“Pure!” The exclamation burst from Max’s lips before he had a chance to bite it back. “Do you call cheating a dearest friend out of his homepure, Sir Richard?”
Sir Richard stilled, his gaze resting on Max’s face. “Ambrose St. Claire was no cheat, Your Grace. I’d be happy to provide you with the facts of that transaction someday when you’re ready to hear them, but perhaps now isn’t the best time to go into the details of the misunderstanding between him and your father.”
Not now, and not ever. Miss St. Claire and Sir Richard may ascribe some selfless motive to Ambrose’s actions, but he knew better. He’d known who Ambrose St. Claire was for years, since those cold, starless nights he’d spent in the dark outside Hammond Court, watching the celebrations he’d once been a part of carry on without him.
Year after year, every bloody Christmas.
There was no word to describe how he’d felt on those nights, no word that could capture such profound loneliness.
And, as the years dragged by, one after the next, such profound hatred.
“Suffice it to say, Your Grace,” Sir Richard went on, “that Mr. St. Claire had his share of regrets, and wished to make amends.”
Ah, now that did sound promising. Max slid to the edge of the settee, shooting a glance at Miss St. Claire. She was no longer fussing with the tea tray. No, she was looking right at him, her face carefully blank.
But her eyes . . .
The sun had chosen that moment to struggle through the heavy clouds, and a stream of weak light found its way past the worn draperies. It fell upon her, illuminating the fine, white skin of her brow, the riot of golden curls that framed her face, and her eyes, that deep, fathomless green gone dark with some turbulent emotion he couldn’t read.
Anger, perhaps, or was it grief? Before he could decipher it, the light receded, ducking back behind the clouds, and the shadows once again hid her expression.
“. . . obviously cared deeply for Miss St. Claire. Blood ties notwithstanding, no one could ever have been more of a daughter to Mr. St. Claire than she was, and of course, he knew very well how much she loves this house.” Sir Richard smiled sadly. “He was the one who taught her to love it.”
For God’s sake, at this rate they’d be here all afternoon. “Forgive me, Sir Richard, but if we might get on with it? Did Ambrose leave the house to me, or to Miss St. Claire?”
“Well, that’s the issue at hand, Your Grace.” Sir Richard didn’t elaborate right away, instead choosing that moment to help himself to more tea, fussing about with the spoon and sugar bowl until Max was ready to explode with impatience. “It’s a rather unusual division of assets. I confess I’ve never seen anything quite like—”
“For God’s sake, man, will you justsayit?” Except . . . had Sir Richard said division of assets?Division. That seemed rather an odd word in this context, unless—
No. Dear God, no. He hadn’t, had he? Hewouldn’t, would he? Without realizing it, Max had shot to his feet. “You can’t possibly mean he—”
“Has left the house to you both? That’s precisely what I mean, Your Grace.”
Sir Richard settled back against his chair, his teacup balanced on his knee, as if he hadn’t just shattered Max’s world into a million tiny pieces with one sentence.
He dropped back down onto the settee, stunned, unable to utter a single word.
Nor was he the only one. The drawing room was silent. Sir Richard had returned his attention to his tea, Townsend was glancing between Max and Miss St. Claire, wringing his hands, and Miss St. Claire . . .
Was shesmiling?
By God, she was, the corners of those pink, rosebud lips curled ever so slightly upward. Before he knew what he was about, he was on his feet again and across the room, standing over her chair. “Do you find thisamusing, Miss St. Claire?”
She glanced up at him, surprised. “I hardly knowhowI find it, Your Grace.”
“You mean to make me believe you didn’t already know about this?” She was such a pretty little liar, wasn’t she? “Ambrose died more than a week ago, Miss St. Claire. Do you expect me to believe you hadn’t read his will before today?”
“I daresay you’ll find this difficult to believe, Your Grace, but it wasn’t a task I was anticipating with any pleasure, and in any case, I don’t enjoy the sort of leisure afforded to an aristocrat such as yourself. I’ve been busy, you see, what with the recent cold snap and the snowfall, and now the broken front door. It takes rather a lot of one’s time, surviving.”
Sir Richard spoke up then. “I can assure you, Your Grace, that Miss St. Claire is only just now hearing the terms of the will, the same as you are. After she saw the note Mr. St. Claire sent you, she thought it only fair you both hear it at the same time.”
“Oh, yes, she’s every inch the fair-minded and devoted daughter, isn’t she? So good, so virtuous she’s contrived to steal half my house from me!”
“Your Grace!” Sir Richard gaped at him, aghast. “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head and sit down if you please. I won’t have you looming over Miss St. Claire in that threatening manner.”
“Me, threatenher? I’ll have you know she nearly blew my foot to bits yesterday morn—”
Before he could get another word out, Miss St. Claire made a choked sound, and then, without warning, she covered her face with her hands.
