Steeling himself, he went up. To reach the marquess’s room, he must walk past his own, Charles’s, and the room where three marchionesses, including his mother, had suffered at the hands of the marquess. Jaw clenched, William made the march. Unlike Cecilia’s home, where the walls were blessedly bare, here they were lined with ancestors. Grim eyes followed William down the hall.
The old man was indeed abed. He lay propped on pillows, shadowed in the vast canopied bed. The only light was his eyes, glinting evilly in the dark.
William strode across the room and yanked open the curtains to let in light. The window followed, for a fetid smell lurked in the perfume-soaked air.
“You heard I was dying and came to gloat.” The voice was wheezing, thin.
“I did not. I should rather never have laid eyes on you again.” Bracing himself, Willian went to the bedside.
The old man smiled, his skin stretched thin and translucent. “That’s my boy. I have made you over well. No sentiment to weaken you.”
“Not where you’re concerned, old man.”
“Not anywhere. Even gave up your mistress, when she made a fuss over you marrying. Good lad.”
William shook his head. Yes, that’s the conclusion the marquess would come to. He’d known as much when he wrote to Lethbridge about it.
A skeletal hand reached out, plucking at the bedcovers. “Can’t marry Solworth’s chit, though. I forbid it. They say you love her. Love is weakness, boy. When will you learn? You never learn.”
“I will marry whomever I please.”
“You won’t. I sent Lethbridge to get the will. I want your word you won’t marry the chit or I’ll sign it. No heir of mine is marrying for love.”
“That’s odd, because I am your heir and I shall.” He enjoyed the fury that sparked in the old man’s eyes. “Sign a new will if you like, if you’ve the strength left. It matters little to me.”
The marquess attempted a wheezing, unintelligible protest, which William didn’t bother to decipher. Lethbridge may very well have designs on Madelina, as Cecelia suspected, but Lethbridge was going to jail. William would find enough evidence against him. Madelina would become William’s ward, and he would protect her. Nor would his goal of bettering the poorest parts of London suffer. Lanora would have all the funds they required to aid the poor. It was clear to him now that she would be an ally in the task.
William stared with loathing at the form lying in the bed. There was only one thing he required from the marquess. Not his fortune. Not his approval. Only an answer. He pulled the letters from his coat.
“What is the meaning of this?”
The marquess coughed. Blood flecked his lips. “They’re letters, boy.”
“One of them is from Lord Solworth to his daughter, the other from Mr. Darington to me. Why are they in the same hand?”
The marquess’s cackling laugh ended in another fit of coughing. He fell back, eyes closed.
William watched him breathe, jaw clenched. He folded the letters and put them away. Reaching out, he shook the old man by his boney shoulders. “I asked you a question.”
Dark eyes flickered open. Old yellowed teeth, blood tinged, grinned at him. “Shaking a dying man? That’s my boy.”
William resisted the urge to shake him harder. He pulled his hands away and dusted them on his pants, as if he’d touched something foul. “Answer me.”
“They are the same. There is no Darington. Solworth invented him.”
William took a half step back, stunned. Darington had exploits. Adventures. He was reported about in the paper and co-wrote learned articles with Lord Solworth. William and Darington had corresponded since William was fourteen. “How? Why?”
“His wife died. He wished to escape. Love makes a man weak.”
That part of the story William knew. “What has that to do with you, or me?”
The marquess drew in several wheezing breaths. “Solworth had no money. His father wouldn’t fund Egypt. He’d only begot the girl, after all. I needed an excuse for your absence, your ill manners.”
William stared at the gasping form on the bed. “You funded Solworth, not Darington. You paid for his first expedition in exchange for him inventing an alibi for my years with Mother.”
The marquess cackled again, gleeful. “You look up to him, and it’s a lie. Twelve years of lies. I prayed I would live to see the look on your face when you found out.”
