Ria carefully put the pen down as she considered his words. She was almost convinced until she noticed a small flicker in his eyes and detected a slight blanching of his complexion. “Because they are points Mr. Danielson also raised, and I find it surprising you should mention them using identical words.” Continuing to watch his eyes, she challenged him, “I believe you have discussed this with him.”
Blackwell averted his gaze from hers. Staring at the bookcase behind her desk, he stammered, “Well… I might have on occasion in the past, when he was heir. Not recently, of course.” Presumably trying to explain away his earlier denial, he added in a rush, “Which is why I said I hadn’t talked to him.”
He sounded plausible, but as she looked at him he shifted in his chair, still refusing to meet her gaze. Suspicion began to grow.
Apparently concerned with her silence, he filled the void by adding, “This is nothing I have not said before. You are too lenient with the tenants. The Fords, for example, are behind in their rent, but do you evict them?” he asked, his voice growing louder and more forceful. “No, you fix their roof!”
“Would you have them cast out?” she asked softly.
“Yes, as an example to others.” It seemed as though her questions had unleashed a torrent of disdain Blackwell could no longer contain. He continued, seemingly unable to stop, with a long litany of all the errors of judgment she, and earlier Mr. St. James, had made in the management of the estate. The essence of which was that they should be harder on the tenants.
Her suspicion bore fruit, and Ria gave voice to it, interrupting the estate agent’s flow. “You told Mr. Danielson this. You also plotted with him to contest the will.”
The estate agent gaped at her, momentarily at a loss. His silence and pallor answered her question. Unfortunately, his speechlessness did not last long. Obviously deciding further denials were pointless, he confirmed her suspicions.
“Yes. I did.” Straightening his shoulders, he finally looked directly at her, proud and defiant. “It would be the best thing for the estate. You are not capable of running it.”
She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. In response to her shocked look, Blackwell added in a reasonable tone, “Please don’t take it personally, madam. I don’t believe any woman should have anything to do with estate business. You aren’t capable of it. Your minds do not have the necessary intellectual rigor.”
Shocked, she stared at him as he continued more strongly, “And I have been proved right. Some of your ideas—letting them get behind in their rent! Then there is your latest idea, putting the estate in trust for indigent ladies. Whatever were you thinking, madam?”
Ria abruptly stood and rang the bell to summon Flowerday. “I was thinking, Mr. Blackwell, that it was the right thing to do. I was thinking my husband would have approved. I am also thinking you have exactly one hour to remove your person from this estate.”
Her words and the sound of the bell, like a death knell, seemed to bring him to his senses and make him realize the enormity of what he had confessed. In the brief moment of time before Flowerday arrived, John Blackwell stood, mouth open, gaping at her like a fish.
When her butler entered the office, she gave him crisp instructions. “Flowerday, please help Mr. Blackwell pack, pay him his wages for the past quarter, and then escort him from the premises.”
She glanced at Blackwell, “You will understand why I won’t be furnishing you with a reference.”
Before her erstwhile estate agent could find his voice, Ria swept from the room and made her way to the thankfully empty morning room. Feeling suddenly very hot, she stumbled over to a window. Opening it, she took a deep breath of the frosty winter air.
She couldn’t believe what just happened. What she had said and what she’d done. Taking another deep breath, Ria straightened her spine. She was proud of what she had done, proud she had stood up for herself.
And at least two mysteries were solved. Geoffrey had told the truth—the list of so-called improvements were not his but Blackwell’s. Still, she was certain Geoffrey would have acted on the list.
She also now knew where Geoffrey got his information about her marriage.
Less than two hours after John Blackwell left, she was unsurprised to be told by Flowerday that Mr. Danielson was enquiring if she was at home to visitors.
Ria was tempted to say she wasn’t, but she wanted to find out what Geoffrey knew and judge his reactions. That meant she had to see him. The chances were it would be safe; Geoffrey surely wouldn’t attempt anything here at the manor. Though to be certain, she asked Flowerday to station footmen outside the drawing room door.
After a moment’s hesitation, she went and retrieved the case holding her pocket pistol.
Swallowing hard, she reached for the ramrod, powder, and lead balls and proceeded to cautiously load the gun. Then, after making absolutely sure she had slid the safety catch in place, she carefully placed it in her pocket.
Next she hunted for Monty. He wasn’t in the library or morning room, so she went upstairs to the portrait gallery. The long, picture-lined room was quiet. Ria surveyed the line of St. James ancestors, wondering if any others haunted the manor. Just because she hadn’t seen them, it didn’t mean they weren’t there. Did they know of recent events, and if so, what must they think?
Standing in front of Monty’s portrait, she looked up at her husband. Her eyes began to burn and misted slightly. Having his spirit close by was a relief, but… how she wished he were here in the flesh. She sighed heavily. It was all just so very hard.
As she continued to look at him, his face wavered before her eyes, and he stepped from the portrait. Monty’s kind gray eyes looked searchingly at her. “What is wrong, my dear?”
Briefly she told him about Blackwell and that Geoffrey had arrived to see her.
Monty shook his head. “I am so sorry, Ria. So very sorry.”
