Page 2 of Counting on a Countess
A hale, middle-aged man in well-tailored clothing entered the room carrying a leather portfolio. “My lord, thank you for...” Flowers’s steps slowed and his polite smile flickered as his gaze fell on Jeanette and Bijou. Face reddening, he coughed into his fist. “Forgive me, my lord, but it would perhaps be best if we conducted our meeting in private. The concerns are of a... delicate and confidential manner.”
Kit sighed. He did not, however, sit up. “Ladies, if you would be so kind as to await me upstairs.”
The women swayed to their feet and ambled past the solicitor, trailing perfume and laughter as they exited the chamber.
Kit waved Flowers toward a nearby chair. “Care for a drink? I might be able to cajole the cook into preparing something edible.”
“Your consideration is appreciated, my lord,” the solicitor said quickly. “But once we conclude our business, I am bound for home, where my wife and supper await me.”
“I suppose you could eat both,” Kit offered after taking a sip of wine. “Or take all of them to bed.”
Flowers’s cheeks blazed. “Ah... well... yes.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we might address the matter at hand.” Smoothing a hand down his waistcoat, he said with gravity, “I understand you were an intimate of the late Lord Somerby.”
A throb of grief squeezed Kit’s heart just hearing the old man’s name. “I first met him in Roliça in ’08.”
Flowers’s businesslike expression shifted into restrained melancholy. “The marquess had been an esteemed client of my firm for four decades. The news of his death was met with considerable sorrow.” The solicitor gazed at Kit with sympathy. “I imagine that you must also feel distress at the passing of your friend.”
Kit gave a wry half smile. “I keep expecting him to show up at my door and demand that I join him at his favorite chophouse. He never allowed me to beg off. Said my wenching and carousing could wait two hours.”
Flowers echoed Kit’s smile. “A forceful gentleman, Lord Somerby. It stands to reason that he served his country so admirably during the War.”
“No one said no to him,” Kit agreed. “Well,” he added with a self-deprecating shrug, “I tried. He had his ideas about troop movements and I had mine.”
“And that is precisely what he admired about you,” Flowers noted. “The marquess told me so, himself. Always had good things to say about ‘young Captain Ellingsworth.’ Courageous, he called you. A born tactician.”
Kit glanced away. “He was fulsome in his praise. I merely did my duty—nothing more.”
“With all due respect, my lord,” the solicitor ventured, “he was not the only man of influence with this opinion of you. His Majesty the Prince was much moved by Lord Somerby’s accounts of your heroism. You would not have been given an earldom if you had merely performed your responsibilities.”
Nothing in the parlor could hold Kit’s attention. He kept shifting his gaze from the paintings on the walls to the windows to the plaster friezes on the ceiling. “I suppose so.”
Sadly, the title was almost entirely decorative. It came with a middling estate at the very uppermost border of Northumberland—and hardly any income. Much as Kit appreciated the elevation of his status from marquess’s third son to earl, it had done little to alter the course of his life.
But he was grateful to Lord Somerby, just the same. Kit’s parents loved him dutifully, yet only Somerby had trulybelievedin him, even when Kit himself did not.
“So you and Lord Somerby were close,” Flowers noted.
Kit nodded. “He was a lieutenant general on the Peninsula for most of the War, so our paths crossed many times. He had a fondness forpastel de nata, and we’d have them in his tent, chasing them with strong whisky and talking about our favorite public houses back in London.” Kit smiled wryly. “We talked strategy, too, and the welfare of our men.”
Some of the senior officers Kit had met during his time in the army had been cruel or heartless, concerned only with upholstering themselves with glory. Not Lord Somerby. He remained steadfastly focused on the human cost of war.
“Did his lordship ever discuss marriage?” Flowers asked. “Specifically, yours?”
Kit frowned, the question catching him by surprise. “Occasionally.” In truth, Lord Somerby had often harangued Kit about taking a wife, particularly when discussion turned toward life after wartime.
“You need a woman,”Lord Somerby had often declared.“And not one of those actresses or demimondaines you insist on keeping company with. A proper wife. Someone who’s got the backbone and sense to keep you in line. A man’s got to have a woman of strength by his side.”
Once, Kit had dared to retort, “I don’t see you writing letters to an adored helpmeet.”
A look of such profound sorrow had crossed Lord Somerby’s face that Kit had immediately regretted his rash words. “I am married, my lad,” the older man had replied quietly. “She and the babe she carried were brought to the Lord. I’ll not replace Lizzie.”
Kit swallowed hard. Lord Somerby and his wife were together now.
“Why do you ask about marriage, Mr. Flowers?”
Instead of answering, the solicitor set his portfolio on the edge of a low table. “I do not want to take up too much of your time, my lord.” He opened the folder and removed several documents covered in tiny, precise handwriting. “It is regarding Lord Somerby’s demise that I requested a meeting with you today.”
Kit set his glass aside and sat up, unease plucking along the back of his neck. “You’re his executor.”
