Chapter 21 #3
No putting the new peer on display in a court of law. Amabel would consider that as well, while Richard would have shouted Orla’s perfidy to the rooftops.
“Don’t stop her,” Amabel said. “She will try to prey on others, but she will not be the respected widow, nor will she have a small fortune to squander as she pursues her schemes. She will be forced to pawn her jewels, garnering only a fraction of their worth.
“She will have nothing and nobody,” Amabel went on. “She will be forced to part with her treasures one by one, and make do with less and less, until she is cast entirely on her wits or the charity of her neighbors.”
“You are saying,” St. Didier murmured, “that the crown would have to pay to transport her, but the result would be the same if she’s simply allowed to flee.”
“Her French is terrible,” Amabel said. “And all of her wrongdoing has involved abusing somebody’s trust. Who is left for her to betray? I do not predict a long or happy life for my step-mother, but neither will I concern myself with the particulars of her fate should she flee.”
“A pragmatic view,” Johnson said. “My lord, have you anything to add?”
Richard looked to Amabel, who beneath her dignified calm exuded weariness of the spirit. She’d battled to keep the Glen on its feet, battled for years to maintain order in a household tainted with ill will and lies, battled to regain her self-possession after being sorely abused in London.
“As long as Orla doesn’t show up in Portugal or Madeira,” Richard said, “she is free to make her way as best she can anywhere else in the world.”
Johnson looked puzzled. “Why not Portugal or Madeira?”
“I hope to include those destinations on a long and peaceful wedding journey,” Richard said, which inspired a small smile from Amabel. “My bride will decide our itinerary, but those will be among my suggestions.”
“Congratulations?” Johnson looked from Richard to Amabel. “I presume an announcement will be made at the assembly?”
Amabel’s smile became more of a glow. “You presume correctly. Mr. St. Didier will stand up with us, when the time comes.”
St. Didier got a bit glow-y, too, and more ferocious than usual. “I would be honored.”
Amabel’s gaze went to the window. “Orla is making her escape. At least she thought to wear a cloak.”
“The better to hide her identity,” St. Didier said, joining Amabel at the window. “How I wish I had a rotten tomato with which to stain that cloak.”
Magnus Johnson ambled to the window as well. “She’s wearing boots. Always a sensible choice when making a long journey. Shall I follow her just to make sure she gets on a stage?”
“I claim that office,” St. Didier said. “You will stay for lunch and exchange pleasantries with the happy couple.”
Clearly, St. Didier had a few parting words for Orla.
Richard left him to it, certain those parting words would speak for all concerned.
Orla had notice of the charges against her.
A warrant would be issued, along with a detailed description of the wanted party.
If she had any sense, she’d be on a ship bound for a foreign port in the next forty-eight hours.
“As it happens,” Magnus Johnson said, “I am a bit peckish, if it wouldn’t be intruding?”
“Not at all,” Amabel said. “My lord, shall we alert your sister to the presence of a guest at luncheon?”
“We shall not. Wealtha is busy with her correspondence, and the discussion at lunch would likely not amuse her.”
“I will manage to contain my disappointment,” Johnson murmured.
A beat of silence went by.
“As shall I,” Amabel said. “And his lordship would make it unanimous, if he weren’t trying to puzzle out the demands of fraternal loyalty.
We have hopes that when she’s free of Orla’s goading and manipulation, Wealtha might become better company.
But tell us how haying progresses. The Glen’s crews are ahead of schedule, and this year’s crop has so far been gorgeous. ”
Hay could be gorgeous, sheep could be beautiful, and a simple meal of soup and sandwiches could be delicious.
Richard knew from the glances Amabel sent him, from the quality of her speech and small gestures—a hesitation before refreshing her wineglass, the care with which she folded her table napkin—that Amabel was not as at ease as she seemed.
Neither was Richard, but the ease would come in time. They would make certain of it, together.
“Will Mr. St. Didier be biding in the area much longer?” Johnson asked when the cherry tarts with clotted cream were but a memory.
“He has said not,” Amabel replied. “The press of whatever passes for business with him is apparently growing urgent. Why?”
“I’d like to seek his counsel regarding some business that’s about to press on me,” Johnson replied. He turned a troubled gaze on the tray that had held the tarts. “I’m in line for a baronetcy. That is common knowledge and of no great import.”
“A well-deserved honor,” Amabel observed. “The holding is a tidy estate near Durham, if I recall correctly?”
“That’s part of it, but the baronet has only recently apprised me of another aspect of my inheritance for which I am entirely unprepared.”
Richard mentally ceased building castles with lots of bedrooms in Portugal. “One sympathizes on the matter of unlooked-for inheritances. Are you to be saddled with a barony? I survived the shock of becoming a viscount, with Amabel’s aid and support. A barony might not be too bad.”
“A marquessate,” Johnson said. “In Scotland. Uncle started out something like seventh in line, but number six is the current title holder and in poor health with no sons, no brothers, nothing but Uncle for an heir and me for a spare. Uncle’s health is failing as well.
My mother is quietly in transports, while I am… ”
“Seeking some counsel from Leopold St. Didier.” Amabel set the carafe of wine by Johnson’s elbow. “If there is a way to elude this title, he’ll know it. You may rely on him utterly in that regard.”
“And if there is no way out,” Richard added, “St. Didier will at least see you through the initial shock. He’s good at it. Let’s have a few more tarts sent up from the kitchen, shall we? The morning has been eventful, and Cook’s tarts are amazingly restorative.”
By the time St. Didier returned from his errand, Johnson had been sent on his way, mightily fortified with cherry tarts, wine, and good wishes.
Richard and Amabel started their afternoon planning a house party for late summer—Their Graces of Chanderton first on the guest list—and a wedding journey for early autumn.
When St. Didier next saw them in the later afternoon, they were ambling in the direction of the path that led to the fishing cottage, a wicker hamper in Richard’s hand.
Never had a couple become so proficient at picnicking prior to speaking their vows. The prospect of acquiring another godchild sat pleasantly with St. Didier, though a bit sadly too.
He set that sentiment aside and sent a note to Magnus Johnson arranging to meet for a morning hack. St. Didier had been patient as long as he could afford to be, and the next Marquess of Duncarron needed to be taken in hand.
Though that, of course, is a tale for another time!