Chapter Two The Duke Comes Home #3
“You look remarkably well for a man who has crossed the Channel overnight.”
“I have been told I look severe when exhausted.”
“That must be useful.”
“Occasionally.”
The faintest suggestion of amusement touched her face. Sebastian nearly forgot why he had come. Then he saw the black ribbon tied around a vase of white flowers on the mantel. A household acknowledgment of death. Adrian. The room changed again.
“I was sorry to hear of your brother,” Clara said.
The words were correct. Nothing in her tone suggested what they cost.
“Thank you.”
She folded her hands. Sebastian hesitated. Offering condolences to the woman Adrian had abandoned felt grotesque.
“I realize my calling upon you so soon may be unwelcome.”
Clara looked at him steadily.
“I assumed you had a reason.”
“I do.”
“That is reassuring.”
He almost smiled. She had changed, but not entirely. There had always been a quiet edge to her humor, though at eighteen it appeared only when she felt safe enough to let it. Sebastian looked down at the folder.
“I am not certain what condolences are appropriate in this circumstance.”
Clara’s expression shifted.
“No.”
“I would not insult you by pretending the history between you and Adrian was ordinary.”
“That is considerate.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched. Then Clara looked toward the fire.
“I haven't yet decided what one is supposed to feel when a man who ruined one's life dies without first explaining why.”
Sebastian stopped breathing for one beat. There was no drama in her delivery. That made it worse. She spoke as a woman naming a fact she had carried too long to embellish.
“He owed you that explanation.”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry you never received it.”
Clara looked back at him. Something in her eyes sharpened.
“For which part are you sorry?”
Sebastian could have answered diplomatically. He had spent years doing so. He chose not to.
“All of it.”
Her gaze held his. He had the strange sensation that some invisible door had opened between them and might close if either moved too quickly. Then Clara leaned back.
“You said you had a reason for coming.”
Sebastian placed the folder on the table.
“I do.”
He opened it and removed the draft will.
“Adrian left a considerable number of financial and legal matters requiring attention.”
“That sounds unlike him.”
Sebastian glanced up. Clara’s mouth curved faintly.
“I apologize. That was unkind.”
“It was accurate.”
“Then I withdraw the apology.”
This time he did smile. Briefly. He looked back at the document.
“Among the papers is a draft of a will prepared six weeks ago.”
Clara’s expression became attentive but not alarmed.
“In it, Adrian intended to leave you Bellamere Cottage in Sussex and the surrounding estate.”
Her brows drew together.
“I beg your pardon?”
“There is also an investment fund.”
“How much?”
“Approximately forty thousand pounds.”
Clara stared. Sebastian let her. The clock on the mantel ticked. At last she laughed once, not from amusement but disbelief.
“That is absurd.”
“I thought you might say that.”
“Adrian had not written to me in eleven years.”
“I know.”
“He had not spoken to me in eleven years.”
Sebastian said nothing. Clara stood and crossed toward the window.
“Why would he leave me forty thousand pounds?”
“That is what I am trying to discover.”
She turned.
“Guilt.”
“Possibly.”
“It would be very like him to wait until death to become generous.”
Sebastian heard the hurt beneath the dryness.
“He could not have known he would die.”
“No.”
That quieted her. She looked back at the rain-damp street.
“Was he ill?”
“Not that I know.”
“How did he die?”
“His valet found him yesterday morning. The physician believes his heart failed.”
“At thirty-two.”
“Yes.”
Clara’s shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly. Sebastian wanted to ask whether she was all right. He did not. She had spent eleven years being treated as though Adrian’s actions defined her feelings. He would not continue the habit.
“The will you mentioned,” she said. “You called it a draft.”
“Yes.”
“So he changed it.”
Sebastian removed the final version.
“In the document lodged as Adrian’s executed will, your name disappears. Bellamere passes instead to Lionel Harcourt.”
“Who is Lionel Harcourt?”
“A distant cousin.”
“Do I know him?”
“I doubt it.”
“And the money?”
“Divided elsewhere.”
Clara returned to the sofa.
“Then there is no issue.”
“There may be.”
Sebastian explained the replaced page, the differing paper, the missing witness. Her expression grew steadily more serious.
“You think the will was altered.”
“I think it requires investigation.”
“By whom?”
“I do not know.”
“And you came here because?”
“Because you are the largest difference between the two documents.”
Clara looked at the draft.
“I cannot imagine why.”
“Neither can I.”
She gave him a skeptical glance.
“That is not entirely true.”
Sebastian stilled.
“What do you mean?”
