Page 39 of Counting on a Countess
“I say, that’s very good, Flowers,” he exclaimed. “Charming my bride of less than twenty-four hours.”
The other man chuckled. “Mrs. Flowers would be cross indeed if I started angling for pretty Cornish lasses.” He snapped his fingers, and one of countless clerks appeared. “Bring some refreshment for the earl and countess. Have Keane fetch the Somerby file.”
The lad scurried off, presumably to find Keane, as well as scare up a tea set and something to nibble on besides paper.
“This way, if you please.” Mr. Flowers waved for them to enter his office.
Inside, legal tomes were neatly shelved and stacks of documents were piled in some kind of order over a large rosewood desk. Two chairs were positioned in front of the desk, and Kit held one out for Tamsyn. When she took her seat, Kit sat in the other. Mr. Flowers lowered himself into a wingback leather chair behind the desk.
“My felicitations on your marriage,” the solicitor said as they waited for refreshment and paperwork. As Tamsyn searched for something in her reticule, Mr. Flowers took the opportunity to send Kit a look rich with meaning.Well done, my lad, he seemed to say.
Kit raised his brows.Of course, he answered silently.Thisisme, we’re talking about.
But he hadn’t been nearly as confident a week ago, when he could not find an eligible, willing miss who seemed suitable. He’d seen too much suffering on the battlefield to believe in anything like providence, but clearly, if there was any goodwill in the universe, he’d received some of it when Tamsyn had crossed his path.
There was still the matter of consummation, however. He couldn’t be comfortable as a husband and a man until he’d taken her to bed and shown her a good time. His honor as a libertine demanded it. He wanted it, too. Wanted her.
Focus, damn it.
A thin lad in his late teens hurried in carrying a substantial leather portfolio. “The Somerby papers, sir.” He deposited the portfolio carefully on Mr. Flowers’s desk before bowing and scampering off.
Kit leaned forward as Mr. Flowers opened the portfolio and removed several sheets of a document.
“These are the papers that will require your signature,” the solicitor explained, “which will make binding the transference of your portion of Lord Somerby’s fortune to your name.” He took a large stack of sheets from the document and turned them to face Kit. “I’ve indicated the places where you are to sign.” He offered Kit a sharpened quill.
Kit got to his feet and took the quill. It surprised him, how unsteady his hand was. After everything he’d faced, the countless brushes with death, including when his shako had been shot off during a march in Belgium, that he should feel any trepidationnowstruck him as ridiculous. Yet an unmistakable tremor made his hand shake as he bent over the documents.
Much as Kit wanted the money, it saddened him that it had to come into his possession for the price of Somerby’s life. He’d been a good friend—exacting in his demands, but generous with his praise when those demands had been met. Would Somerby approve of Kit’s plan to build a pleasure garden? Or would he frown and grow silent in that way he did whenever someone made a foolish choice?
Kit glanced back at Tamsyn, who sent him a small, encouraging smile. The steadiness of her presence acted as a balm, and within moments, he felt himself grow more stable.
The novelty of signing his name to the transfer papers soon dimmed as he had to provide his signature again and again. He wrote his name so many times, his fingers cramped.
“As you may surmise,” Mr. Flowers said, dusting sand onto the papers while Kit shook out his hand, “it is a complicated business to transfer this great an amount of money. Be grateful you did not have to draft these papers. They made more than one clerk cry.”
“You rewarded them for their efforts, surely,” Tamsyn said pointedly.
“The law is a difficult and sometimes tedious industry,” the solicitor answered. “In law, as in life, there are no rewards for doing your job as it’s supposed to be done.”
“True,” she said with the air of someone speaking from experience.
Kit glanced at her and saw a tiny birthmark behind her left ear he’d never noticed before. Damn—he knew barely anything about his wife. He had certain particulars, but there was so much more to her than what he’d grasped. It was like noticing one leaf rather than seeing the entire tree. Would he ever come to truly understand her? If everything went according to the plans they had set out before their marriage, they never would fully know each other.
She’d been so adamant that she wanted to return to Cornwall, and he had been content to let her go, so long as an heir had been produced. This was the scenario Kit had wanted, and yet now he wasn’t certain whether he liked it or not.
But this wasn’t the time to contemplate these intricacies. He bent himself back to the task of signing countless papers.
Finally, the last page was reached. Kit scrawled his name, his handwriting far worse than it had been at the beginning.
Mr. Flowers sanded and blotted the last sheets, then tucked them back into the portfolio. “It’s done. Congratulations, Lord Blakemere.”
Kit took his offered hand and shook it. Then he turned to Tamsyn. “Lady Blakemere,” he said with a little bow.
“Is it real?” she asked, wonderingly.
“Indeed it is, my lady,” the solicitor answered with a chuckle. “Your husband has inherited a substantial fortune.” He also offered a small bow.
“Well.” She exhaled. “That doesn’t happen every Monday.”
