Page 6 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
“No stipulations on that score. But there are other rules.”
Oliver listened as the man detailed those, one of which was that they must marry in England and not engage in a “havey-cavey Gretna Green elopement.” Apparently she worried about such a marriage being disputed in court. Fortunately, none of what Bogg said would affect the plan forming in his mind.
After Bogg finished his duty and left them to their misery, Minerva appealed to Oliver. “You must convince Gran that this is insane. I don’t see why I should put up with a husband when I’m perfectly content with my life as it is.”
“I’m no more eager to marry than you are, Minerva,” Jarret growled. “Next thing you know, she’ll have me running the bloody brewery. And that is the last thing I wish to do.”
“I say we move in here and show her that we don’t need her money,” Celia exclaimed. “Do as she says, run the estate together—”
“Yes, because you know so much about running an estate,” Gabe shot back.
“Celia has a point, though,” Minerva put in. “If we show her we can manage perfectly well on our own, she might rethink her plans. Besides, if we’re going to end up here eventually anyway, we should start getting used to it.”
“God help us.” Jarret shot Oliver a hard look. “You don’t want us moving in here, do you?”
Oliver sighed. “I’d just as soon never see the place again. Unfortunately, Celia’s idea is sound. If we live here, we’ll call Gran’s bluff. We can invite her to visit, let her see what fruit her nonsense will bear if she goes through with it.”
He struggled to contain his revulsion at the thought of living at Halstead Hall again. But it would only last until he could bring his plan to fruition; then life could go back to normal.
“In the meantime, I have another trick up my sleeve,” he went on. “It’s risky, but it might force Gran’s hand. She hasn’t fully thought this through, and I mean to make her realize that. I still have money left from the sale of that last property, and here’s what I propose. . . .”
Chapter Two
“For heaven’s sake, Freddy, keep up,” Maria Butterfield muttered at her spindly cousin as she strode down the muddy street. The clerk ahead of them was setting a rather brisk pace. Bad enough that they were forced to endure this miserable English weather; if they lost their quarry, they’d have no way to find Nathan Hyatt. She wasn’t about to risk that after traveling all the way from Dartmouth, Massachusetts, to retrieve her fiancé.
“Are you sure that fellow’s satchel belongs to Nathan?” Freddy wheezed.
“It has lettering on both sides, just like the one I had specially made for him. And the man carrying it was in the same area as London Maritime, where Nathan was last seen three months ago. I need only get a closer look at it to be sure.”
“How’re you supposed to do that? And don’t think I’lldo it—I’m not tangling with some English devil just at your say-so.”
“I thought you were wearing that sword to protect me.”
Freddy had donned Father’s old sword and scabbard every day since they’d arrived in London. It drew attention wherever they went; no one carried a sword these days.
“It’s to protectme,” Freddy countered. “I hear tell that they duel for fun here. I didn’t come all this way just to see my favorite sword nicked in a fight.”
She snorted. “You came because your older brothers had families to look after, and Aunt Rose would have boxed your ears if you hadn’t.” When Freddy colored, she softened her tone. “Besides, there’s no need for any dueling. We’ll convince the fellow to let us look at the satchel peaceably—after we see where he’s going. I’m hoping he leads us to Nathan.”
“I’mhoping he leads us to a pie shop. It’s been nigh on three hours since we ate.” As if on cue, his stomach rumbled. “Didn’t know you meant to starve me.”
She sighed. Freddy lived in a perpetual state of starvation. Aunt Rose said that all young men of twenty-one ate like bulls, but right now, Maria would rather they ate like chickens and fought like bulls. Given how Freddy was eating up their funds, he was proving a rather costly protector.
How she wished Nathan had stayed in America, where he belonged. How she wished Papa hadn’t died . . .
Grief stabbed her as she stepped over an ice-laced puddle. She still couldn’t believe it. Papa hadn’t been hisusual robust self in some time, but she hadn’t expected him to die in his office of sudden heart failure at age sixty-five.
A disturbing thought occurred to her. If Nathan hadn’t received her most recent letters, then he didn’t even know Papa was dead. He didn’t know he was now sole owner of New Bedford Ships, assuming he married her as planned.
And what if hedidn’tmarry her? Was that why she hadn’t heard from him in months? Had he taken his chance to escape their betrothal?
Any man would have tired of Papa’s incessant demands that Nathan prove himself worthy of running the company before he married the woman who would inherit half of it. Those demands had sent Nathan to England to negotiate a lucrative sale of clipper ships to London Maritime. Maybe once he’d arrived here, he’d reconsidered their engagement.
Tears welled in her eyes. No, he wouldn’t do that. He was an honorable man. Their relationship might be less passionate than that of some betrothed couples, but surely he cared for her, as she did for him. Something dreadful must have happened—he would never shirk his responsibilities. She had to find him. She couldn’t lose both himandPapa.
Yet that satchel in another man’s hands didn’t bode well for Nathan’s being all right. Nathan would never have given it up. The man had to have stolen it.
Her heart pounded in time to her quickening steps.Nathan was probably lying dead in some field, done in by the treacherous English. And if he were . . .
