Chasing the Heiress (33 page)

“Can we go back several steps?” Lucy felt puzzled. “Marner isn't my heir.”

“They say they have a will, in your hand,” Walgrave explained.

“
My
will is at my solicitor's. I wrote it and had it witnessed the day they took me.” She wrote down the address. “Here.”

Aidan took the note and nodded as he read it. “Reputable firm. We should be able to see a copy at the least.”

Walgrave scratched his head absently, “If we can show that Marner holds a forged will, using the will already filed with Lucy's solicitor for comparison . . . actually, that might work. It would make the basis of the claim the documents themselves, not Lucy's competence. Of course if we can't demonstrate that Marner's will is a forgery, we are back to the beginning.”

“Lucy, who is your beneficiary?” Aidan, sitting on the other side of her, touched her hand.

She blushed. “I wanted someone who would not interfere with my wishes or bend to the will of my cousin. Someone who could not be bribed or threatened. So, I made Colin my heir and executor.”

“Brilliant!” Walgrave threw his pencil into the air and caught it. “That's the best news we could have heard. As your heir, Colin has a legal right to make inquiries into the state of your will. We can avoid the issue of competence entirely if Marner's will proves to be forged.”

“It's a shame that the Gray's Inn solicitors who read Chancery suits are such a tight-knit bunch,” Aidan mused. “It would help if we could get an opinion—privately of course—of the possibilities of our success.”

“I used to know Sir Samuel Romilly, but poor chap killed himself last year when his wife died.” Walgrave thought aloud. “James Odum is in Ireland. The only other one we might be able to approach is Sir Cecil Grandison, but he's a stickler.”

“Grandison?” Lucy was surprised to hear the name. “I was to deliver a letter to him from my great-aunt. But it was with my things at the boardinghouse, and I'm sure they have been long dispersed to the poor or discarded.”

Sophia looked up. “No, they haven't been. I don't know why I didn't remember sooner—you could have used the dresses. When you were lost, Colin retrieved your belongings from your boardinghouse. He put them in a trunk in my attic. I'll have my butler, Dodsley, deliver it.”

“As your heir, Colin will need to accompany you to meet with Grandison.” Aidan did not look up, so she could not see if he were serious or plotting. “While you and Sophia are finding your great-aunt's letter, Walgrave and I will retrieve Colin from his club.”

“Then we had better take a mop. Last I heard, he was thoroughly drunk and had been for the better part of a week,” Walgrave said, without thinking, then bit his lip, glancing at Lucy.

“Lord spare me from honorable men.” Aidan motioned Walgrave to the door.

* * *

Lucy clutched Aurelia's letter to Sir Cecil Grandison in her lap, as she and Colin waited in the solicitor's study.

Colin had said nothing since he had been delivered to the ducal manor by Walgrave and Aidan, freshly bathed and hair still wet. He did not look at her. But the beginning of a bruise on his jawline suggested that he had not returned willingly.

The door opened, and Sir Cecil, preceded by a Scottish white terrier, strode authoritatively into the room.

A portly man of about sixty, Sir Cecil boasted a thick shock of white hair that curled around his ears and across his forehead. He waved them to two Queen Anne chairs. The dog—“Mutt”—sniffed Lucy's shoes, then leapt onto a velvet ottoman, where he scratched in a circle before curling into a white ball. “Ah, Mutt likes you. You must have a dog, my dear.”

“Yes, Sir Cecil. A Newfoundland whose dam came from Malmesbury's kennels.”

“Ah, great dogs, great dogs. As for me, I prefer the terriers. Ferocious animals, but often underestimated.”

“My great-aunt described you in much the same terms, Sir Cecil,” Lucy reminisced, and the great man blushed.

“Quite a woman, your aunt. Had I been ten years older, I might have thrown my hat in the ring for her hand, but she had already loved and lost, long before I met her.”

“She sent you a letter. It was written shortly before she died.” Lucy held out the fat envelope. “I would have delivered it sooner, but I have not been long in London.”

She watched as Sir Cecil carefully pried off the sealing wax without damaging the insignia, then let two miniatures fall into his hand along with a small folded packet in paper. “Ah, me. I didn't think she would remember. Thank you, my girl, thank you. When I heard she had died, I feared they might be lost.”

The miniatures were in the style popular forty years before. “May I ask who they are?” Lucy ventured, but Sir Cecil was lost in her aunt's letter. He read the pages slowly, turning over the first leaf, then returning to it, reading ahead, then doubling back. As he read, he rubbed his jaw, clean-shaven, with the forefinger and thumb of his hand. Then when he was finally done, he reviewed the envelope carefully.

“Well, my dear, I must assume that you do not know the contents of your aunt's letter.”

“Why, sir?” Lucy felt confused, but Grandison did not answer, turning instead to Colin.

