Page 25 of Scoundrel for Sale
Nigel looked exasperated. “Why not?”
“Because what’s right is what’s right,” Abbie said quietly. “If there is a possibility that those vineyards were stolen, then you should want to return them, even if doing so will decrease your family fortunes.” She frowned. “Honestly, I’m surprised George didn’t restore them to their rightful owners.” Her former husband might not have been very dashing. But he had been a good man, and Abbie had never known him to cheat or steal.
Nigel rolled his eyes. “As if grandfather told George about this. He was as witless as you are. He would’ve handed them straight back.”
It was a small comfort, to know that George hadn’t had a hand in this. “Then you admit that they rightfully should have been restored to Carlotta?”
“Carlotta.” Nigel’s voice dripped with scorn. “Who gives a damn about Carlotta?”
Abbie flinched, more at his sentiment than his profanity. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Those vineyards would’ve been wasted on Carlotta! Even ignoring her whorish behavior after the end of her marriage, she had one purpose: to give my great uncle an heir. And she failed. She was nothing but a burden. To suggest that such a worthless creature somehow deserves an asset as lucrative as those vineyards is absurd!”
Abbie felt her throat constrict. This remark hit closer to home than Nigel had probably intended because she could empathize all too well with Carlotta’s situation.
She, too, was a Dowager Lady Dulson.
One who had failed to produce an heir during her marriage.
One whom her family now saw as a burden.
But that didn’t mean Nigel had the right of it.
“Carlotta de Noronha was not worthless!” Abbie said, her voice trembling. “Even if she never bore a single child, she had a beautiful spirit. It leaps off the page when you read her diary. She brought joy to everyone lucky enough to be near her, and her family treasured her for it. I know they did!”
Nigel’s response was a roll of his eyes. “I’ve wasted enough of my time with this nonsense. You will give me that contract, or I will make you very sorry indeed.”
“Well, I won’t do it!”
He narrowed his eyes and stepped forward. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way. Do not mistake me, Abigail. I am not George. I will not hesitate to tear your home apart, to pull every book off the shelf, to rip open every cushion, to smash every bottle in your pantry, if that is what it takes to find that contract. I suggest you hand it over!”
Abbie closed her fist around the object she’d been hiding beneath her skirts—one of her brother’s pistols—then drew it from the holster and out of her pocket slit in one smooth motion. She pointed the gun at Nigel. “And I suggest you get off my property!”
He responded with a snort. “You probably don’t even know how to use that thing.”
“My brother was in the army. Do you really think he didn’t teach me how to shoot? We used to practice every day when he was home from school.” She cocked back the hammer, her motion smooth and easy. “I have my own little Queen Anne pistol, but I’ve always preferred these Wogdon and Barton dueling pistols. So much more accurate.” She gave a dark laugh. “Truth be told, I prefer Hart’s fowling piece. It was made by Joseph Manton himself. But I couldn’t fit that beneath my dress.”
Seeing that she knew what she was about, Nigel retreated to the place where he’d tethered his horse. “This isn’t over!” he snapped, yanking at the reins.
“Oh, but it is. This is my house. George left it to me. You have absolutely no right to come here without my permission. And you may consider my permission revoked!”
Nigel swung up onto his horse and gave an evil smile. “We’ll see about that.”
Abbie glowered after him as he galloped away. He might be the local lord.
But she had one last trump card in her hand, and by God, she was going to play it.
After instructing Brett and Mrs. Brownlee to bar Nigel from the house at all costs, she had her mare saddled and rode into Lymington. There was a militia stationed in town for the purpose of defending the coastline. She was the sister of a soldier who had given his life for king and country. That had to count for something.
The militia’s commanding officer received her immediately. Major Oakley was more than sympathetic. It turned out he had been at school with Hart. It didn’t matter a whit that Nigel was the local baron; Major Oakley would not countenance anyone harassing Captain Lord Hartlebury’s little sister.
By dinnertime, two dozen soldiers were pitching tents in the meadow outside of Abbie’s house, with the express instructions that it was to be guarded around the clock.
Although Abbie did not rest easy that first night, she did manage a few hours of sleep. And with each succeeding day in which Nigel did not come and try to ransack her house, the knot in the center of her chest slowly eased, until there were moments when she began to hope that Nigel had given up.
He hadn’t.
He had something entirely different in mind.