“You can imagine guilt as well as I can.”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps there is nothing more complicated.”
“Forty thousand pounds and a Sussex estate are elaborate methods of apologizing.”
“Your family has always preferred expensive gestures to difficult conversations.”
He deserved that. Sebastian inclined his head.
“Also accurate.”
Clara looked almost surprised by his lack of defense. Then she glanced down at the will again.
“I would not accept it.”
Sebastian frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I do not want Adrian’s guilt.”
“It may not be guilt.”
“It certainly is not affection.”
“No.”
The certainty in his answer made her look up. Sebastian regretted it immediately. Clara’s face became unreadable.
“No,” she repeated.
He could not tell whether she was agreeing or questioning him. Sebastian chose his next words carefully.
“If the later will was tampered with, the property may legally belong to you.”
“I do not care.”
“You may when the facts are known.”
Her eyes flashed.
“I have lived quite adequately without Adrian Harcourt’s money.”
Sebastian’s gaze flicked involuntarily toward the faded curtains. Clara noticed. Of course she did. Her chin lifted.
“Do not.”
He looked back at her.
“Do not what?”
“Look around my father’s house and decide whether we require rescuing.”
Sebastian felt the rebuke exactly where it was intended.
“That was not my intention.”
“It was for half a second.”
“Yes.”
Clara looked almost more annoyed by the admission. Sebastian continued.
“But whether you need money has nothing to do with whether money is legally yours.”
That checked her.
“If Adrian intended to restore something owed to you, refusing it may benefit the person who prevented you receiving it.”
Clara considered.
“That is a lawyer’s argument.”
“I have spent too much of the morning with one.”
“Mr. Fane?”
Sebastian met her gaze.
“You remember him.”
“He was the man sent to tell me my wedding would not happen.”
Of course. Sebastian had forgotten that detail. Or buried it.
“I am sorry.”
Clara’s mouth tightened.
“You have apologized several times in twenty minutes for things you did not do.”
“I am aware.”
“Why?”
Sebastian did not answer immediately. Because someone should have. Because Adrian had never done it. Because his father had refused. Because Sebastian had spent eleven years knowing that his silence had become part of the injury. Instead he said, “Because I belong to the family that did them.”
“That is not the same as guilt.”
“No.”
“Then stop borrowing it.”
He stared at her. Clara looked away first. Sebastian had known diplomats less formidable. He found himself absurdly relieved. The girl he remembered had been gentle, but never weak. Life had sharpened that quality without destroying the gentleness. He gathered the papers.
“There is one other matter.”
Clara sighed.
“Of course there is.”
“Did Adrian contact you at any point after the engagement ended?”
Her expression closed.
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“No letters?”
“No.”
“Messages through friends?”
“No.”
“Gifts?”
Clara’s brows rose.
“Your Grace, if your brother had sent me flowers after abandoning me, I should have burned them.”
Sebastian almost said he would have helped. He stopped himself.
“Nothing at all?”
She shook her head. Then paused. Sebastian saw it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You remembered something.”
Clara gave him a look.
“You are very persistent.”
“So I am told.”
She frowned toward the window.
“It was not from Adrian.”
“What was not?”
“A letter.”
Sebastian leaned forward slightly.
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
His attention sharpened.
“What did it say?”
“Almost nothing.”
“Do you still have it?”
“No.”
Of course not.
“What did you do with it?”
“Threw it into the fire.”
Sebastian closed his eyes for one second. Clara looked offended.
“It appeared to be nonsense.”
“What nonsense?”
She hesitated.
“It asked whether I still possessed the blue book from Ashcombe.”
Sebastian went still.
“The exact words?”
“I think so.”
“Who signed it?”
“No one.”
“Was there a seal?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Handwriting?”
“Unfamiliar.”
“Male? Female?”
“I could not tell.”
“Postmark?”
“London, I think.”
“Clara—”
The name escaped before he could stop it.
Silence. Her eyes met his. Sebastian felt the mistake immediately.
Not because he disliked saying it. Quite the opposite.
That was the problem. For eleven years he had disciplined himself into Miss Whitcombe.
The return of Clara felt intimate in a way that startled both of them. He corrected himself.
“Miss Whitcombe.”
Something unreadable crossed her face.
“Yes?”
“The blue book. What did the letter mean?”
“I assumed nothing.”
“Did you possess such a book?”
“I must have possessed dozens of blue books.”
“From Ashcombe?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know.”
Sebastian waited. Clara looked down, thinking. He watched the process move across her face. Then her expression changed.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“There was a book.”
Sebastian sat straighter.