“And you, sir.” Grandison pointed a thick finger at Colin, one Lucy imagined he used to great effect in the courtroom. “I understand why Lady Fairbourne is here, and certainly I need to discuss her aunt's letter with her. But I do not understand who you are and why you are here—at least in relation to Lady Fairbourne's case.”

“Colin Somerville, sir, most recently, an agent of the Home Office.” Colin straightened in his chair as he answered. “As to the lady, I am her fiancé.”

Lucy bit her tongue and forced herself not to react, other than to nod blandly. But she vowed to kill him later. To use that ruse long after their work together was done and to a man who knew her aunt—it was unconscionable.

“Ah.” Grandison relaxed into his chair and regarded them both carefully. “I understand. You may remain.” Having dispensed with Colin, Grandison spoke to Lucy. “Now as for your aunt's letter, Lady Fairbourne. Had you known its contents before now, you would either have gone to the magistrate to report a murder or you would have destroyed this piece of damning evidence.”

Lucy and Colin responded almost simultaneously.

“Murder?” Lucy tilted her head in question.

“Evidence?” Colin leaned forward in his chair.

“Yes, yes. To both, yes. Your aunt corresponded with me for some years about her growing concerns about your cousin Lord Marner's avarice. After you arrived from the Continent and your aunt discovered the daughter she had always wanted, she wrote to me more frequently. In part, her questions were to ensure that your cousin would have no legal grounds to challenge her will. I helped her on that account—and my colleagues reviewed my work. But the other part of her letters dealt with her growing conviction that your cousin was stealing from the estate accounts. This sheet”—he held up one of the pages of the letter—“details his embezzlements.”

“But what about murder?” Colin interjected. “What evidence can a letter hold?”

“Nothing that will prevail in court, unfortunately.” Grandison held up the packet of paper. “Your aunt's letter also details a number of illnesses she found suspicious. One evening, she felt unwell and chose not to drink a glass of milk her nephew had sent up to her. The next morning, powder had settled to the bottom of the glass. After that, she was more cautious about what she ate or drank, but in the end, she feared not cautious enough. While, with the portion she has sent me, we can determine what the powder is, we cannot prove—save for your great-aunt's word—that your cousin is responsible. But this list is long, and your aunt was not a fool. Her request is not for herself, but for you, my girl. She asks that I aid you in whatever way I can. And I will, whenever you need my aid—now or in the future.”

“Then I would like to tell you my story.”

Grandison nodded, and Lucy began to lay out her tale, from the incident with the cat to her first escape, her capture, her second escape, and her current predicament. The old man listened with the patience of one who had spent his life listening to stories. And at the end, he specified in detail exactly what she should do.

* * *

During their meeting, Lucy only contained her anger with Colin by focusing on the advice Grandison offered. But once they left the great man's house to walk to their carriage parked on the road, she felt her pent-up anger well up and spill over. So angry was she, that she did not even notice the girl selling apples on the corner or the large man with the pocket knife whittling her an animal from the Royal Menagerie.

Colin handed her in, then gave the driver an address she did not recognize. She waited until he had shut the carriage door before she spoke.

“Of all the arrogant, thoughtless, cruel—yes, cruel—things to do. Being engaged is not a game, Colin Somerville. You can't claim it one week because it suits you, then decide against it the next. It is not a ploy to gather information. I agreed when we first met to the game of it because I never intended to marry, you or anyone. I had no friends in the
ton
. No one who would recognize me and force your hand. But Grandison—he knew my aunt. I've had tea with his wife. He knows my real name—and yours. And yet, you think to, to, to . . .”

“Marry you.” Colin spoke with conviction. “I think I'm going to marry you. In front of all our friends, my family, the
ton
, Grandison, his wife—and anyone you wish to invite. Then, after a banquet large enough to leave even Aidan reeling, we're going to take a marriage tour. Anywhere you wish to go, and then we are going to find Em and make sure she is well and happy. And I'm going to thank her for knowing my mind better than I myself did.”

She turned her face to the window. For several minutes she watched the city pass by. “You can't play with my heart like this.”

“But I'm not playing, dearest.” He turned her face to him. “I've spent the last week trying to reconcile my sense of duty with my desires. You would say my head with my heart. But I couldn't somehow wrap my mind around how to do that until this morning, when I saw you again and my heart fell into my shoes. I realized I didn't need to make a choice. I needed to acknowledge that the choice was already long made. Perhaps even from the moment you first agreed to kiss me. So, my darling, my dearest, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

“But Grandison's advice . . .” Lucy shook her head in disbelief.

“Had nothing whatsoever to do with my decision. I'd
already
declared I was your fiancé before Grandison said that the easiest solution was to marry.”

She searched his face. In his eyes, she found only sincerity and love. “Then yes, Colin. Yes, I will marry you.”

“Then, kiss me, my angel. And forgive me for being a fool.” His kiss was tender and sweet, then hungry and skillful.

