Chapter Three Thursday at Winterbourne House #3
Adrian’s handwriting crossed the first page.
For Clara, who insists upon finding sense where other people merely find sentiment.
A.H. That was all. No confession. No explanation.
Nothing that justified a mysterious unsigned letter eleven years later.
Clara turned the pages. Several lines had been marked in pencil, though she could not remember whether by Adrian or herself.
She examined the inside cover. Nothing. Then she ran a thumb along the binding.
The spine felt thick. She frowned. Old books often warped.
Still— Clara pressed it gently. Something shifted.
Her heartbeat accelerated. She carried the book downstairs.
By ten the following morning Clara was standing in the library of Ashcombe House, wondering whether bringing the volume herself had been sensible.
Sebastian had sent an immediate reply to her note.
Come at once. The words were not precisely phrased as a command, but they came very near it.
Clara had considered making him wait on principle.
Curiosity won. Ashcombe House was grander than she remembered.
Or perhaps at eighteen she had been too concerned with its occupants to study the building properly.
The entrance hall rose two stories beneath a painted ceiling, marble black-and-white beneath her feet, while portraits of Harcourt ancestors regarded visitors with the confidence of people who had never doubted their descendants would continue owning everything in sight.
Sebastian’s library was less intimidating.
Books filled three walls, a fire burned low in the grate, and the enormous desk near the windows was covered with estate papers.
Sebastian stood beside it when she entered.
He had removed his coat. The small detail unsettled her more than it should.
He wore a dark waistcoat and shirtsleeves beneath, cuffs fastened neatly at the wrists.
Without the severe perfection of formal dress, he seemed younger, though not young.
More human. More dangerous, Clara decided irritably. He looked at the book in her hand.
“You found it.”
“Good morning to you too.”
His gaze lifted.
“Good morning, Miss Whitcombe.”
“Much better.”
A faint line appeared beside his mouth. Almost a smile. He gestured toward the desk.
“May I?”
Clara handed him the volume. Their fingers touched. Only briefly. Nothing happened. Which made it ridiculous that she noticed. Sebastian turned the book over slowly.
“This is the one?”
“Yes.”
“You are certain Adrian gave it to you?”
“There is an inscription.”
He opened the cover. Clara watched his eyes move across Adrian’s handwriting. Something tightened in his expression, though it disappeared quickly.
“You said the binding felt unusual.”
“Yes.”
Sebastian ran his thumb along the spine. Clara stepped closer.
“You feel it?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I do not know yet.”
He picked up a small letter knife. Clara frowned.
“Careful.”
His attention returned to Clara.
“You have kept it in a trunk for eleven years.”
“That does not mean you may murder it.”
“I shall attempt restraint.”
He slid the tip of the knife beneath the inner edge of the binding.
Clara leaned nearer. Their shoulders almost touched.
The awareness of him became immediate. The clean scent of soap and wool.
The warmth of his arm through the thin barrier of fabric.
The quiet concentration in his face. She took a half step aside.
Sebastian noticed. He said nothing. That was somehow worse.
The binding loosened. Something pale appeared beneath it.
“There.”
Clara bent again despite herself. Sebastian carefully worked free a narrow folded paper no wider than two fingers.
For several seconds neither spoke. Then he placed the knife down and unfolded it.
The document was old. Older than Adrian’s gift.
Ink had faded to brown along the creases.
Clara looked over Sebastian’s arm. The language was dense with legal phrasing, but one word stood out immediately.
Bellamere. Sebastian read more quickly. His expression changed.
“What is it?”
“A copy of part of a settlement.”
“Whose?”
“I am trying to determine that.”
He shifted the page. Clara moved beside him. Their sleeves brushed. Again neither acknowledged it. Sebastian’s finger stopped halfway down the document.
“Here.”
Clara read. Then read again. Sir Edmund Whitcombe. Her father. She looked at Sebastian.
“Why is Papa’s name there?”
“I do not know.”
He continued reading. The settlement referred to money advanced to the late Duke of Ashcombe in connection with investments and lands attached to Bellamere. Clara’s confusion sharpened.
“My father invested with yours?”
“So it appears.”
“He never told me.”
Sebastian’s jaw set.
“How much?”
Clara searched the lines.
“There is no full figure here.”
“No. This is only part of the original agreement.”
“Then why hide it in a book?”
“That is the more interesting question.”
