Chapter 7 #2
It had been two days since Harry had spoken to Agnes, and he would be traveling there again in just a few hours with Skelton.
“Confounding, unfortunately. The widow will have to move and it will be difficult for her. She’s an herbalist with tools, equipment, and gardens, most of which Skelton could claim belongs to the estate. ”
“Yes. I know of her. She’s not really a witch, is she?”
Harry shook his head. The question from anyone else would have made him rally in her defense, but Parker held no malice in his tone.
They walked along the side streets, neither one having to ask where they were headed.
In their neighborhood, there was only one option.
Mrs. Mayhew’s coffee cart sold the best ham sandwiches.
For years he had wondered what made them so delicious, but she wouldn’t divulge any of her secrets.
The coffee was also better than the rest of the vendors’.
It was bold and mixed with a little chicory to round the flavor.
Parker and Harry stood in line behind other men who worked in the offices along the street. The chill in the air led to the cart’s popularity this morning. Nothing was better than a hot beverage on a cool autumn day.
“Maybe I’ll open a coffeehouse?” That could be Harry’s legacy, something he could put his name behind.
“And compete with poor Mrs. Mayhew? You’re a traitor.”
Harry laughed. He wouldn’t want to put the widow out of business. Since he had moved his office to Piccadilly, he had been a loyal customer.
“You don’t think it would be a wise investment?”
Parker’s lip twitched. He was hesitant to answer.
It wasn’t fair for Harry to put his secretary under pressure.
Harry was his boss, but he valued the man’s honesty.
Parker had perfected delivering the truth in a way sensitive to Harry’s insecurities.
“Well, at least you can say you know the product.”
The man had a point. For the last year, Harry had come up with seemingly random ideas for ventures that would finally make him a businessman like Papa and his brothers.
A tobacco shop, but Harry didn’t smoke. A grocer, but Harry’s housekeeper took care of his meals.
A stationer, but Harry wrote with whatever Parker supplied his office.
Each scheme was as uninspiring as the next.
Harry really didn’t care much for anything besides his moths.
The men ahead of them in line completed their purchases. Parker put a hand on Harry’s shoulder to encourage him to step up.
“It’s a fine morning, Mr. Evans.” Mrs. Mayhew fluttered her eyelashes and gave him one of her winning grins. Somehow, she always toed the line between bold and demure. Harry, on the other hand, was just anxious. Parker always did the talking.
“Yes, it is, Mrs. Mayhew. Please don’t tell me you’re all out of ham sandwiches.” Parker leaned over the cart, inspecting the selection of remaining sandwiches.
“You know, those men over there took the last ones. But do not fret, gentlemen, I put these aside for you two.” She spoke to Parker while watching Harry from the corner of her eye. “I was hoping to see my favorite customers today.”
Harry reached out to take the ham sandwich and passed the coins to Mrs. Mayhew. Her fingers tickled his palm in the exchange. All he wanted to do was escape with his breakfast, but he managed to stumble through his courtesies.
Walking down the street, Parker nudged his shoulder. “You know she’s flirting with you, right?”
“Of course I know that. I’m not daft.”
“Why don’t you take her out? She’s a lovely lady. Respectable and business-minded like you.”
“I have no time for courting a woman right now. I’m not yet ready to marry.”
“Oh, right. First a business, then a wife.”
Even if he had been able to look a woman in the eye and speak to her without the words becoming tangled into disarray, he wasn’t ready to take a wife.
While his brothers had been dreamers, each making a name for themselves in their various business ventures, Harry had always taken the safe path.
He studied hard, excelled as an apprentice, and established a career.
While others might consider that success, Harry knew that he had misstepped. A woman deserved to marry a man who was his own person, not one whose identity was tied to the work he did for others. He was always Lord Skelton’s accountant or Viscount Montgomery’s accountant, never Harold Evans.
He couldn’t ask a woman to tie herself to a life of that sort of anonymity. If he wanted to marry one day, and he did, he needed to establish a business, just like the other Evans men. Only then would he be worthy of passing on a legacy to others.
Harry checked his pocket watch and quickened his pace. “We need to get back to the office. I want to look over the will again before I leave for York.”
He needed the distraction before he worried himself into a state of nerves. The will was already committed to memory, a natural result of reading it as many times as he had. Everything was stated just as Skelton had said it would be.
If it weren’t for Lady Skelton’s surprise over its contents, the will would be unremarkable. Harry had verified the signatures himself against other documents signed by both barons, current and former, and they appeared authentic.
There was only one oddity that Harry noticed about several of the pages, a clear substance flaking off the paper. The late Lord Skelton never seemed to be careless with his documents. Harry couldn’t imagine the man leaving the papers, especially ones with such significance, in a place to be soiled.
The second witness, the steward of the Skelton estate, was nowhere to be found. The older gentleman, Oscar, had been at the funeral greeting a few of the visitors. But he stood mainly with the servants before he had vanished altogether.
Harry had written to the staff at Skelton Manor to meet with Oscar, but no one knew of his whereabouts. A few people had mentioned that he had rooms in London, but their precise location was unknown.
Later that afternoon, Harry left his office for the train station and found Lord Skelton waiting on the platform.
Harry lifted his hand and forced a smile.
He still did not know the role Skelton had played in deciding the widow’s inheritance.
Had he influenced his cousin to break his promise to Lady Skelton?
Regardless, this wasn’t a time to shut the man out.
Harry would hide behind the charm that routinely endeared him to his clients.
“Nice to see you, my lord.” The baron returned the same shallow greeting and invited Harry into the first-class car. Harry usually sat in the open-air cars of second-class, but he could appreciate the luxuries when offered. The two gentlemen took their seats a respectable distance apart.
“Lord Skelton, if you don’t mind, I have a few questions about the late baron’s will. Do you know if he discussed Lady Skelton’s inheritance with her prior to his passing?”
Lord Skelton looked up from his newspaper but didn’t put it down.
“They had an unusual marriage . . . I wouldn’t presume to know what they discussed and what he kept . . . private. But if she was informed, she should have been pleased with the account and the deed to the dower house. It’s more than most widows could wish for.”
“But there seems to be a misunderstanding . . .” Harry hesitated.
He did not know how much of Lady Skelton’s reaction he wanted to reveal to Lord Skelton. The widow was not his employer, but he still felt in service to her, honor-bound to keep her confidentiality, even more so than the man who would pay him.
Harry chose his words carefully. “Lady Skelton believed that her husband had planned to leave some other assets in her possession.”
Lord Skelton closed his eyes, and the muscles in his neck tightened.
“Then it is the folly of a woman. When a young woman marries a man far beyond her in age, she must do so tempted by the promise of riches. And who knows what unnatural forces she used to persuade my dear cousin into giving her more than her worth. Now if you excuse me, I must sleep. My mistress kept me up late last night. You know what it’s like. ”
The man reclined, kicking out his long legs. His heels thudded on the wooden floor as he crossed his ankles.
No, Harry didn’t know what that was like, but he mulled over what Lord Skelton had said about Lady Skelton.
Clearly, the man had been affected by the rumors his peers had spread about her.
It would be unwise for Harry to trust that the baron would provide for the widow while harboring such thoughts of her.
Skelton had said something about her marrying for fortune.
It was true that the late baron had been an old man, and Agnes many years his junior, but it did not seem like she had married to become wealthy.
There had been affection, made evident from her heartbreak and her husband’s praise of her throughout their marriage.
Harry watched the landscape roll by the window, unable to concentrate on the work he brought still closed within his leather case.
Then he noticed it—that itch at the back of his neck, the heaviness in his stomach. A warning sent from the universe or maybe his own intuition.