Chapter Eight
“I should like to ask you something concerning Sophy,” Elias said, setting down his cup.
Victoria looked up. “That sounds ominously careful.”
“I am attempting improvement. You may find the result unnatural at first.” He paused. “I have been offered a pony.”
“For yourself?”
“I considered it, but my dignity would not survive the proportions. It is small, steady, and accustomed to children. I thought Sophy might like it.”
“And you have not bought it?”
“No. Nor promised anything. I thought I should speak to you first.”
The answer checked the suspicion already gathering in her.
“You truly came to ask.”
“Well, it concerns your daughter,” Elias replied. “And we were quite clear on that point.”
Victoria studied him over the rim of her cup. “You may buy the pony, provided Sophy is properly taught before anyone permits her to ride alone.”
“Agreed.”
“And when she falls, as she certainly will, you are not to say that you warned her.”
“I seldom warn people. They are generally more impressed by danger after meeting it personally.”
Despite herself, Victoria smiled.
It was a small thing, the pony, and Victoria had grown wary, in six weeks of marriage, of how much the small things had begun to matter to her.
The house had settled around the three of them into something not yet happiness, but practising for it daily.
A succession of ordinary mornings had passed without demanding that she defend herself from them.
Somewhere among those mornings, she had begun to lower her guard.
Elias had nearly reached the door when Mrs Whitlock appeared there, the ease gone from her expression.
“My lord, there is a caller. Sir Roland Hemsworth declined to accept that you were not at home. He is waiting in the blue saloon and has brought a gentleman carrying a leather case.”
The morning went out of the room like heat out of an opened window.
“Show them nothing and offer them nothing,” Elias said. “We shall come down.”
“We,” Victoria repeated.
“You need not. It is your concern, and our agreement gives you the choice of ground. But he has brought a solicitor, and no man carries a leather case to discuss the weather. I would rather you did not meet him without knowing what he has brought, and I would rather not meet him without you.”
“I am coming.” Victoria set down her cup. “He has come about Sophy. I will not have that conversation reported to me afterwards.”
***
Sir Roland Hemsworth stood at the window of the blue saloon with his back to the door. He took his time turning, as though the delay itself were a courtesy he expected them to notice.
The room was the coldest in the house, all pale silk, hard chairs, and a fire laid but not lit. Elias had chosen it with purpose, and Roland had understood the choice. He had nevertheless placed himself at the window as though every room became his once he entered it.
“Cousin.” He came forward with both hands extended, exactly as his mother did, the gesture wearing the appearance of warmth while performing the work of inspection. “You are looking well. Marriage agrees with you. It always did, whatever else it may have cost.”
His gaze moved to Elias.
“Harwood. I had hoped to find you at home. It saves me a second journey.”
“It saves neither of us anything,” Elias said. “State your business, Sir Roland.”
“You will forgive my bringing Mr Dabney.” Roland indicated the man with the leather case, a narrow figure with a face made for waiting rooms. “He manages certain family matters. I find delicate questions proceed more smoothly when a man of law is present.”
Victoria had seen the solicitor before. Recognition came with a small, cold click.
“Mr Dabney acted for Sir Peregrine Crayle,” she said. “And before that, in matters concerning Gerald’s estate. You keep interesting company, Sir Roland, for a man so devoted to propriety.”
Something crossed Roland’s expression and vanished before it could become admission.
“Mr Dabney is much in demand. A competent solicitor serves many houses. It signifies nothing.”
“Then perhaps he may explain what brings you here,” Elias said.
Roland seated himself without invitation.
“There is an unfortunate provision in Gerald’s will,” he began, “which I had hoped would never require discussion. He named me testamentary guardian to his daughter should circumstances make my intervention necessary. Mr Dabney has brought the relevant copy. It is quite valid, quite ordinary, the sort of provision any careful father makes.”
“Gerald made few careful provisions while living,” Elias said. “I should be cautious of praising those he made for after his death.”
“The clause is valid,” Dabney said, speaking for the first time.
“I do not dispute its validity,” Elias replied. “The law permits a great many provisions that decency might question.”
“Sophy’s circumstances require no intervention,” Victoria said. “She has a mother, a home, security, and every comfort.”
