Chapter 11
Julian cast a sharp eye about his drawing room, though he had already surveyed it twice. Nothing wanted his attention. Everything was set, everything ready for Miss Trent’s arrival.
His morning had been a busy one. Having settled a clear plan with Miss Trent and her sister the day before, he had set about it with all the haste he could.
The note she had received at Gunter’s had unsettled him more than he had let her see.
It was plain now that someone meant to frighten her into surrendering Stoneleigh House to him.
Why anyone should do such a thing, he could not imagine.
Again and again his mind returned to Brookmire, and again and again he recalled his brother’s fervent denial. He had to believe him.
But that meant there was someone else.
So he had gone to the solicitors and begged whatever papers they held touching Stoneleigh House and his own bequest of Glenbrae.
They had been reluctant at first — the papers were the estate’s, and Lady Warrington’s executors answerable for their care — but with much persuasion, and his promise to answer for any trouble himself, he had been given all he asked.
There had been one thing Mr. Braithwaite would not part with.
As Julian gathered up the rest, the solicitor remarked, in the careful manner of a man marking the limit of what he was free to do, that Lady Warrington had left certain letters in his keeping, sealed in her own hand.
They were to be opened only should a particular need arise; and in his judgment, that need had not yet come.
He would say nothing of what they held, nor for whom they were meant, and Julian had known better than to press.
He had thought little of it then. A lady of her care might leave any number of such instructions, and none of them his concern.
The urge to read them at once had been hard to resist. But, knowing Miss Trent would value his patience, he had set them aside untouched. Now, waiting for her, he paced the drawing room with his hands clasped behind his back, eager both for the papers and for the sight of her again.
He could no longer pretend his interest in Miss Trent was merely as a companion.
The way she had looked at him yesterday, sitting outside Gunter’s, had done something to his heart.
It had been a strange moment: a rising need to protect her crashing against a sudden, unexpected swell of feeling at her beauty.
The sun had struck gold into the deep amber of her eyes; her chestnut curls had glinted bronze.
It had shaken him to feel so much, for he had never once been drawn to a young lady with such force.
In that moment he had wanted nothing so much as to gather her up and shield her from every dark whisper and cruel word.
He had not, of course. But the thought of her had lingered, driving through his mind all through the night until sleep took him, and tarrying there still this morning, even at the solicitors’.
Footsteps in the hall brought him to attention. He cleared his throat, and after a brief knock the butler stepped in.
“Lady Manion and Miss Trent, my lord.”
Julian bowed as both ladies entered, a smile coming readily to his face. “Lady Manion, Miss Trent. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Lord Carrington.” Lady Manion spoke first, composed, her hands clasped lightly before her. “I hope all has gone as you expected?”
“It has.” But while he answered the sister, he looked to Miss Trent, who held all his attention. She wore a gown of light green that seemed to deepen the color of her hair and eyes, her cheeks flushed from the warm drive.
“You had the solicitor’s leave, then?” she asked. “And the papers are here?”
He stepped aside, showing her the table behind him.
“As you see. I have untied every ribbon, but I have read none of them. This is everything they hold that makes mention of my family or yours.” They had reasoned that the anonymous letters must come from someone connected to him who wished him to have the house, and so they would search both his family’s ties to Lady Warrington and Miss Trent’s.
Julian expected far more of his own mother and father in these pages, but it could not be helped.
Lady Manion seated herself. “I confess I understand little of legal papers, but I shall help as I can.”
“I thank you.” He handed her a small stack. “If you would look through these, I shall take another few, and Miss Trent, if you would as well?”
“I do hope you will not suffer for this,” Miss Trent said, a little doubtful as she took her share. “The executors truly have no objection?”
Julian hid a smile. “Mr. Braithwaite objected for a full quarter of an hour, and then allowed that the estate’s interest and my own are, in this matter, one and the same.
” The lopsided smile he gave her put a flicker of humor into her eyes.
“It is not the usual practice, I admit. But then, Lady Warrington’s will was not quite as expected either, was it? ”
She laughed, the first time he had ever heard her do so, and the sound made him smile so broadly it felt as if his heart had been lifted clean out of his chest. He paused, the papers in his hands, and let himself rest a moment in the joy of it.
Miss Trent did not look away. She held his gaze, and the shared smile between them brought him a fresh swell of feeling.
“Come now, Viola.” Lady Manion’s voice broke the moment like a dropped ornament. “Sit here beside me, and let us look through these. I would far rather we found the truth before another of those letters arrives. They have been most distressing.”
Julian cleared his throat, feeling like a schoolboy caught out by his master. “Yes. Quite.” He saw Miss Trent seated, rang for a tea tray, and took his own chair.
Some of the papers were a great deal older than others.
The first held only columns of figures — small sums, his father’s name set down here and there among the entries, which were kept in a second hand that was not Lady Warrington’s.
Julian thought little of them. He noticed, and thought nothing of it, that the second hand had signed in one corner — Pendleton — and supposed his cousin had done some quiet work of business for her across the years, as a solicitor in the family naturally might.
He set the sheet aside and read on. The tea came in, Lady Manion offering to pour.
He murmured his thanks, turning each fragile sheet with care.
When he glanced at Miss Trent, he could see the concentration in her — the knot of her brows, the steadiness of her gaze, the faint tightness at her mouth.
