Page 92 of Ladies in Hating
Cat moistened her lips. “I don’t understand. Fawkes’s natural son isJem? How do you know? Why didn’t the duke claim Jem while he lived, if he meant for Jem to inherit some portion of his estate?”
“I’m getting to that. Fawkes’s will named as the inheritor of this piece of property the firstborn child of Patience Iverill.”
Cat’s brows drew together. “Iverill… That’s not… Jem’s mother’s surname was Muncroft.”
“I am aware of that. Iverill, however,wasthe name of the inn where Patience Lacey, née Muncroft, worked when the sixth duke met her and sired his son upon her. The Iverill Inn burned down in 1807, Patience married your father, and the inn’s owners—Mr. and Mrs. Iverill—moved to Cornwall. Whether the old duke forgot Patience’s surname or never properly knew it is left to us to wonder.” His expression had gone slightly smug. “But I interviewed eleven different people who recalled Patience’s brief liaison with the duke. The timing fits with Jem’s birth.”
“You mean”—Georgiana’s voice came out rough, and she had to clear her throat—“you mean that this property…”
“Yes. This portion of the Fawkes estate and whatever it contains belong to James, by right of birth and inheritance. Only”—Yorke’s mouth tightened, as if holding back an oath—“I do not know how he knew.”
Cat’s eyes looked dark, and her voice shook. “I don’t understand.”
“I had not yet told him. I wanted to wait until I was certain—until everything was assured beyond the power of circumstance to disrupt.” For the first time, Yorke looked hesitant, his face twisted with worry. “I wanted to be sure that it could not be taken away from him. Until two days ago, I had not yet discussed my findings with the new duke. There’s no reason Jem should know anything about the will—about Fawkes at all. But when I arrived at the office this morning, it was dark and locked, and all the notes I kept in my office about the case were gone.”
“And so was Jem,” Cat said hoarsely.
“And so was Jem.”
“We have to go.” Cat’s fingers clung hard to Georgiana’s. “We have to go to Wiltshire. He might have tried to go himself—to talk to the new duke. His”—her throat worked—“his half brother.”
“I will remain here,” Yorke said. “I don’t know where the devil my other clerk’s gone off to, but I need his help. Beckett’s worked closely with me these last weeks. He may be able to reconstruct some of my notes, in case I need them for the courts.”
“Thank you,” Cat said. “Thank you, Martin.” Her voice was soft and urgent, and then she turned to Georgiana. “Will you come with me? To Wiltshire?”
Georgiana tried to summon words, even as fear closed her throat.
The Fawkes’s country house was half a mile from Woodcote Hall. From her brothers. If Georgiana went to his door, the new Duke of Fawkes might recognize her—might connect her to Percy and Ambrose.
But she thrust those thoughts aside. She made herself shut out everything except Cat’s face, grim and stubborn and wrenchingly beautiful. Georgiana’s reluctance to meet again with Ambrose and Percy—her desperate desire to protect them and her secret, shameful fear of their rejection—none of it mattered now. Cat needed her, and Georgiana was not going to let her down.
And perhaps, if Fawkes knew who Georgiana was—
Perhaps, somehow, she could help set things right.
“I’m going with you,” she said. “As fast as we can.”
Chapter 29
Love renders me capable of any enterprise.
—fromVÉNUS DANS LE CLOÎTRE
As she waited outside the door to Fawkes’s estate, Cat clutched at Georgiana’s hand. She knew she was holding on too hard, but she could not make herself stop.
Georgiana had wrapped her arms around Cat in the post-chaise, her chin on Cat’s tilted head, and during their mad overnight journey, Cat had tried to soak up some of her strength. She knew that Georgiana was worried about Jem—and hesitant, too, to travel so close to Woodcote Hall—but Georgiana had kept her spine straight and her jaw set. She had offered nothing but steady fortitude.
Worry kept crashing over Cat in swamping waves. Jem lost on the way to the estate. Jem in an overturned carriage. Jem pickpocketed on the mail coach, out of money and alone on the side of the road.
Jem, rejected by the Duke of Fawkes, abandoned by his own family.
By his blood relations. Never by Cat.
But there had been comfort, too, slipping in between her fears. It was easier, all of it, with Georgiana at her side. Even in the early morning frost, Georgiana’s hand was warm in her own.
The Fawkes estate was not quite as palatial as Woodcote Hall, but it was still a grand sandstone mansion, tucked at the end of a long gravel drive. Georgiana had paid the post-chaise to wait for them. Thus far, no one had answered their knock.
Cat had just lifted her free hand to rap a second time when the door came open.
