “I don’t recall any mention of her identity during my discussions with Tremaine.” He glanced at the duke, who merely shrugged.
Noting the sudden stiffness in Viola’s posture, Henry said, “I hardly see how that is of any concern to you. As you yourself have said, you want to contest the late duke’s will on the basis that his wife took advantage of him. To this end, questioning Her Grace about her mother is hardly going to supply the evidence you need.” He stood, eager to quit this room and this house. “If that is all, I will wish you both a good day.”
“But—”
“Come, Duchess.” He held out his hand to Viola and waited. She blinked, gazed up into his face with wide-eyed surprise and slowly placed her hand in his. Once again, a hum of energy flew up his arm the moment her palm touched his. Swallowing, he closed his fingers around her hand and helped her rise, acutely aware of the blush coloring her cheeks and the bashful look she gave him from beneath her long lashes.
She was his. Regardless of what had transpired between her and Robert, Henry would make damn sure of it.
Chapter 12
Feeling as though the floor was tilting beneath her feet, Viola held on tight to Mr. Lowell’s arm and allowed him to escort her out of Tremaine’s study, through the familiar hallway beyond, past a vase that still stood where she’d placed it two years earlier, and into the street.
“This must have been terribly distressing for you,” Mr. Lowell said. He released her arm, which made her feel oddly unmoored. “I’m sorry it didn’t go better.”
“It’s all right,” Viola said, even though she didn’t feel like anything would ever be all right again. “I didn’t expect this to be easy.”
“I need to be clear with you, Your Grace,” Steadford said when he caught up to them. “Your response to Mr. Hayes’s inquiry about your mother was telling. You’re obviously hiding something, and I promise you that whatever it was, Mr. Hayes will find it even if he has to hire a hundred people in order to do so.” He stared Viola down, increasing the sense of dread already coursing through her. “Your only recourse right now is to confide in us so we can defend you against the attack that is coming.”
Glancing aside, Viola searched for an appropriate response. “My mother was poor and uneducated, but that never mattered to me or to my father. According to what he has told me, she loved me very much. Her greatest concern as she lay dying was for me and my future.”
“As reassuring as that may be, it doesn’t provide me with the information I need,” Mr. Steadford said. His brows dipped until they met in the middle of his forehead. “Mr. Hayes is going to start selecting his weapons. He is going to dig deep in order to find them, so what I need to be completely sure of is that you have been as forthcoming with me as possible. The last thing we want is for that man to find some damning piece of information you neglected to share with me.”