She frowned, unsure why Monty was apologizing. “It isn’t your fault.”
“That is kind of you, but I must take a share of the blame for all that has occurred. I had the will written, I have some responsibility for Geoffrey’s expectations, I hired John Blackwell, and I haven’t helped you with estate matters.”
Monty raised his hand when Ria began to protest. “I thought it best that you work with Blackwell, take his advice, learn from him. I don’t know how long I will be here and didn’t want you to come to rely on me. And now this…” Monty shook his head. “It is most disheartening to discover when dead that you were nowhere near as clever as you thought when alive. Most disheartening indeed.”
Monty shook his head again, then looked at her and said in a heartier tone, “Well, there is nothing to be done about that. I shall just have to be smarter now to make up for it. Let’s go and see that bacon-brained coxcomb of a nephew of mine, shall we?”
Ria entered the drawing room, Monty close behind her, to see Geoffrey Danielson closely examining the maker’s mark on the back of a Wedgwood platter. He looked up as she entered, smiled, and placed it back on the honey-hued marble mantelpiece. Gesturing to the plate, he told her, “I have always admired this piece. It is a particularly fine scene of classical ruins.”
She arched an eyebrow but ignored his comment, tempted though she was to say she had purchased it just that week. “Good afternoon, Mr. Danielson. How lovely to see you.”
She must have done a good job of hiding her irony because he approached her with a smile, hands outstretched. “Mrs. St. James”—taking her hands in his, he squeezed them—“I have heard a rumor that I can scarcely credit to be true.”
Slipping her hands from his and taking a step back, she looked at him quizzically. “What rumor?”
“You are putting the estate into a trust. Giving up ownership, in effect. Surely this cannot be true?”
Through her skirts, Ria felt the reassuring weight of her pistol. Taking a further step back, she nodded and confirmed his statement. “It is.”
There was a mom
ent of stunned silence, and then he asked, “But why?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued in a cajoling tone, “Do you think it wise? You are young and will surely marry again. The estate will be your dowry. You cannot hope to marry if you are impecunious.”
“But I’m not penniless. I have my own property, recently left to me by a relative.”
He waved his hand, the gesture dismissive. “A small farm in the north cannot compare to St. James Manor, the estate and the London town house.”
How, Ria wondered, did he know where the farm was? Then she answered her own question. Blackwell had been even more forthcoming than she’d suspected. “Perhaps, but it is sufficient for my needs.”
“What if you marry and have children? What about them and their inheritance?”
“My husband will provide for them, and the trust is set up so they will always have a home at St. James Manor if need be.”
“That’s not good enough.” Geoffrey’s face was turning red. “You must stop this madness immediately.”
She looked at Monty for reassurance, then said, “Mr. Danielson, forgive me, but I do not know what business it is of yours.”
He stared at her and then looked sheepish. “I was not going to say anything at present, but you have rather forced my hand. I was hoping over time you would cease to see me as your late husband’s nephew and come to hold me in some affection.”
Ria blinked. Surely he did not mean… she glanced at Monty, who shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. He also appeared bemused by Geoffrey’s words.
Not wanting to address his comment directly in case she had misunderstood his meaning, she repeated her assertion. “I am sorry, but I still do not understand what business it is of yours.”
“Mrs. St. James—Honoria—you must know I care for you, and I am sure you feel the same way.”
She was very tempted to say she did not care for him and until this moment hadn’t known he cared for her—his actions certainly gave lie to that assertion—but was loath to provoke him. However, irritated by Geoffrey’s evasion and refusal to explain, she decided to give voice to her supposition. “When you say care for me, you don’t mean love?”
Geoffrey blinked at her forthrightness, then slowly said, “Why, yes. Of course.”
“And when you spoke of how the trust would affect my future husband, you were referring to yourself?”
Giving a tentative laugh, he nodded. Then, apparently oblivious to the fact she was staring at him as though he had two heads, Geoffrey said, “It makes perfect sense. You own the St. James estate but are not a St. James by blood, whereas I am, thus the estate would return into the ownership of the rightful heir. You are a woman alone and need a husband. A woman could never manage a property this size on her own. Particularly you—your decisions about the trust prove that.”
His words were an uncanny echo of John Blackwell’s. She wasn’t sure what to take most offense at. After all, she had much to choose from.
There was his continued assertion a St. James should own the estate, his belief a woman could not manage the property, the implication she was particularly incompetent, and his audacity in thinking she would ever consider him for a husband after what he had done. Not to mention what he had just said.
She bit her lip to stop herself from giving in to the temptation to ask him if he’d recently had brain fever. Instead she contented herself with saying, “You are Monty’s nephew, and as such I believe any other relationship between us would be inappropriate.”
Geoffrey waved his hand in the air, dismissing her comment as insignificant. “No, no. A word to the bishop, and I am sure there would be no problem.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Danielson, but it would not feel right to me.”
Geoffrey eyed her carefully. Something he saw in her face must have convinced him to say no more, or perhaps it was the firmness of her tone.
