Page 51 of The Captive
He let the comment pass and took a seat in a wing chair at a right angle to Gilly’s place on a gorgeous blue brocade sofa.
“I’ll be direct at your invitation: Are you with child, Lady Greendale?”
“Heavens, no.”
“You’re sure?” He was absolutely serious in his inquiry.
“Not unless the Second Coming is imminent, and I the unworthy vessel chosen for the Almighty’s arrival.”
“You might want to take measures to alter your status in this regard,” Stoneleigh said, once again the brusque barrister. “I’ve had a look at Greendale’s will, and you benefit greatly if you can produce a posthumous child, your ladyship.”
“Greendale regaled me at many turns with the terms of his will, Mr. Stoneleigh, and I assure you, he intended to leave me penniless.”
“He wasn’t entirely forthcoming, then, because he wrote a codicil about a year ago, and left the unentailed sum of his estate, less your dower portion, to any child of your body born within a year of his death.”
“He was giving me permission to get with child practically at his graveside? What an odd notion.”
“No, he was conforming his will to the common law, which attributes paternity of a child to the mother’s husband, up to one year into her widowhood. This is in part why mourning lasts a year.”
The common law needed to consult with a competent midwife. “Not even horses carry for a year in the normal course, Mr. Stoneleigh.”
“Common law predates modern science, and even nature allows for some variability.”
He looked very prim, defending his silly common law, but Gilly would have liked him for it if she didn’t already firmly approve of him.
“Well, this is all very interesting, but hardly relevant to me. I am not with child, I cannot be with child, and I doubt I could accomplish it even if I tried. Was there more?”
He crossed his legs and settled back in his chair, studying her as if she were a rare legal volume on loan from another barrister. Maybe the cool, capable Mr. Stoneleigh had expected some other reaction from her.
Perhaps she was to proposition him to accommodate her quest for a child, reducing the hourly rate for his services in light of her bereavement. Of course in the process, she’d catch a chill, what with being in intimate proximity tohim. She was smiling at her thoughts when he fell silent.
“I’m sorry, you were saying, Mr. Stoneleigh?”
“I’ve seen what funds you gave me into the keeping of Mr. Worth Kettering, the man of business I use myself. He is particularly careful dealing with a widow’s mite, and has had good success with his investments. He will expect you to call on him, and you will receive quarterly statements describing the progress of your funds. But a word of advice, my lady?”
Stoneleigh’s advice had prevented Gilly from being charged with murder.
“I am not in any great hurry, Mr. Stoneleigh.” Only a small hurry, because she could not countenance Mercia being anxious over her absence.
“If Mercia is inclined to settle a competence on you, you’d be well advised to see the thing done.” Stoneleigh was being oblique, possibly insinuating something nasty.
“I assure you, Mr. Stoneleigh, His Grace is recovering well from his ordeal. His faculties are sound, and we need not worry about his imminent decline or demise.”
Gilly was fiercely proud of her duke, that she could offer these assurances, and with such confidence. Mercia was emerging from captivity stronger than he’d been, stronger than any duke had ever been, and Wellington had nothing to say to it.
“His recovery might well be part of the problem.”
Stoneleigh was not unkind, but subtlety was not his forte, and Gilly did not want to endure tea and crumpets with him until he meandered around to whatever plagued him.
“How could healing from all manner of abuse be a bad thing, Mr. Stoneleigh? His Grace lost his wife and son while he was in France. A lesser man would not have the resilience to cope with that much grief.”
“He copes by plotting revenge, my lady. The word at the clubs is Mercia intends to confront his captors and see them pay for their transgressions. He’s begun gathering information, laying his traps, some say.”
In his way, Stoneleigh was trying to be kind—and failing.
“Imagine, Mr. Stoneleigh, having no privacy about your bodily functions for months. Imagine having your fingernails forcibly extracted. Imagine beating after beating. Imagine your body decorated with so many scars, you resemble a walking piece of appliqué. Imagine your sleep always interrupted, your ability to digest food ruined…”
She was nearly shaking at this litany, and Stoneleigh was none too happy with her for imposing it upon him.
