Chapter Four A Most Improper Proposal #2
“But Bellamere was left to me under a valid document. I cannot reasonably abandon a property because Adrian experienced a fit of guilt several weeks before his death.”
“You could if the property was never truly his.”
Lionel’s face changed. Only slightly. Sebastian noticed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we are examining older settlements.”
“Which settlements?”
“That is not yet your concern.”
“It becomes my concern if they involve Bellamere.”
“It becomes your concern when we determine that.”
Lionel’s pleasant expression returned, but some warmth had gone from it.
“Very well.”
He stood.
“I assume you will inform me before challenging the will formally.”
“If necessary.”
“And Miss Whitcombe?”
“What about her?”
“Does she intend to contest it?”
Sebastian felt an irrational surge of protectiveness.
“She has not decided.”
Lionel considered him. Then smiled.
“Of course.”
Sebastian did not like the smile.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are a poor liar.”
“I was merely remembering that you always were remarkably attentive where Miss Whitcombe was concerned.”
The room became very still. Fane looked down at his papers with suspicious concentration. Sebastian’s voice cooled.
“That was eleven years ago.”
“Quite.”
Lionel bowed.
“Good day, Ashcombe.”
He left. The door closed behind him. Fane waited three seconds. Sebastian turned.
“If you say anything, I shall find another solicitor.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
“I was thinking Lionel may know more than he admits.”
“So was I.”
Fane’s mouth remained suspiciously neutral.
Sebastian returned to the window. The exchange had irritated him more than it should.
Remarkably attentive. He had not imagined anyone noticed.
Certainly Clara had not. He remembered too many occasions at twenty-four when he had stood at the edge of crowded rooms pretending not to follow the movement of one pale gown through them.
He had believed himself discreet. Apparently he had merely been young.
“Sebastian.”
Fane rarely used his Christian name in business. He turned. The solicitor had the settlement memorandum open again.
“There is a practical issue we have not discussed.”
“No.”
“You know what it is.”
“I do.”
Fane folded his hands.
“If Miss Whitcombe became the legal spouse of a Harcourt before the trust review, her claim under this clause would strengthen considerably.”
Sebastian stared at him.
“I told you not to say it.”
“You told me no such thing.”
“I thought it.”
“You are not my easiest client, but I have not yet acquired the ability to hear your thoughts.”
“Count yourself fortunate.”
Fane remained unmoved.
“It would not solve everything.”
“Good.”
“But it would solve several immediate difficulties.”
“Peter.”
“She would have direct standing in matters touching the family trust. You could also settle funds upon her independently, secure Sir Edmund’s property against immediate foreclosure and ensure that any restoration from the disputed investment did not vanish into litigation.”
Sebastian looked away. Marriage. The word had occurred to him before Fane said it.
That was the problem. It had occurred far too easily.
He had spent eleven years refusing to imagine Clara as his wife because imagination served no useful purpose when the woman in question had been injured by his brother and had every reason to avoid the entire Harcourt family.
Now a legal clause had placed the impossible within reach and disguised it as administration.
He hated how quickly his mind began constructing practical arguments.
He hated even more the desire beneath them.
Clara at Ashcombe House. Clara across his breakfast table. Clara beside him in a carriage. Clara carrying his name, not Adrian’s promised one but his. He shut the thoughts down.
“This is not a discussion.”
“It should be.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I will not use her financial distress to obtain something she might never freely choose.”
Fane’s expression altered. Softer now.
“I did not suggest coercion.”
“You suggested marriage under circumstances in which her father may lose his home.”
“I suggested presenting an option.”
“There are other options.”
“Yes.”
“Find them.”
“I am.”
“And?”
“None are as quick.”
Sebastian swore under his breath. Fane gathered the documents.
“I shall continue examining the settlement.”
“Do that.”
“But you should speak to Miss Whitcombe.”
Sebastian looked at him.
“As her solicitor?”
“You are not her solicitor.”
“No.”
“As the duke whose family appears to have misplaced forty thousand pounds belonging to hers.”
Sebastian rubbed a hand over his face.
“I need air.”
Fane looked toward the windows.
“It is raining.”
“I did not ask the weather’s permission.”
By three that afternoon, the rain had stopped and Sebastian had accomplished almost nothing except read the same estate letter four times.
Clara occupied too much of his mind. This had been true at twenty-four.
He had believed age would improve matters.