Chapter Forty

Since marriage would provide Lucy with a new, powerful set of relations and by law make her husband the owner of all her property, everyone agreed that the marriage should take place as soon as possible. But Colin—having promised Lucy a large wedding—was unwilling to deny one to her, though she asserted over and over it didn't matter. Eventually, however, she realized that it mattered to Colin.

They compromised on an estate wedding at Colin's childhood home seven days hence.

Aidan used his influence to speed Colin's application for a special license and sent letters by special rider to his estate to begin the wedding preparations.

In only two days, Colin and Lucy were ready to make the trip to Monmouthshire. As Aidan had some committee meetings that he could not avoid at Whitehall, he and Sophia would follow soon after, with Judith and her menagerie, including Boatswain, in two separate carriages. The other brothers, as well as the Masons, coming as they would be from all across southwestern England, would arrive shortly before the wedding itself.

As an extra precaution for their travel, Colin hired a carriage of former soldiers to protect their rear. To travel more easily, Lucy wore trousers and boots.

* * *

On the second day of travel, Lucy awoke to the sounds of gunfire. The carriage was running fast, too fast.

Colin was kneeling on the floor of the carriage, trying to keep his balance. He was doing something . . . she couldn't figure out what. She clung to the fabric handle next to her head. Still too fast, soon there would be a curve, and then . . .

She looked back at Colin, still kneeling, when suddenly the whole bench of the backward-facing seat lifted from the floor. The open space inside went somewhat below the floor. A space big enough for a person. Her.

Colin held out his hand. “Quickly. In here. We can't let them find you.”

She didn't ask questions. She moved. She flung herself to the floor and rolled into the space.

“Whoa, whoa, stop now, whoa.” The driver, whose voice she did not recognize, slowed the carriage.

“There's a bolt on the inside. Slide it. It will make it impossible to open this compartment from the outside. Even if they figure out it's hollow, they won't realize the space is big enough for a person.”

He put his gun in with her and his knife.

“You'll be unarmed.” Lucy searched his face.

“Sometimes it's better to be unarmed,” Colin whispered. “Don't come out, not unless I call your name, your
full
name.”

“But . . .” Lucy felt helpless.

“No buts, no time.” He touched her cheek and shut the bench.

She slid the bolt, just as the carriage stopped completely. Then she heard the carriage door being pulled open roughly.

“Where's the chit? There's supposed to be a chit.”

“I'm sorry, my good fellow. . . . Sent the chit to London. No time for virtuous women. Have pressing business at my estate. . . .” Colin's voice sounded strange, distorted.

The other voices argued, but she couldn't make out any of the words. “Out. Get out.”

The carriage shifted as Colin stepped out. “I'm unarmed. I have a little money, if that's what you want.”

The voices began to argue. The first voice wanted to kill him. The second wanted to deliver him to the man who hired them instead of Lucy. Other voices joined in. She couldn't hear them distinctly. Then there was a shot. And the sound of feet walking away.

Tears sprung to her eyes. What if they had shot Colin? He couldn't die, not after everything. She didn't dare make a sound, but the tears rolled down her face, across her temples and into her hair.

The carriage shifted again. Someone was in the carriage, tapping on the seat top. The tapping followed the board above her, moving from her feet to her head. “Seats are built in. No way to get into them that I can see. He must have been telling the truth. Switched carriages on us.”

“I don't know how. We were with them the whole way. Damn.”

“What do we do with the carriage?

“It's ours. Spoils of war, and all that. We'll meet our employer for our fee, then take it with us. A little paint, and we can sell it in Manchester.”

* * *

The hiding place wasn't completely dark. Several drill holes, each about a half an inch in diameter, let in air and a little light. If she needed more air, she could press her face to one of the holes.

But it was still an enclosed space, a dark, small, enclosed space. She tried not to be frightened, but her heart beat heavy and fast in her chest. As her panic rose, she felt bile on her tongue. No, she had to be calm. She had to be strategic. Otherwise, Marner would win.

She wasn't trapped, she told herself. She had the bolt. At any time she could let herself out. But she was safe, at least for now. Out there was more dangerous than in here. She'd already escaped from Archibald twice. She knew what would happen if she was delivered back to him, especially now that she had made him look a fool.

But if she were to escape again, she would have to pay attention. She might not know where they had been when the carriage was attacked, but at least she could try to remember how to get back to that place. If Colin were wounded and they hadn't brought him with them, she needed to be able to find him. If he were dead, then she prayed she would find his body—she didn't have the heart for another lover lost and never returned.

The carriage began to move.

To keep from panicking, she counted her heartbeats and converted them to minutes. One minute. Five minutes. Twenty minutes. At this pace, that was one mile. At six miles, the carriage slowed, turned a hard left, then stopped. She heard the creak of rusted hinges. A gate perhaps?

