Chapter 14 #2
“Nothing explicitly designated,” Williams said at last. “We are still examining whether a separate settlement was intended for Miss Whitley or for Mary Whitley’s maintenance.
Until we have that clarity, Miss Whitley remains dependent upon whatever goodwill may be extended to her.
The funds intended for the three younger girls must be properly secured. ”
Sebastian’s mouth flattened. Goodwill. The word struck him as faintly absurd. What reason could his father have had for failing to provide for Mary Whitley and the child he had raised as his own? Had his tender words to them meant so little when measured against action?
Sebastian inclined his head. “Leave every document you have found. I shall examine them myself, and you will continue until we know where every farthing was meant to go.”
“Yes, my lord.”
A few minutes later, his man of affairs departed, leaving Sebastian alone with the matter. He took his seat and began a careful study of the documents Williams had gathered. Some time later, he lifted his head and rubbed the back of his neck.
He rose and moved to the window, his gaze settling upon the garden below while the implications arranged themselves with unwelcome clarity.
Sebastian did not write a reply to Sarah.
Instead, he called for his carriage. The decision felt less like an intention than the inevitable consequence of a thought he had neglected too long.
By the time he was seated within the carriage, hat in hand, he found himself already resigned to the course it had taken.
It was a matter of practicality, he told himself.
The girls’ future required firm arrangements.
Their settlements must be recovered, placed beyond another Peabody’s reach, and administered by trustees Sebastian trusted to ensure their inheritance was properly administered.
He must also decide what provision, if any, he would make for Miss Whitley, who had kept the household together when his father’s negligence left them exposed.
The letter had nothing to do with his decision to call upon them.
Or so he told himself. Irritation stirred beneath his skin, for he was not a man inclined toward self-deception. There was, he admitted at last, a certain interest in seeing Miss Whitley again and, perhaps, a smaller but no less inconvenient regard for the other girls.
Before long, he stepped down from the carriage and mounted the shallow steps to the front door, lifting the knocker and letting it fall once. It was opened almost at once by the butler, who admitted him and relieved him of his hat and coat.
“Have Mrs. Whitley attend me in the drawing room,” Sebastian said.
“Yes, my lord.”
A few minutes passed before he heard the quick approach of light, hurried footsteps.
Then she appeared. For a moment, he did not move.
Miss Whitley stood in the doorway, a vision in a deep amber gown that clung delicately at the waist before falling in soft lines about her form.
Her dark brown hair, threaded with honey-gold streaks, was arranged in a loose chignon, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face in a manner that seemed too artless to appear deliberate.
His jaw tightened. She had plagued his thoughts the night before, slipping into his dreams with an intimacy that had no right to exist, taunting him with a softness and warmth he had no intention of seeking.
And now she stood before him, entirely real, outwardly composed, and wholly unaware of the effect she had wrought.
Something sharp and restless stirred low within him.
Sebastian inclined his head, forcing his expression into one of polite composure, though nothing within him felt remotely so.
Their gazes collided, and her composure faltered in a manner that was most instructive.
The blush upon her cheeks made him wonder what thoughts had put it there.
“My lord.” A perceptible pause preceded the greeting.
“Miss Whitley.”
Her gaze flickered briefly, as though measuring the purpose of his call, and he was struck once more by the quiet strength of her bearing. Before she might inquire further, the younger sisters entered the room.
“Sebastian!” Sarah exclaimed, all propriety abandoned in her enthusiasm.
Jane followed more sedately, though the warmth in her expression was no less evident, while Emelia lingered only a moment before stepping forward with quiet eagerness.
Sebastian inclined his head in greeting, though something in his chest shifted at their reception, a response entirely disproportionate to so simple a welcome.
“I received your letter,” he said, his gaze settling briefly upon Sarah.
She beamed.
“What letter?” Miss Whitley asked, her eyes widening.
“I sent one to our brother this morning,” Sarah said brightly.
Miss Whitley and the other two girls stared at her in evident shock, the boldness of the declaration settling over the room like a sudden hush.
“My lord, please forgive Sarah,” Darcy began, alarm sharpening her voice. “I shall remind her how she must address you.”
“It is of no consequence,” he said, more gruffly than intended. “Within these walls, she may call me Sebastian.”
He did not like the way Sarah’s expression faltered, the brightness dimming into something uncertain. Neither did he like the tension in Miss Whitley’s bearing or the flicker of fear she could not conceal.
Was he such an ogre that she should expect reproach for so small a thing? He frowned, recalling that he had forbidden any mention of their connection beyond these walls. A careless slip before a servant might invite gossip, and gossip born below stairs seldom remained there.
Most perplexingly, he did not wish Darcy to correct the child, not when Sarah looked so anxious.
Bloody hell. He raked a hand through his hair, disturbing the careful arrangement of it.
Their emotional well-being was not his concern.
His responsibilities lay with his mother and Caroline.
Against all reason, their happiness had begun to matter as well.
What a damned complication they were proving to be.
“As it happens,” he said, turning slightly to address all four ladies, “I have arranged a private viewing at the British Museum this afternoon and thought to inquire whether you might accompany me. If the excursion pleases you, we might also visit the menagerie at the Tower next week.”
The effect was immediate. Sarah gave a small cry of delight. Jane’s composure softened into unmistakable pleasure. Even Emelia, reserved as she often was, could not conceal the light that entered her expression.
“Oh, yes,” Emelia said, her voice carrying a rare note of excitement. “I have read of the exhibits, but I have never seen them for myself.”
He had originally made the arrangements with Caroline before she decided to accompany their mother to Bath. At the delighted reactions of the girls, Sebastian found himself rather glad he had not thought to cancel them.
Darcy did not immediately speak. Sebastian’s attention returned to her, noting the careful restraint in her expression, the way she seemed to weigh the invitation against considerations he could not yet discern.
“You need not feel obliged,” he said, more quietly. Her gaze met his, searching and uncertain, yet warmed by an attraction she could not entirely conceal.
“We would be most pleased to accept, my lord,” she said at last.
And though the words were measured, the faint warmth beneath them did not escape him.
Sebastian inclined his head. “Then you had best make haste. I have secured the keeper’s indulgence for this afternoon, but I doubt even an earl can persuade antiquity to wait forever.”
The younger girls needed no further prompting, and the room soon filled with a bustle of hurried movement and excited voices.
Sebastian remained where he stood, his gaze lingering briefly but deliberately upon Darcy.
He knew when a woman was drawn to him. The signs were seldom concealed from him: the softened gaze and the quiet quickening of breath.
He saw it in her now, a fleeting brightness in her eyes before she lowered her lashes as though to deny him the satisfaction of seeing it.
His heart gave a traitorous thud. The madness, it seemed, was not his alone, and for the first time Sebastian wondered whether he wished to be cured of it.