The old man’s laughter turned into another coughing fit. He gasped for air. Blood red spittle ran down his chin. His face began to turn purple. His eyes flew wide. William stayed where he was, making no effort to help, though he didn’t know how one would. The marquess stilled. Silence fell. The body on the bed moved no more, would never stir again.
William closed his eyes for a long moment, then drew in a slow breath and strode from the room. He didn’t bother to close the door. He went downstairs, out of that place, and into his carriage. His coachman came to the window.
“Where to, my lord?”
“Back to Solworth House. No need to hurry.”
His words sounded far away. He must have looked a sight, for his coachman eyed him a long moment before he nodded and disappeared. The carriage dipped, then started forward.
William took out the letters, dimly seen in the interior of the carriage. A lie. Twelve years of lies.
No. He shook his head. He couldn’t believe that. The name, yes. The existence of his confidant, yes. Lies. The words, never. William was not so poor a judge of other men as that. Darington’s…that was, Solworth’s words were real. One need simply change out the name and the remainder was real.
And Lady Lanora was Darington’s daughter. Lanora was the free, kind, caring creature he’d grown up reading about. That’s why the letters never named her, why all attempts at finding Mr. Darington’s daughter had failed. It was Lanora. It had always been her.
Lightness filled him. He wasn’t giving up the dream of Darington’s daughter by falling in love with Lanora. He was realizing it. Was it any wonder he was more drawn to her every day? He’d already loved her for years.
The carriage came to a stop. William stuffed the letters back in his coat. He jumped down from the carriage, forgetting his stitches in his joy to see Lanora, to tell her all.
Before he could take the steps, the door flew open. Grace ran out. He grabbed her by the shoulders as she all but fell down the steps, steadying her.
“My lord, thank Heaven you’ve come,” Grace cried. “She’s gone off to that evil attorney. She said she must know the truth. I couldn’t stop her.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lanora hurried up the steps to Lethbridge’s office. She believed William would return with answers. She truly did. She could not wait, though. She would not sit wringing her hands and fretting, waiting on another to do for her what she could do herself. The attorney would know what transpired, and she would get it from him, or his lockbox. Whichever proved easier.
The outer door stood open, but the one at the top of the steps was closed, locked. She pressed her lips together. She’d come prepared this time. She carried her lock picks and a pistol in her reticule.
Lanora looked down the steps. The open outer door suggested Lethbridge and his clerk weren’t done for the day. She had no way to know when they might return.
She set to work on the door. If the worst came to pass, she would simply hide, as she had before. At least this time she’d be able to escape if she got locked in.
It was a simple lock. She slipped inside and closed the door. With enough light, and knowing what she sought, it took only a moment to get down the strongbox. She set it on Lethbridge’s desk. Opening it was trickier, for the lock was better than the one on the door, but not insurmountable.
After long moments, tension coiling tight in her gut, the lock gave way with an audible click. Inside were two documents. Both appeared to be wills. Lanora set them side by side, reading. They belonged to the Marquess of Westlock, William’s father.
He’d been telling the truth.
Further examination showed the signed document left everything to William. Oddly, there was a section specifying that nothing of any sort was to be left to his stepmother, Lady Cecelia, the marquess’s third wife. Lanora frowned. If Lady Cecelia was of ill health and residing on the Mediterranean, why cut her from his will? The old marquess had also left only a small sum for his daughter, Lady Madelina.
Lanora picked up the other document. She could see it also went to lengths to make it clear that Lady Cecelia was to have nothing. Aside from that, the remainder was very different from the signed document. Everything that wasn’t entailed went to Lady Madelina, a girl of sixteen.
Lanora frowned. A girl of sixteen. She flipped to the last page. It specified that Lethbridge was to be the girl’s sole guardian and have complete control over her assets.
“It’s Lady Madelina he intends to marry,” she whispered.
“And marry the girl, I shall.”
Lanora spun.
A thin, balding man stood in the doorway, pistol pointed at her. “Lady Lanora. How good of you to call.”
“Mr. Lethbridge.” She clutched her reticule in one hand. Was there any means of freeing her pistol that wouldn’t rouse suspicion?