“I hope that remains so,” Roland said. “But you must understand how the matter may appear from outside this house. There was a public scandal, followed almost immediately by a marriage to a gentleman whose temper is not unknown.”
His tone remained gentle.
“I do not say the rumours are fair. I say only that a court considering a child’s welfare may examine the stability of her household, the reputation of those within it, and the manner in which disputes are conducted.”
“You mean my husband’s conduct towards Sir Peregrine.”
“I mean what might be said of it.”
“A drunken man laid hands upon me,” Victoria said. “My husband stopped him.”
“And I am very glad he did. But gratitude and appearance are not always the same thing. A court may hear that Lord Harwood threatened violence in a churchyard. It may hear of sudden tempers. It may ask whether a young child is being raised in tranquillity.”
Elias’s expression did not change.
“You have not come to warn us about gossip.”
“No.” Roland folded his hands. “I have come to suggest an arrangement that might spare everyone a public dispute.”
Victoria went cold.
“What arrangement?”
“Sophy might spend a season with her father’s family. A year, perhaps. Long enough to become properly known to us, and for the present excitement to subside.”
“A year,” Victoria repeated.
“Perhaps less. There need be no petition, no examination of your household, and no questions put before strangers. The child would remain among her own people, and you would be free to visit whenever you wished.”
“You would take her from me and call it a visit.”
“I would prefer not to take anything from you. I am offering an alternative to proceedings that would be unpleasant for us all.”
The old fear reached for her then, familiar and practised. This time it did not close over her. It found resistance where once there had been only exhaustion.
“No,” she said drily.
“Cousin. Do be sensible.”
“I have been sensible for nine years, Roland, and it nearly cost me my daughter. Sophy will not spend a season with you, nor a year, nor an afternoon. You will not have her.”
She rose.
“You have dressed this as concern, just as your mother dressed the last threat. I am tired of being threatened by people who wear gloves while doing it. Take Mr Dabney and his case and leave.”
Roland remained seated for a moment longer.
“If a petition is filed, the matter will not remain within this room.”
“Then file it against both of us,” Victoria said. “Let the court see precisely what household you seek to disturb.”
His gaze moved from her to Elias and back again. Whatever he had hoped to learn from the visit, he appeared to have learnt it.
At last, he stood.
“It is unfortunate,” he said, drawing on one glove, “that the affair at Ashcombe was handled so clumsily. A quieter conclusion might have spared everyone a great deal.”
Victoria looked at him.
“Sir Peregrine was never noted for judgment,” Roland continued. “One must make what use one can of imperfect men.”
The meaning arrived a moment after the words.
Roland inclined his head.
“Good morning, cousin. Harwood.”
He moved towards the door.
“Mr Dabney will write.”
The solicitor gathered his case and followed him out.
Victoria remained where she stood, the implication settling by degrees. Roland had said too little to accuse and too much to dismiss.
Before either of them could speak, Cole entered by the other door. A footman had evidently summoned him the moment the leather case crossed the threshold.
Cole remained standing. He was a man who received bad news upright, as though disaster required proper posture.
“I passed Dabney’s carriage leaving the square,” he said without greeting. “Tell me he was not here.”
“He was,” Elias replied.
Victoria turned towards him. “He acted for Crayle.”
“Yes.” Cole set his case upon the table but did not open it. “He also draws Sir Roland’s papers, and there is another connection I have spent the past fortnight tracing. You may prefer to sit, Lady Harwood.”
Victoria remained standing.
Cole accepted the refusal with a slight inclination of his head.
“Sir Peregrine Crayle is ruined. Debts of play, debts of trade, and more than one charge against the same property. Some months ago, a considerable portion of those debts was acquired through several intermediaries by a single creditor. They have not been called in. They have merely been held.”
“A ruined man whose debts are held may be persuaded to a great many things,” Elias said quietly.
“Precisely. The transactions pass through three names and a foreign banking house before the trail returns to England. I cannot yet establish the matter to the satisfaction of a court, but the beneficial interest appears to lead to Sir Roland Hemsworth.”
Victoria sat then.
“You believe Roland bought Crayle’s debts.”
“I believe he acquired control of them through others,” Cole said. “Dabney’s involvement strengthens the inference. It does not yet prove what use was made of that control.”
“The conservatory,” she said.