The carriage moved forward again, this time slowly. The road was uneven, and the carriage bumped and swayed. Another five hundred heartbeats, and the ground turned to gravel, crunching under the wheels as the carriage stopped. An inn? An estate? Voices met the carriage, but their words were indistinct. The carriage swayed as it was unpacked, then moved very slowly again. The smell of straw and manure told her it was a stable yard. The carriage swayed again as the horses were unhitched, then the carriage was pushed backward into a carriage stall.

Then silence.

She waited, trying to think through it logically. From all the angles, it was clear that she would have to act to save herself—and Colin, if he were still alive.

Her best chance was night, still several hours off. But until then, she should sleep, following her father's advice to conserve her energy for whatever circumstances she encountered.

* * *

The sound of men putting animals into their stalls woke her. The light through the drill holes had dimmed. Night, then. She didn't know how much noise the bolt would make unlocking. She felt the lock. It was sticky with grease. But to be safe, she would wait.

Again, she counted her heartbeats. An hour after the last sound she heard, she slid the bolt open and pushed against the lid of her coffin. It moved silently. No creaks. She held it up slightly, heard the sounds of animals more clearly. And crickets. So, they had gone on to the coast. One could only hear the sound of crickets in the southeast. That was at least some information. She tried to remember if Archibald had held properties nearby. And suddenly she knew where they were . . . or had a very good idea.

Clearly, the men had waited to ambush them until they were close enough to a place where they could be easily hidden. But she knew the house, knew how to escape. She tucked the gun—already loaded—into the waistband of her trousers at the back. She stuck the knife in her boot as James had taught her.

If they'd brought Colin with them, he could be anywhere in the house. Luckily, it wasn't too large, and most of the lower-floor rooms had a window to the outside. She walked around the perimeter at a distance, keeping to the line of the woods that encroached on the house from all sides.

It didn't take long. She saw him through a window, tied to a chair. Blood was caked on his forehead, on the side of his face, and down the front of his shirt. His clothes were torn, and his head was hanging to the side. From the window, she could see his chest rise and fall, and she almost wept with joy. One of the windows was already open, and she lay her pistol on the sill and climbed through.

He smelled of whiskey, on his shirt, his hands, his hair, his mouth. There was a whiskey stain down his trouser legs. But in the carriage he hadn't been drinking. She'd seen the ploy before: rub yourself with whiskey to appear a drunk. It explained his distorted speech when he'd left the carriage—he'd deliberately slurred his speech.

She used the knife to cut his ropes, waiting to speak until he started to waken. Then she put her hands across his mouth. “Shhh, I'm here. Be quiet.”

His eyes when they opened were angry. “You were supposed to wait.”

“You were supposed to come for me. But don't worry: I know this place. I know how to get away. Just let me get your hands free. How many men? And where are they?”

“Four. Remember the wine we were carrying for the wedding?”

She nodded while she whittled away at the ropes.

“We'll need to get more.”

In a few minutes, she had him free, but he stumbled against her. “Are you drunk or hurt?”

“Just a bit beaten up. I'll be fine.”

“Can you ride?”

Since he could not exit easily the way she had come in, she preceded him into the hall. The door to what had been a drawing room was open, and two men lay on the floor snoring. She led him to the back entrance. As she had before, they moved immediately to the line of trees circling the yard, then back into the barn.

Six horses were in stalls.

Colin stumbled to the stall where the two horses from his carriage were housed together. “Help me climb the stall wall.” From there, he crawled onto one of the horses' backs. “I'm not going to be able to ride, Lucy. My head is spinning and my vision is blurred. Just hide me here, and go for help.”

“Again, what regiment were you in? I'll just tie you to your horse. I'm not letting you go, Colin Somerville, not another time.”

The night seemed enchanted, with very little sound. She moved swiftly, tying his feet around the horse's belly and his arms around her neck. Then she let the other horses go and mounted her own.

She waited over and over for one of the men to appear, but they never did. It seemed too easy. She decided that she could cope with something being easy.

* * *

The magistrates caught the men, still sleeping off the whiskey and wine they had drunk. They admitted to having sabotaged the coach of Colin's protective guard, then waiting to attack Colin's coach until it was alone on the road. The highwaymen couldn't tell who had hired them, only that he had promised them more than he had paid . . . which was why they had chosen to drink the alcohol they found. And why, though they had been told to destroy the carriage, they had kept it to sell.

“Marner,” Lucy declared. “The only man who can repeatedly ruin his own revenge plot by being too stingy to pay for it.”

“Lucy.” Colin nuzzled her face. “The only woman I ever want to spend another moment with. Marry me, my star, and I'll light up the skies with proof of my love.”

* * *

The day of the wedding, when the bells rang at the estate chapel, a display of fireworks as brilliant as those on Guy Fawkes Day filled the sky.