“This is very inconvenient of you. I was just on my way to have that signed, which will render you irrelevant.”
Lanora’s gaze went to the document in question, then back to the pistol. “Then I don’t matter now.”
“Ah, but you do. I heard what you said.” Lethbridge frowned. “Where you came by the notion I don’t know, but I can’t have you spreading that about.”
Could she distract him, perhaps engage him well enough he wouldn’t notice if she drew her pistol? She wouldn’t have believed he would shoot, but he had the weapon cocked and she’d heard his cold-blooded words the night she was locked in.
“What do you mean, you’re on your way to have the second will signed?”
He grinned, showing uneven teeth. “Not finding Lord William as attractive without his fortune? I can’t say I blame you. The man’s a wastrel.”
Anger shot through her. “I daresay he’s a better man than you, Mr. Lethbridge.”
“What’s this?” Lethbridge’s gaze narrowed. “Don’t tell me you actually care for Greydrake? A more useless bounder can hardly be found in the whole of England. I took you for more intelligent than that.”
“I will not stand here and be insulted,” Lanora said at her coldest. “I suggest you claim your document and leave, sir. I believe your master is in ill health. You wouldn’t wish him to expire while you’re away.”
He cringed. Lanora dared to hope her tone worked. Lethbridge would be accustomed to obeying officious lords and ladies. His gaze touched on the pistol he held. He smiled and stood straighter.
“Greydrake is so disreputable, in fact, the world might blame him if the woman he’s courting vanishes,” Lethbridge muttered. He shook his head and focused on her. “I’m not certain what to do with you, Lady Lanora. Until I decide, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in there.” He gestured toward the door of the small records room.
Lanora could free herself as soon as he left, but what about William’s inheritance, and his poor sister? She couldn’t let Lethbridge hold guardianship over an innocent young girl. It was unthinkable. She had to stop him from taking the will to the marquess. Unsigned, it was meaningless.
“Why has the marquess agreed to sign this?” She tapped the pages. With her other hand, she carefully worked at the closure on her reticule, but it was fastened tight. “Am I not a suitable bride?” She lifted her chin, as if insulted.
He looked her up and down, his gaze speculative. “I’m sure you’d be a wonderful bride. A bit headstrong, but that can be beaten out of you. Sole heir to a fortune, as well. Rest assured, it’s not your qualities.”
“Why then?” she pressed, actually curious now. She was on William’s list of choices, not that she’d admit knowledge of the page to Lethbridge. Had word already reached the marquess that William said he loved her, as she feared it would?
“As I said, nothing to do with you. I need Greydrake to fail. I was delighted when he settled on you. I knew he would. You’re the perfect choice to aggravate the marquess. I thought the task of winning you insurmountable, but somehow, he wormed his way into your good graces.” He grimaced. “I had to convince the marquess that Greydrake is in love with you. No small task, for his lordship doesn’t believe in the sentiment. If I’d any notion you would be so easily wooed, I wouldn’t have made you an option.”
“An option?” she asked, playing for time as she worked at the stubborn clasp. “What does that mean?”
He flicked a hand toward the record room, where she’d found the page. “I created a list of suitable options. Women the marquess would approve of, but who weren’t likely to accept Greydrake. Then, I thought you never would. He must have charms not obvious to a gentleman like myself.”
Lanora resisted the urge to say she saw no gentleman before her. “He chose me from a list?” She worked to dredge up the outrage she’d initially felt. If she could convince Lethbridge she didn’t care about William, would he let her go? She took in the way he kept looking her over, like a Christmas goose. Could she convince him she would marry him? If he would put down the pistol, she would have hers out.
“Didn’t mention that little bit, did he? I told you he’s a cad. If you didn’t suffer from a feeble female mind, you would have seen as much for yourself.”
Lanora pressed her lips together in an effort to contain her anger. He was pointing a pistol at her, after all. It was hardly the time to express her feelings on the idea that she, or any female, suffered in any way as a result of possessing a woman’s mind.
