Chapter Three Thursday at Winterbourne House #4
She left before she could wonder what answer she had wanted from him. Sir Edmund was in the library when Clara returned. Again. Clara was beginning to dislike finding him there. He looked up from a newspaper.
“You are back early.”
“Papa, did you invest money with the late Duke of Ashcombe?”
The newspaper lowered. That was enough. Clara closed the door behind her.
“How do you know about that?”
She stared at him.
“Then you did.”
Her father sighed.
“Clara—”
“How much?”
“It was years ago.”
“How much?”
Sir Edmund removed his spectacles.
“Sit down.”
“I prefer to stand.”
He looked suddenly older. Clara regretted the harshness but could not soften yet.
“I want the truth.”
“You shall have it.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
She waited. Sir Edmund folded the newspaper.
“Your mother inherited money from her grandmother when we married.”
Clara knew that much.
“A settlement.”
“Yes. Most was placed in trust, but a substantial portion remained available for investment.”
“How substantial?”
“Twenty-five thousand pounds.”
Clara gripped the back of a chair.
“And you invested it with Ashcombe?”
“With the old duke, yes. He proposed a joint venture involving land, transport contracts and several agricultural improvements. At the time it appeared extremely sound.”
“When?”
“Shortly before you became engaged to Adrian.”
Clara stared. The timing struck strangely.
“And it disappeared?”
“Not immediately. We received returns for several years.”
“Then?”
“The payments stopped.”
“What explanation did the duke give?”
“That the venture had failed.”
“Did you believe him?”
Sir Edmund looked away.
“At first.”
“And later?”
“I became less certain.”
Clara’s anger deepened.
“Did you challenge him?”
“I tried.”
“How?”
“Letters. Meetings. I consulted a solicitor.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing I could prove.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“You were already carrying enough.”
Clara closed her eyes. Again. Protection. Men were remarkably fond of it when what they meant was silence.
“Papa.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His voice broke slightly. That stopped her. Sir Edmund looked down at his hands.
“Your mother blamed herself.”
Clara’s anger vanished into something colder.
“What?”
“She did not accuse me. That was worse. The money came through her family. She believed she had failed you by allowing me to risk it.”
“Mama knew?”
“Yes.”
Clara sat. The room softened at the edges. Her mother. Ill for years. Still worrying about Clara’s future.
“How much of it was intended for me?”
Sir Edmund took a long breath.
“Most.”
Clara met his gaze.
“It was my marriage portion?”
“Yes.”
The words landed slowly. Twenty-five thousand pounds at the beginning.
Investment returns. Lost principal. Years of interest. Bellamere.
Forty thousand. Clara’s mind arranged the figures with brutal efficiency.
Adrian’s proposed bequest was not generosity.
It was not guilt for abandoning her. Or not merely that.
It might have been her own money returning to her after eleven years hidden beneath another family’s name.
She stood abruptly. Sir Edmund reached toward her.
“Clara.”
“No.”
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“I thought there was no point causing pain when nothing could be done.”
“There was always a point in telling me the truth.”
“I know that now.”
She looked at him. He meant it. That made forgiveness possible, though not immediate.
“Did Adrian know?”
“I cannot say.”
“Did Sebastian?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Clara thought of him in the library. His face when she asked whether his father had been dishonest. He had not known. She believed that.
“Then why Bellamere?”
Sir Edmund frowned.
“Bellamere?”
Clara told him. The draft will. The investment. The hidden settlement. Her father’s face drained of color.
“My God.”
“What?”
“Bellamere was discussed.”
“When?”
“Years ago. The duke mentioned using it as security for the investment.”
The words caught Clara unprepared.
“Then it was tied to Mama’s money.”
“Possibly.”
“And Adrian knew.”
“Perhaps he discovered it later.”
The possibilities multiplied. Clara no longer felt merely curious.
She felt robbed. Not only of money. Of knowledge.
Of choice. Her mother’s fortune had vanished into a Harcourt arrangement, and Clara had been allowed to believe her family’s decline resulted only from ordinary bad luck and her father’s poor judgment.
Perhaps some of it had. But perhaps not all.
A knock came at the door. Marsh entered holding an envelope.
“Forgive me, Sir Edmund. This has just been delivered.”
Her father took it. The seal belonged to their mortgage holder. Clara knew before he opened it that the contents would not be good. Sir Edmund read. The color left his face again.
“Papa?”
He handed her the letter. Clara read it once.
Then more slowly. The language was formal.
Polite. Entirely merciless. Unless the outstanding arrears were satisfied within six weeks, proceedings would begin against the Whitcombe properties, including Brook Street and the Gloucestershire estate.
Six weeks. Clara lowered the letter. Outside, rain tapped against the glass.
Her mother’s money might have been hidden for eleven years.
Bellamere might belong to her. Forty thousand pounds might exist somewhere inside the wreckage of Adrian Harcourt’s affairs.
But none of that mattered unless they could prove it before the life she had spent years holding together was taken from them.
Six weeks. For the first time, the mystery of the blue book was no longer about Adrian. It was about survival.