Page 108 of The Heir
He went back to buttering his toast, his voice cool and controlled. “You created a third option, and it was the best you could do under the circumstances.”
“It was,” Anna said, grateful for his summary. But then, why did he still appear so remote?
“Until you met me,” the earl went on. “You had a fourth option, then.”
“I could have broken my word to my grandmother.” Anna rose. “And taken a chance you would not laugh at me and return me to Stull’s loving embrace, errant, contractually bound fiancées not something your average earl is willing to champion at the drop of a hat.”
He remained sitting. “I deserve better than that.”
“Yes,” she said, near tears, “you most assuredly do, and if we marry…”
She whirled and left the room, her sentence unfinished and her host unable to extrapolate her meaning. If they married… what?
“I see we’re starting our day in a fine temper.” Dev sauntered in.
“Shut up.” The earl passed him the teapot. “And do not attempt any more advice so early in the day, Dev. I do not like to see Anna upset.”
“Neither do I.” St. Just poured himself a cup of tea and frowned at the earl. “I don’t like to see you upset either. What is the plan for the day?”
“I have to meet with Tolliver, of course, and I asked Hazlit to stop by, as well. I’ve sent for a dressmaker to see to Anna, and expect that will keep us out of each other’s way for the day. What of you?”
“I am going to visit with some old army friends,” Dev said, getting to work on a mountain of scrambled eggs. “I should be back by midday and will make it a point to join Anna for lunch.”
“My thanks.” The earl rose, feeling none too pleased with the day before him. “Tell her…”
Dev shook his head. “Tell her yourself.”
The morning was interminable, with no Anna tapping softly at the door with a little lemonade or marzipan for him, no water for his bouquets, no anything but work and more work. He sent Tolliver off well before luncheon but was pleased to find Benjamin Hazlit had chosen that hour to call.
“Join me for luncheon,” the earl suggested. “My kitchen is not fancy, particularly in this heat, but we know how to keep starvation at bay.”
“I will accept that generous offer,” Hazlit said. “My breakfast was ages ago and not very substantial.” The earl rang for luncheon on a tray, sending up a small prayer of thanks he’d have a valid excuse for not joining Anna and Dev on the back terrace. When lunch came, it showed that Anna was not behaving herself exclusively as a guest: There was a single daisy in a bud vase on each tray, and the marzipan was wrapped in linen, a little bouquet of violets serving as the bow.
“Your kitchen isn’t fancy,” Hazlit remarked, “but somebody dotes on their earl.”
“Or on their lunch trays,” the earl said. He quickly brought Hazlit up to date regarding Baron Stull’s allegations of a betrothal, and the need to secret Morgan with Their Graces.
“Good move,” Hazlit said. “Divide and conquer, so to speak. When I got your note, I did some poking around regarding Stull.”
“Oh?” The earl paused in the demolition of his chicken sandwich.
“He’s a bad actor,” Hazlit said. “Been making a nuisance of himself in the lower-class brothels, trying to procure young girls, and using thugs to spy on your house.”
My poor Anna.
Hazlit went on to advise the earl Stull had been identified as the purchaser of a large quantity of lamp oil, “right down to the grease stains on his cravat.” The tallish gentleman with him, however, had remained in the shadows. Hazlit further suggested there would be another attempt to kidnap Anna.
“Why won’t the baron just take his lumps and go home?”
Hazlit’s gaze turned thoughtful. “So far, the evidence for arson is all circumstantial. The charges won’t stick. He has a betrothal contract he thinks is valid, and he has Helmsley over a barrel, so to speak, financially. He wants Anna, and he wants her badly. You haven’t described him as a man who is bright enough to cut his losses and find some silly cow who will bear him children and indulge his peccadilloes.”
“And she would have to be a cow,” the earl muttered, grimacing. “I hate just sitting here, waiting for those idiots to make the next move.”
“And they hate just sitting there”—Hazlit reached for a piece of marzipan—“doing nothing. You should probably prepare yourself for some kind of legal maneuvering.”
“What kind of maneuvering?”
“Charges of kidnapping or alienation of affections, breach of promise against Anna, demands of marriage from Helmsley.”
