A Certain Want of Reason (24 page)

“Y-yes, of course.” He pushed the glasses back up into their customary position. “Provided that relation was not his next heir, for that might lead to sinister practices. The law considers it in the heir’s best interest that the party should die.”

“Oh. That would be dreadful.” She hoped her words sounded more convincing to the solicitor than they did to her. The thought of Edmund deceased was actually almost comforting in certain respects. She could well relish the prospect of never having to view the contempt in his eyes or hear the resignation in his voice. But no, he was the one sure path to the title, riches and respect that were her due. She could endure resignation. She could ignore contempt.

“Mr. Stansbury,” she assumed her most heartbreakingly sad countenance, “Lord Rutherford’s nearest relation is his mother, and she herself lies ill and unable to manage her own affairs, much less those of her son.” Clutching her hands together to boost her chest closer to his new line of vision, she put all the pathos she could muster into her words. “And they have no other close relatives living.”

“Y-yes, which is why the task has fallen to me.” His gaze again dropped to her breasts.

Jeanne smiled. “And I am grateful that you have taken the duty with consciousness and fortitude. But surely you do not wish to be burdened with such a duty all your life? This task takes time away from your other business, does it not?”

The glasses again began to slip down his nose. “Well, the estate will compensate me for my time, of course…”

“But not sufficient to the amount of time and worry expended, I would imagine.”

He said nothing for a moment, and she knew she had succeeded with that argument.

She leaned still closer. “So why do you not let me take this burden from you?”

“Miss Newman, forgive my bluntness…” His face colored. “What you say does hold much truth, of course, but you are not a member of the family. And you are a woman.”

She sighed and closed her eyes, waiting until she was certain he watched before she focused a heartfelt gaze on him. “Under the law, you are right. I am not yet a member of the family. But in the hearts and minds of all concerned, I have been a member of the family since my infancy. Has not the family always planned for that eventuality?” She willed tears into her eyes and voice. “Lady Rutherford often pointed out certain special family belongings that would one day belong to our children.” She covered her face with her hands to make the pretense of crying more believable. “There is a gilt clock in the upstairs passage that plays music on the quarter of each hour. That clock was to go to our first son.”

She glanced up to see what effect this had on the solicitor. She had no idea whether Lady Rutherford ever included such provisions in her will or not, but it seemed a good gamble.

And it paid off. The solicitor removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the air of a man confounded and ready to concede defeat. “I shall have to give the matter some thought, perhaps consult with one of my fellows. I am not at all certain that the Chancellor will permit such an appointment.”

“I see.” She removed her handkerchief from her reticule. “I should tell you that I just spoke with Lady Rutherford’s physician.”

“Yes?”

“Her condition does not improve and there is no telling which day may be her last.”

He looked sorely grieved.

“She cannot speak, of course, but she does sometimes seem to understand what is said. She might be gratified to know that Edmu-Lord Rutherford and I will be together. After all, the marriage has always been her fondest wish as well.” She wiped the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. “It may be her dying wish, as it was my own mother’s.”

This was plainly too much for the man to withstand. He sighed as he slowly nodded in agreement. “It will not be proper for you to live in the same house as Lord Rutherford while you remain unmarried, you understand. Even if you are made his committee.”

“Unfortunately yes, I do understand. I shall reside at Hanover Square, for the time being, to better care for Lady Rutherford. Lord Rutherford will remain under the care of attendants at Shady View.” She wiped away another tear. Though the tears were voluntary, it had taken surprisingly little effort to bring them forth. Whether they were tears of sadness or anger, though, she could not say. “I believe Shady View is the best place for him for now. Until he is ready to marry.”

The solicitor nodded again, more readily this time. “I believe you are right, much as if grieves me to say it. In the best interests of the family, I will amend the petition to seek a change in committee.”

“To me, Mr. Stansbury?”

“To you, Miss Newman.”

Chapter Twenty-One

When Lucia stepped through the imposing front door of Shady View, she felt a skip in her heartbeat several seconds before her eyes registered the cause of the sensation—the figure of Lord Rutherford standing at the window, looking out over the fields covered with new-fallen snow. Though it was dangerous for him to be out of his room while Geoffrey remained intent on “capturing” him, she had to admit she was pleased to see him.

“I hope they have a great, roaring fire in the drawing room.” Eugenie unclasped her cloak and swung it free from her shoulders, releasing a spray of wet snow onto the marble floor. “I believe I’m wet through to my chemise.”

“Eugenie!” Lucia giggled at the loud mention of undergarments. She shook the loose snowflakes from her hair, and the exercise dislodged the combs so that wet curls fell about her face in a disorganized heap. She giggled again.

Eugenie joined in her laughter. “I told you that you should let me do your hair this morning. You are all thumbs today. I do not know what has possessed you.”

Lucia bent to retrieve the errant combs, casting a covert glance at the figure by the window. He had exchanged his crutch for a cane, which lent a distinguished air to his appearance.

The scowl evident on his face when he turned to look at them, however, though perhaps distinguished, was far less pleasant to behold than his carriage. She turned her gaze back to the floor, feeling around with her hands for the second comb.

“Lucia, dear,” Eugenie chuckled, “I imagine they have a servant to wash the floor—you really needn’t bother!”

Lucia made a face. “I have lost two combs, yet so far have been able to recover only one. Whatever could have become of the other one?”

“Never mind. We shall make do with just the one. I have some extra hairpins in my reticule, and combs are hopelessly out of fashion in any case. Let’s just get to the drawing room fire, shall we?”