Clara looked at the blue volume. Adrian had given it to her during their engagement. Had the document already been concealed inside? Had Adrian known? Had someone else placed it there later?
“Could this be why Adrian meant to leave me Bellamere?”
Sebastian looked at her.
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly to be speculation alone. Clara’s breath caught.
“You think it was not a gift.”
“I think we should consider that possibility.”
“Then what?”
“A repayment.”
The word sat between them. Clara stared at the settlement.
“For what?”
Sebastian folded his arms.
“My father had several investments that became… difficult.”
“Difficult?”
“Some failed.”
“That is not the same thing as owing my father money.”
“No.”
“Was he dishonest?”
Sebastian did not answer immediately. Clara watched him. That hesitation told her enough.
“Sebastian.”
His eyes met hers. She had used his name without meaning to. Neither corrected it.
“My father’s affairs are still being examined,” he said. “There were investments structured badly, others concealed unnecessarily and several transfers I do not yet understand.”
“You avoided the question.”
“Yes.”
“Was he dishonest?”
“I do not know.”
Clara looked back at the document. Anger began slowly. Not dramatic anger. Cold anger. The kind born from discovering something important had been occurring beneath her life while she remained ignorant of it.
“My father’s finances have deteriorated for years.”
Sebastian’s attention sharpened.
“How badly?”
“That is not your concern.”
“It may be if this settlement explains part of it.”
Clara stiffened.
“I did not come here for financial rescue.”
“No one said you did.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
“You have the expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one men acquire immediately before deciding what should be done with someone else’s life.”
Sebastian stared at her. Then, unexpectedly, he almost laughed.
“I was unaware I had one.”
“You do.”
“I shall attempt to correct it.”
“That would be wise.”
His amusement faded.
“Clara.”
The use of her name did something inconvenient to the room. She looked at him.
“If money belonging to your family was improperly taken by mine, this is not rescue.”
“Then what is it?”
“Restitution.”
She said nothing. Sebastian’s face was serious now.
“If Bellamere was connected to a debt, Adrian may have intended to restore what should already have been yours.”
“Mine?”
“Or your father’s.”
Clara thought of Brook Street. The mortgage. Whitcombe Park. Her mother’s grave beneath the yew trees.
“How much could Bellamere be worth?”
“Depending on the land, perhaps twenty thousand. More if the associated investments remain intact.”
“And the forty thousand?”
“May represent accumulated value.”
The room seemed to tilt. Clara stepped away from the desk.
“All this time—”
“We do not know yet.”
“My father could have been owed money while selling land, reducing servants, borrowing against the house—”
“Clara.”
“And Adrian knew?”
“I do not know.”
“He must have known something.”
“Yes.”
She turned toward him.
“Then investigate.”
Sebastian held her gaze.
“I intend to.”
“I want copies of everything.”
“You shall have them.”
“And I want to know before anything is concealed for the protection of your family.”
A shadow crossed his face.
“Agreed.”
“So easily?”
“No.”
Clara blinked. Sebastian moved closer to the desk.
“It is not easy. If my father acted dishonestly, exposing it may damage estates, reputations and people who had no part in what he did.”
“Then why agree?”
“Because difficulty does not make concealment right.”
The answer unsettled her. She had expected defensiveness. Perhaps even arrogance. Instead Sebastian looked tired. Not weak. Burdened. It made him harder to dislike. Clara disliked that too.
“I do not want to owe you,” she said.
His gaze returned to her.
“You would not.”
“If you spend weeks having solicitors investigate my family’s affairs, I would.”
Sebastian’s expression changed. Something flashed there. Too quick to name. He took one step toward her.
“I would prefer you indebted to me than ruined by somebody else's dishonesty.”
Clara bristled immediately.
“Why?”
The question came sharper than she intended.
Sebastian stopped. For a moment the library was utterly still.
His eyes held hers. Clara had the strangest sense that he was about to say something else.
Something personal. Something that had nothing to do with settlements.
Instead he looked down at the old document.
“Because my family has done sufficient damage to yours.”
The disappointment was immediate. And completely unreasonable. Clara hated herself for feeling it.
“Of course.”
Sebastian’s gaze lifted sharply, as though he heard something in her tone. She reached for the blue book.
“I should go.”
“Clara.”
She looked at him. He seemed about to stop her. Then he simply said, “I will send for Fane immediately.”
“Thank you.”