“Do you mean he used me?” she demanded, helping Lethbridge come to the point.
“Of course. As he uses all women.” He grinned. “He keeps a mistress, you know. Not just one. A series of them. One after the other, as he grows bored. Just turned one out the other day. Apparently, she kept him occupied for nearly two days, after learning he’s courting you. Likely, trying to secure his affections. All she did was bore him.” His smile turned malicious. “As you will, if you wed him. As you’re boring me now. Get in the record room.” He took a step forward, menacing.
“Wait. You must tell me something first,” she cried, desperate to stall for time, to find a way to retrieve her firearm and turn the table on the hideous man.
“You’re in no position to make demands of me, my lady.”
“It’s about Mr. Darington. You represent him, don’t you?”
He frowned. “What about Mr. Darington?”
Lanora opened her mouth, but no words came out. She didn’t wish to ask about the handwriting. She was loath to give this man any information he didn’t have.
“Well?” He punctuated the word with a wave of the pistol.
Nor should she bring up the money Lethbridge had stolen. Not while his aggravation increased. She must say something, though, and soon, if his look was any indication. “He’s Lord William’s mentor.”
“Perhaps.”
That was an odd reply. “He works with my father, in Egypt.”
“The world knows that.”
“I’ve never met him, and he raised Lord William.”
Lethbridge scowled.
She was losing his interest. “I want to know more about Mr. Darington, outside what’s in the papers. That’s why I came here, to ask about him.”
His gaze slid around the room, pausing on the opening above the mantel. The painting that should cover it leaned against the wall beside the fireplace. His roving gaze dropped to the open strongbox. “How did you get into that? How did you even enter this office? I sent my clerk home and locked the door.”
Now she wished she’d let him lock her away already. “The door was open. I came in and called out, but no one was here.”
His eyes narrowed, bright with suspicion. “And the
strongbox? How did you get the wills out, or know where to find them?” He moved a step nearer.
“I didn’t.” She tried to back away, but the desk halted her retreat. “How could I? I came in to look for you and found them.” She swallowed, not feigning nervousness. “I shouldn’t have read them, I know. I let my curiosity get the better of me.”
“And the girl? You said I plan to wed her. You knew.” Anger sparked in his eyes.
“No.” She shook her head. “I mean, I said it, I did, but I didn’t know before I read the will.”
He glanced at the document, as if it might reveal something. “It doesn’t say I’m to marry her.”
“It says you will be her guardian. I was guessing. It was only a supposition.”
He watched her for a long moment, pistol an arm’s length from her chest. At that range, there was no chance he would miss. Could she count on it jamming? Not something she wished to bet her life on.
He gestured with the pistol. “Get in the record room before I decide I must shoot you.”
“Yes, of course.” She clutched her arms close, trying to make clinging to her reticule look natural. She did her best to appear vanquished, cowed. She still meant to prevent him from getting the will signed. How, she didn’t know, but she would come up with a plan. One that didn’t involve being shot.
He took another step. She could smell his breath now, onion and mead. Lanora slid along the desk toward the doorway to the little room. She tried not to look at the will. There was nothing she could do. Once she was free of him, perhaps, but not now. She backed into the little room.
Lethbridge closed the door. The key turned in the lock. Lanora slumped against the cluttered shelves in relief, happy to have the stout wood between her and Lethbridge. She’d never had a pistol pointed at her before. It was an altogether unpleasant experience.
She went to the door and put her ear to it. She could hear him moving. From the sound of it, he was replacing the strongbox and painting. She should have thrown the second will on the fire. She wouldn’t have had time to stir the flames, but a slightly scorched, charcoal-covered document wouldn’t look respectable enough to convince anyone it was meant. She nearly cursed, angry she hadn’t thought of tossing the pages in the fireplace until she was locked away.
The Archaeologist's Daughter (Regency Rendezvous Book 3) Page 14