It had not. At last he ordered his carriage and went to Winterbourne House, because if he remained at Ashcombe another hour he would begin inventing reasons not to go at all.
Lady Winterbourne received callers on Thursdays, though Sebastian suspected the ordinary rules of calling had become optional in her household. He had known Augusta most of his life.
She had been a friend of his mother and one of the few people his father never successfully intimidated. As a boy, Sebastian had found her alarming. As a man, he found her alarming for better reasons. Hargreaves admitted him.
“Her ladyship is in the morning room, Your Grace.”
“With Miss Whitcombe?”
The butler’s expression did not change.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Sebastian regretted the question immediately.
Too quick. Too revealing. He followed the servant upstairs.
Voices reached him before the door opened.
Women laughing. Not polite laughter. Real laughter.
He stopped almost imperceptibly. The morning room overlooked the rear garden and had become one of Augusta’s informal working spaces.
Papers covered a round table. Subscription lists, account books and letters lay in several untidy piles, while four women occupied chairs around them.
Clara was among them. She did not see him immediately.
She had one elbow resting on the table and was laughing at something Arabella Trent had said.
Her head was tilted slightly, her composure entirely unguarded, and the expression transformed her.
Sebastian remembered suddenly how rarely he had seen her laugh since returning.
With him she was intelligent, dry, defensive and watchful.
Here she was simply happy. The realization struck with uncomfortable force.
He stood too long. Lady Winterbourne noticed.
Of course she did. Her gaze traveled from Sebastian to Clara and back again.
Then she smiled. Sebastian distrusted that smile immediately.
“Your Grace,” Hargreaves announced.
Clara turned. The laughter remained in her face for one brief second before awareness changed it. Not displeasure. Not precisely. But something more careful. Sebastian bowed.
“Lady Winterbourne.”
“Sebastian.”
Augusta had never cared for titles when Christian names were available. She indicated the women around the table.
“You know Clara. Miss Trent. Cecily, Lady Vale. Miss Finch.”
He bowed to each. Arabella looked at him with open curiosity. Cecily’s scrutiny was subtler. Eleanor simply smiled. Clara gathered the account papers nearest her.
“We are attempting to determine why Lady Winterbourne’s subscription committee has spent twelve pounds on candles for a room used only in daylight.”
“I suspect theft,” Arabella said.
“I suspect incompetence,” Clara replied.
“Theft is more interesting.”
Sebastian looked at Clara.
“You have been busy.”
“So have you, I imagine.”
There was no mistaking the reference. The settlement. He inclined his head.
“I hoped to speak with you.”
Clara’s fingers paused over the papers. Lady Winterbourne rose before Clara could answer.
“How convenient. Cecily, Eleanor, Arabella, you are all urgently required elsewhere.”
Arabella looked delighted.
“Where?”
“I have not decided.”
“I should like to hear the duke’s urgent conversation.”
“Which is why you shall not.”
Augusta herded them toward the door with astonishing efficiency. Cecily glanced back at Clara.
“Thursday?”
Clara nodded.
“Thursday.”
The door closed. Sebastian found himself alone with Clara and Augusta. Not ideal. Augusta folded her arms.
“Do you require me?”
“No,” Sebastian said.
“Yes,” Clara said at the same time.
Augusta smiled.
“I knew I liked her.”
Sebastian looked at Clara. She appeared amused.
“For what purpose do you require Lady Winterbourne?”
“Insurance.”
“Against what?”
“Dukes bearing legal documents.”
He nearly smiled.
“I am unarmed.”
“You brought Fane yesterday. I have learned caution.”
Augusta crossed to the sideboard.
“I shall remain until one of you becomes tedious.”
“That may not take long,” Sebastian said.
She poured herself tea.
“Go on.”
Sebastian removed the settlement memorandum from his coat. Clara’s amusement faded.
“You found something.”
“Yes.”
She sat again. He took the chair opposite.
Augusta remained near the fireplace, close enough to hear but far enough to pretend she was not listening.
Sebastian explained the trust provision.
He kept the language simple because Fane’s version had nearly caused him to commit violence against parchment.
“The important point,” he finished, “is that the older settlement created restrictions on Bellamere until a family trust review.”
“When?”
“Seven weeks.”
Clara frowned.
“My father’s creditors gave us six.”
“I know.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“How?”
“You told me the situation was serious.”
“I did not give you the date.”
“Fane made inquiries.”
Clara’s expression cooled.
“Without my permission?”
“About the mortgage, not your private accounts.”