“Ah. But instead of an empty house, you found Miss St. Claire? Rather a nice surprise, I would think. She’s a pretty little bit of a thing.”
“A pretty little bit of a thing, is she, Montford? I’ll have you know that pretty little bit of a thing nearly put a ball between my eyes when I appeared on her doorstep.” After he’d broken into her house, that is, but the less his friends knew about that business with the doorknob, the better.
“Did she, really?” Basingstoke chuckled. “Well, it’s not at all surprising that Ambrose’s daughter is a young lady of spirit.”
Spirit? Is that what they were calling it?
“Miss St. Claire is, er . . .” Montford cleared his throat. “She’s Ambrose’snaturaldaughter, I take it?”
The circumstances of Rose’s birth weren’t their concern, but she’d never made any secret of it, and God knew neither Basingstoke nor Montford would let this business rest until they had every bloody detail. “She’s the natural daughter of Ambrose’s cook. The lady passed away some nine years or so ago, but Miss St. Claire remained at Hammond Court after she died.”
“Miss St. Claire is the illegitimate daughter of St. Claire’s latecook?” Basingstoke shook his head. “Good God. That’s rather a difficult position for the young lady to be in.”
Exceedingly difficult, yes, but he’d never heard her bemoan her fate. She seemed to think herself the luckiest young lady in the world, to have been known and loved by Ambrose. “By all accounts, Ambrose was fond of the girl. So fond, he left her half of Hammond Court.”
“What?” Montford halted in the middle of the pathway. “Ambrose St. Claire left half of Hammond Court to Miss St. Claire?”
“Yes.” Max gritted his teeth. “I might have known he’d remain a thorn in my side, even after he died.”
When he’d first come to Fairford, he’d thought it ludicrous Ambrose was so devoted to his cook’s daughter that he’d made her an heiress, but that was before he knew Rose. Now, however . . . well, if ever there was a young lady who could burrow under one’s skin, wriggle under one’s breastbone, and insinuate herself into the tender tissue underneath, it was Rose.
“Her presence here at Grantham Lodge certainly makes a great deal more sense now,” Montford muttered. “I assume you’re after her half of Hammond Court?”
Was he? It had begun that way, certainly, but now . . .
Everything had changed. After decades of negotiations, Hammond Court was finally in his grasp, merely waiting for him to reach out and pluck it like a ripe bit of fruit, and instead, he was seriously considering letting it slip through his fingers, all because of a young lady with pretty green eyes. “It’s hardly a secret that I’ve been trying to get my hands on Hammond Court for years. It was my father’s house, and it rightfully belongs to me.”
“You intend to purchase Miss St. Claire’s half, then?” The glint in Basingstoke’s eyes belied his casual tone.
“Precisely. So, you see, it’s nothing so nefarious as what you two are imagining.” At least, not on the surface.
“If it’s as simple as you say, Grantham,” Montford asked, “then why is Miss St. Claire here at Grantham Lodge? Why haven’t you made the lady an offer, and taken possession of the house?”
“I did make her an offer, but the lady is, ah, reluctant to sell.” To put it mildly. “She insists that Hammond Court isn’t merely a house to her, but her home, or some such nonsense.”
But the inflection in her voice when she said the word “home,” the softness in her face . . . it made him want outlandish things. On one or two occasions, he’d even caught himself longing with everything inside of him for Hammond Court to be hers.
“That doesn’t sound like nonsense to—” Montford broke off, his eyes narrowing. “Wait a moment, Grantham. Is this business with Rose St. Claire what prompted your sudden house party?”
“Dunwitty!” Basingstoke groaned. “Don’t tell me you invited Dunwitty here to—”
“What?” Montford jerked his head toward Basingstoke. “What’s Grantham done this time?”
“Don’t you see, Montford? He’s brought Dunwitty here to—to—” Basingstoke turned his sharp gaze on Max. “Marry her? Christ, Grantham, I hope it’s to marry her, because if you’re scheming to turn that sweet young lady over to Dunwitty as his mistress—”
“No! Of course not, Basingstoke!” Had he really become such a villain that his friend would think so poorly of him? “What do you take me for?”
Basingstoke searched his face, then blew out a breath. “Thank God. I beg your pardon, Grantham, but this business with Ambrose St. Claire and Hammond Court brings out the worst in you.”
Max couldn’t deny it, and yet it stung, that Basingstoke had thought for even a moment that he’d do such a thing. He would never . . .
Or would he? If Miss St. Claire had been another sort of young lady—a bit less endearing, a trifle less angelic, might he have done the unthinkable? Had he strayed so far from the man he’d once been, as to do something so ruthless as that?
Montford shook his head. “Christ, Grantham.”
He glanced from Montford to Basingstoke and threw up his hands in disgust. Now they’d gotten this much out of him, he may as well confess the whole bloody thing. “I don’t deny I brought Dunwitty here with the intention of his marrying Miss St. Claire. After they married, he was meant to turn over her portion of Hammond Court to me.”
Basingstoke shook his head. “This is beneath you, Grantham.”
