Chapter 4
While Parliament was in session and London’s season in full swing, Hermy couldn’t think of a worse time to show her face there—the outcast who’d been locked away in shame for five years. And yet, it was the last resort.
Until this day, she’d fallen out of society’s good grace, but without her fortune, she was rapidly landing in disgrace. The drama was unfolding rather like a bad theatrical drama.
She hadn’t had time to pack after the solicitor gave the staff instructions to turn the house down, cover the furniture with linens, and sweep the fireplaces. Willowby Park was being shut down.
Until further notice from your husband.
But it was Hermy’s house, not Lord Chanteroy’s and especially not the solicitors. Her clothes hung in the armoire, along with her china, crystals, and silver. He had no right to hold in escrow for a man she’d never agreed to marry and never would as if none of it belonged to her. How could it be legal in a country like England to pass her over and give her family’s fortune to a man whose only claim was a betrothal? With one piece of paper, her brother had destroyed her life. And it was irrevocable, held in “trust.” Trust had been lost between her and her brother since he’d caught her with Greg, although that wasn’t a betrayal as much as hiding her love from the one person who was certainly going to begrudge her even that. Her brother had been jealous of Greg’s friendship and his love. Now, she was the last Ellsworth, yet the solicitor and her staff pretended she’d died along with her reputation.
Hermy looked to the butler, the housemaids, and the cook. They turned and shuffled around, pretending to dust the furniture.
“Thank you for your service and complete lack of loyalty!” With these words, she took her pelisse from the stand in the foyer, clutched Gambit tightly, and refused to let any of the tears of shame roll.
Not again. Not now.
“Come on, Gambit.” Hermy picked up her cocker spaniel and the butler held the door open. “Thank you, Simmons.” She inclined her heat to the butler, but he just snuffed.
“After over twenty years of service to my family, Simmons, I ought to thank you.”
He looked away, at nothing in particular.
“And yet, words fail me because I wasn’t taught what to say when the head of my staff considers it a disgrace to work for me. It appears that my money was all you cared about and now it’s frozen, may you get what you deserve.” Hermy straightened her back, held Gambit close to her chest, and stared at the basket. “I don’t suppose you’ll want to keep my companion?” The solicitor turned his gaze to the handwoven basket and Scottish quilt that made the dog’s bed.
Simmons bent down and carried the dog’s basket to the end of the steps. “My service ends here.” No milady, no Lady Ellsworth. Nothing.
“I will remember you, Simmons.”
He smiled self-indulgently.
“Not fondly.” Hermy pivoted and carried Gambit away, dragging the basket after her.
Apparently, the coachman had already received instructions not to allow her to “remove the estate’s carriages from the premises.”
“Fine, I’ll walk.”
And so she did. Head high.
Five years she’d been locked up in this house.
Five years she’d run the household at a profit!
After five years and as the only Ellsworth left, she had been dismissed.
Since her parents had died, her brother hadn’t been back to check on the estate. She’d left a lush orchard, a gleaming house, healthy forests surrounding the fields, happy tenants, and full accounts behind. Hermy had managed it while he was busy being the Earl, going in and out of the gentlemen’s clubs in London, Edinburgh, and other places. It was prudent for him to gain experience, sow his wild oats, and enjoy his youth before settling down to produce an heir and pass his legacy on. He had taken credit for her perfect stewardship of the Ellsworth nineteen-acres estate.
Now he was dead, she had been sent away. As if life could be put on hold, she was to remain frozen in time until what would occur? Marriage to Chanteroy would mean her possessions would become his. He’d dissolve the abeyance and become the Earl. Hermy tasted acid when she imagined Chanteroy sitting at her late father’s desk and signing off on accounts of her inheritance. She’d never seen Chenteroy but in her imagination, he was a lanky, scruffy man with narrow shoulders and an even narrower mind.
Hermy reached the end of the gravel driveway and turned back. The four-story building stood in the middle of the garden, surrounded by rose bushes and pruned boxwood as if nothing had happened. She wouldn’t be missed, the fallen girl.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she set Gambit down on the grass. She felt the curious stares of the staff and the opportunistic solicitor, and she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of letting herself crumble on the ground and cry.
No, she flexed a muscle, the not-let-anyone-see-you-cry muscle. She heaved and licked the tears rushing down her cheeks.
“I’ll figure this out, Gambit.” She patted the top of his head, and he shook his head, leaving his floppy ears hanging bent openly. “You and me, we’ll find a new home.”