Lucia cast one final glance at Lord Rutherford, who had turned back toward the window again. “You are right, of course.” She stood, but her gaze dropped to scan the floor again. “I do wish I had found it, though. The set of combs belonged to my mother.” She reluctantly followed Eugenie toward the warmth of the drawing room, eyes searching the floor just in case.

“Oh, Mr. Groves, thank you for this lovely fire,” Eugenie called as they entered the room. “Such a welcoming sight on a chilly day!”

“Indeed yes, Miss Bayles. I find I have a hard time leaving it to make my visits.”

“Or to attend to business,” Lord Rutherford muttered from the doorway as he stepped into room behind them.

“What is that? Oh, Lord Rutherford, I am afraid I can do no more than apologize. Our post runner is old and loath to stir on snowy days. Your request will go out tomorrow for certain. Or the next day.”

“The snow grieves
me
not in the least,” Lord Rutherford replied dryly. “I would be happy to run the post into the village for you.”

Mr. Groves laughed with an understanding twinkle in his eye. “Of course you would, my lord, but we cannot allow our guests to put themselves to such trouble.”

“No, indeed.” Lord Rutherford smiled, but there was a bitter edge to his voice that underscored the tension between them.

“Mr. Groves,” Lucia asked quickly, “when you have a moment, would you be so kind as to send someone to tell Geoffrey we’ve arrived?”

He bowed and immediately took the excuse to leave. “Certainly. I shall deliver the message myself.”

Lucia stepped over to the nearest window, trying very hard not to look in Lord Rutherford’s direction. Instead, she took note of the room’s others occupants. Two men sat at a table opposite one another, engaged in a game of chess that seemed to involve a great deal of gesticulating, nonsense curses and knocking pieces onto the floor. In a corner, an older woman poured tea for herself and three chairs while conducting an animated discourse in different-pitched voices.

“Excuse me, Miss Wright?”

Well, she’d have to look at Lord Rutherford now, since he had moved to stand at her side. “Yes?”

He opened his hand, revealing a hair comb inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “I believe you may have dropped this in the entry?”

“Thank you, my lord.” She reached to take it from him, hoping her hand would not shake as she did so. The notion that he had taken extra pains to find the comb on her behalf made her heart skip even faster than it had earlier.

He bowed. “I am grateful to be able to do
something
of use.” He glanced toward the window where light snowflakes swirled merrily against the panes. “Curse those foul white flakes.”

“Oh.” The fluttery sensation in her chest faded as Lucia eased herself away from his unexpected angry outburst. “I find the snow rather lovely, my lord.”

“That is not the word I would use for it. Let me just say that it is horridly inconvenient.”

“I am sorry to hear that, my lord. It caused us little difficulty on our way from the village.”

“Well,” he rapped his cane against the floorboards, “you are not trapped in this glorified prison at the mercy of Groves’ ancient messengers, are you?”

“No. I am not.” Lucia felt sorry for the gentleman, but she saw no need for him to direct his wrath at her. “Perhaps you would prefer to converse with someone more sensible of your situation.” She turned away to look for Eugenie.

He grabbed her elbow. “Forgive me, Miss Wright. You, of all people, do not deserve angry words from me.”

“I had much the same thought myself.”

“Please, do accept my apology.” His voice softened, the bitterness replaced with contrition. As he released her arm, he stared into her eyes with an expression of such agony that she felt a wound in her own soul. “I am worried about the news from home—what you told me earlier about my mother. I need to get home to see her as soon as possible, and Mr. Groves will not let me take my leave.”

What could she possibly say? She could change nothing. She could not give him hope. All that was in her power to do was sympathize. “Yes. I can understand why that would frustrate you. But perhaps your mother is not quite ready to see you? Ready to see anyone, I mean.”

He sighed. “I understand your meaning and can assure you that you have no grounds for concern. I am in full possession of all my faculties and quite capable of returning home.”

Would that were true! But Geoffrey would naturally say the same of himself, and she knew how much faith could be put into that assessment. Nevertheless, she agreed with him, hoping to ease some of the pain reflected in his deep blue eyes. “Of course, my lord.”

A ghost of a smile flashed across his features. “I am grateful to find one person who believes me.” The smile turned to a scowl. “Groves obviously does not, else he would not keep me here against my will.”

“He is only following orders.”

“Orders?” Lord Rutherford scoffed, filling the air with bitterness once more. “Orders from whom? The man runs this house like a puppeteer with a theater full of puppets.”

Lucia’s first instinct was to escape Lord Rutherford’s angry tirade, to stay away from him until his mood lifted as she would do when Geoffrey became angry and irrational. Yet Lord Rutherford did not seem irrational, and something told her that he should not be humored like an irate schoolboy.

She decided to rebuff the outburst, rather than evade it. “Every person is accountable to someone for his actions,” she countered. “Mr. Groves must answer to a board of trustees, and he is responsible to the families of patients. He cannot just let his charges leave at will.”

“Well, if he were responsible to
my
family, he would let me go home to see my mother. Or at least deliver the promised message to my solicitor.”

She began to concede that perhaps his bitterness might be justified after all. “He will not even let you send a message! That is dreadful.”

“Well, it is not that he will not let me. He insists that his courier will not carry it through the snow.”

“Oh.” It was not so painful for her to look into his eyes now. The sorrow and bitterness was now tempered in some way. “And since your mother is ill, it grieves you to wait?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps,” she began timidly, looking away, “I might deliver the letter to your solicitor for you?”

“Oh, no, I could not ask that of you.” He leaned forward to catch her gaze. “Would you really?”

Lucia chuckled. “Yes. I cannot leave before tomorrow, mind you, but at least you will not have to wait for the post. Will I find your solicitor at Lincoln’s Inn?”