Page 17 of Temptress in Disguise
“Mr Chance is a logical man,” she said, keen to defuse the thrum of hostility. “He saw the sense in my plan. A plan that is to our mutual benefit.”
The agent narrowed his gaze. He motioned to the empty wooden chairs around the table and urged them to sit. “You know this would be a marriage in name only, Miss Grant. Only a naive woman would hope to tame the hard-hearted.”
Mr Sloane was beginning to sound as cold as Lydia.
You’re so gullible, my darling. Like a delicate flower, it wouldn’t take much for you to lose your bloom.
“You speak in error, sir. Mr Chance is hard-headed, not hard-hearted.” Else he would have disarmed her and thrown her out at the Belldrake. “Hence we’re both aware of our obligations.”
The reverend stopped slathering over his chicken bones. “Trust in the Lord. He is our refuge and strength.” He turned to Mr Sloane. “Might I have another mug of ale?”
Mr Sloane beckoned a serving wench, slipped her a sovereign and ordered refreshment. Mr Chance asked for brandy. Needing a potent drink to calm her nerves, Naomi had the same.
She reached into her bag, found the documents buried beneath the leg irons and handed the file to Mr Chance. “This is a copy of my father’s will, given to me secretly a week before he died. As Hartford Hall is unentailed, he wanted his daughters to inherit the house. He left Melissa a cottage on the estate and a small stipend.”
Mr Chance scanned the documents. “A cottage?”
“To quote my father’s dying words, ‘That conniving witch likes to sow oats, let her live in the gardener’s cottage’.”
A muscle in Mr Chance’s cheek twitched. He hardened his gaze. “I assume she was entertaining your uncle while married to your father.”
“Presumably so. My uncle Jeremiah Grant moved into the house the day after the funeral. Imagine our shock when the solicitor read the will and Melissa and my uncle had inherited everything.”
Naomi had produced the original document, whereby the solicitor explained she was in receipt of an old copy. That the most recent was proved at Doctors’ Commons. “I believe they conspired to kill my father, though how does one prove such a thing?”
Mr Chance’s snort rang with contempt. “It’s quite simple. We attack from the flank. We force them to reveal their secrets. We scare them until they make a mistake.”
He sounded so confident in his ability to get the job done it brought strength to her tired limbs. “You will need to school me in the art of warfare.”
He leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, “A husband may school his wife in many things. I suspect you’ll be a competent student, Miss Grant.”
Heat crept up her neck and warmed her cheeks. She suspected he would insist on tutoring her daily. “You might learn a thing or two from me, sir.”
“What could you possibly teach someone so seasoned?”
“The element of surprise.”
A smile tugged at his lips. He pinned her to the chair with his penetrating gaze. “Oh, you’re a master at catching a man unawares.”
The serving wench returned with their drinks.
Naomi reached for the small pewter mug and took a large sip to calm her nerves. Liquid fire scorched her throat. “Good Lord.” She coughed and hissed to cool the burn.
Mr Chance patted her gently on the back.
“Be careful, sir. Someone might mistake you for a gentleman.”
“Or a scoundrel out to get you drunk.”
Mr Sloane coughed, too, though it was merely to gain their attention. “Should you need assistance proving fraud, visit our Hart Street office.” He retrieved a black notebook and pencil from his coat pocket and flicked to the relevant page. “I’ve had no luck locating your sister. Lord Bedlow hasn’t seen her for a week. Not since they argued about Mr Chivers’ frequent visits to the theatre. Can you think of anyone with a gripe against her?”
Naomi scoured her mind. Everyone loved Lydia, or at least they professed to. “I heard her arguing with the theatre manager. It may have been about money. The manager threatened to throw her out.”
Mr Sloane scribbled in his notebook. “And she didn’t complain about unwanted attention? She didn’t tell you she feared for her life or that she’d made plans to leave London?”
“No. Do you have an older sibling, Mr Sloane?”
“I’m an only child, Miss Grant.”