Once, they reached for the same paper. Her fingers came down upon one corner of it in the same instant his took the other, and for a moment neither of them let go — a foolish small tug-of-war over a forty-year-old receipt for candles, of all things — and then both released it at once, so that it drifted back to the table, and Miss Trent pressed her lips together against a smile and did not look at him.
Julian bent his head over his own stack and read the same line three times without taking in a word of it.
There was a pleasantness in it he had not expected — the shared table, the rustle of old paper, her sleeve an inch from his when she leaned to pass him a sheet.
He had imagined, when he imagined marriage at all, the great occasions: the ball, the wedding breakfast, the heir.
He had never once thought to imagine this — a quiet room, a common task, a person whose nearness made the work better rather than worse. And now he could imagine nothing else.
On they read, the silence broken only by china set down in saucers. There was nothing.
“I see nothing here.” Miss Trent sighed, set down her pile, and rose to take up the last few. “Perhaps there is nothing of use to find.”
“Do not be downhearted,” Lady Manion said gently, before Julian could speak. “Even if we find nothing, you will at least know you searched to the very best of your ability.”
“Very true.” Julian shared an appreciative look with her. “And reason enough to go on. There are only a few left now.”
The quiet returned, but altered, thickening with a tension Julian could not ease even in his own chest. If they found nothing at all, that would be a disappointment past any encouragement, and he would not know where next to turn. He tugged a finger at his collar.
Miss Trent caught a sharp breath.
Julian’s gaze flew to her, his heart slamming against his ribs as she stared at the paper in her hand. Neither he nor Lady Manion moved.
“I — I do not know how this came to be among them,” she said softly, still staring.
“It must be a mistake, for the papers either side speak of investments and the like, and here, in the midst of them, is this.” She lifted her eyes to his, then dropped them, reading swiftly. “It is in Lady Warrington’s hand.”
“And it mentions your father?” Julian asked.
Miss Trent pressed her lips flat, then looked up. “No,” she said, very quietly. “It mentions yours.”
The room seemed to shrink. Julian’s breath drew in and would not leave him. Lady Manion rose in a swish of skirts, with a brief smile.
“If you will excuse me a few minutes,” she said, offering no explanation. “This is plainly a private affair, and I have no need to hear it.”
“I can take my leave also, if you wish,” Miss Trent offered, but Julian shook his head as Lady Manion stepped out.
“No.” He rose and came to sit directly beside her, catching the scent of something orange and sweet.
“There is no need. Please — if you would?” His shoulder brushed hers, and she widened her eyes a moment, surprised he would ask her to read it aloud.
He held her gaze, finding it hard to look at the paper at all, almost afraid of what it held.
With a quiet nod, Miss Trent turned to the page.
“‘Carrington came to call again this afternoon,’” she read.
“‘He remains a selfish, arrogant gentleman who speaks of duty whilst shirking its burdens. He believes the world bends of its own accord to his wishes, and refuses aid wherever it is needed. Friendship is a mere word to him. He sees no call to generosity, no need to weigh kindness against greed. In my anger, I dismissed him from my house. I pray with all my heart that his sons do not inherit this pride and selfishness, and I shall do all I can to keep such a fault from taking root in them.’”
Miss Trent set the paper atop the others and waited, saying nothing, the words hanging in the air between them. Julian closed his eyes, his heart beating painfully as he thought of his late father.
“I have never spoken to you of my father, Miss Trent,” he said, on a long exhale.
“He was as she describes. He rarely offered affection, and took little interest in anyone’s accomplishments — his own sons’ least of all.
” His mouth curved in a sad smile. “He was not a cruel man. Only, as she says, arrogant and selfish.”
“Traits which are not in you.”
Her hand reached out and her fingers came to rest, light, upon his.
Both the touch and the words struck him like a blow — hard, and yet welcome, rocking him back.
Looking into her eyes, he saw the corner of her mouth lift, the warmth in her face unmistakable.
All at once he forgot what the letter said, forgot the pain of it.
There was only Miss Trent — only her nearness, only the touch of her hand on his.
He swallowed. “Miss Trent,” he said, leaning a little closer, daring to wonder what might happen if he let himself speak the truth of what he felt. “I wonder if — ”
The door opened. Julian snatched his hand from hers and rose as Brookmire appeared, his gaze going from the papers to Miss Trent and then, with a lift of his brows, to Julian.
“I see I have called at an inconvenient moment,” he said, and Julian scowled at the suggestion in his voice. “Might I ask — ”
“We are looking for anything that mentions Miss Trent’s family or our own,” Julian cut in. “We have just found something.” He took up the paper and handed it across.
Brookmire read, and the smile tore from his face. His shoulders dropped, the same heaviness settling into him that Julian felt.
“Well. She had the measure of our father.” His voice came low as he handed it back. “I can see why she would wish neither of us to grow as he did. Everyone knew he thought only of himself.”
“Indeed.”
Brookmire rubbed his chin. “And there is nothing else? Nothing in these to suggest a reason for her generosity, no marks of money here and there?”
“None,” Julian confirmed, and Miss Trent shook her head. “I wonder if her kindness to Miss Trent grew from knowing how ungenerous men of our sort can be. Perhaps she felt it the more keenly, having known our father’s nature.”
Brookmire considered it, sitting opposite Miss Trent. “That would be like her,” he allowed, doubt in his voice. “But why such generosity to one young lady in particular? In what way does it touch you, Miss Trent?”
She spread her hands and did not answer, and Julian could find no reply that made anything clearer. They had found something, yes. But it left them, to his mind, with more questions than before — not the answers they had been seeking.