Ria was sure this desire to marry did stem from love—but for wealth, not her. Was he merely greedy or in dun territory? Hoping to reassure him if it was the latter, she decided now was the time to broach a rather delicate matter she had wanted to discuss with him. “Did the rumor also mention I am having a trust fund set up for you?”
“Yes, it did.” Petulantly he added, “It’s a paltry amount.”
Looking at him, and in particular at his lower lip that protruded in a sulky pout, she pitied any woman who became his wife. “The rumor mentioned the amount?”
Finally dropping his act, Geoffrey waspishly said, “I am not interested in your charity. No matter what the amount, it can’t compare to the St. James estate.”
“But the estate is not yours.”
Reverting to sulkiness, Geoffrey mumbled, “It should have been.”
Patiently she told him, “The estate was Monty’s, and he bequeathed it to me.”
“It was to be mine. It’s all your fault. If you hadn’t been orphaned. If he hadn’t married you…”
Geoffrey’s words and the expression in his eyes made Ria slip her hand into her pocket. The smooth wooden pistol handle provided a measure of comfort. As was Monty’s presence standing beside Geoffrey—next to a large vase.
Geoffrey continued, his voice becoming louder and sharper with each word. “The estate is mine. It was always going to be mine. It is mine. Always will be mine. It is mine!”
At that moment there was a knock, and the door opened. Flowerday stood, solid and reassuring, in the doorway.
Ria firmly though gently said. “No, Geoffrey. The estate will never be yours.” Her suspicions made her add, “Even if I were to die, you would not inherit. The trust I have set up will continue.”
“Trusts can be broken. I’ll be damned before I let you ruin the estate with your daft ideas.” And he stormed out the door, shoving Flowerday as he went.
Flowerday, thrown off balance, grasped the doorframe. Pulling himself erect, he turned and followed Geoffrey, who could still be heard. “I’ll be damned…”
Ria sat heavily on a delicate Sheraton chair, the pistol knocking her leg as she did so.
Once again Geoffrey had shown his true colors. If she had been unsure about the worth of her shooting lessons, she wasn’t any longer. There might well come a time when she would have to use her pistol.
As for the other matter, well, talk about her death made her determined to live—in every sense of the word.
For her next shooting lesson, she would not wear a corset.
13
As Geoffrey rode back to Old Farm, he went over what had just happened. He couldn’t believe it. The little bitch wouldn’t even discuss marriage with him. Acting so high and mighty. Like she was above him. How dare she! She’d stolen his estate from him.
He swallowed, trying to stop the flow of bile that was beginning to fill his mouth. There he was, doing the honorable thing, offering to help her run the estate, offering to marry her, and she threw it back in his face.
He coughed, almost choking on the bitter acid burning his throat. He’d been right before. He shouldn’t have wasted his time.
Death was too good for the jade.
As he stalked into the estate office, John Blackwell turned from the window, “What did she say? Will she give me my position back?”
Geoffrey sneered at him. “Do you really think I was going to ask her to keep you on? After all you’ve done? You botched everything.”
Blackwell shook his head vigorously. “It wasn’t my fault. I was giving her some advice, and she said you’d told her the same thing. Using the same words. If anyone’s to blame, it’s you.”
Unable to believe what he had just heard, Geoffrey stared until he recovered enough to shout, “Get out!”
“If she won’t take me back, then you hire me. You said you would if I helped you.”
Breathing heavily, he fought for composure. “I lied. I’d never have you anywhere near my estate. You’ve got no loyalty. I could never trust you. Besides which, you’re a useless estate agent.”
The tra
itorous agent’s face turned gray. “But where shall I go? At least give me a reference. You owe me that.”
“I owe you nothing! Now get out before I have you thrown out.”
Blackwell stood there and stared at him. Geoffrey stared back until finally the man dropped his gaze and went to turn away.
Following a brief moment of triumph, Geoffrey had second thoughts. “Wait!”
Before he could say anything more, he heard a slight cough. His butler stood in the doorway. “What is it?”
“Sir John Somerville is here to see you, sir.”
Plague upon plague! Before he could indicate he was not at home, a red-faced man brushed past his butler.
Scowling, Geoffrey nodded in dismissal at his butler and told Blackwell, “We’ll talk later at the cottage.”
The agent nodded, then stomped from the room with one last fulminating glare.
Geoffrey then looked at his unwelcome visitor. “Somerville.”
“Danielson.”
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Somerville’s eyes narrowed. Clearly he’d picked up on the sarcasm dripping from every word. He wasn’t quite as obtuse as Geoffrey thought. “I’m here about the matter of your debt. When can I expect payment?”
Geoffrey choked back the reply he wanted to make. Giving the portly baronet a charming smile, he indicated his unwelcome guest take the seat opposite him. Geoffrey sat languidly in the other chair. Then, looking his most angelic, he proceeded to mollify his visitor with the aid of numerous glasses of very good wine.
Once his uninvited guest had left, Geoffrey took a key from his pocket and unlocked one of the desk drawers. He picked up the pile of papers inside and tossed them on the desk.
Bills. Lots of bills. Damn tradesmen. Though they weren’t the problem—he could put them off. But he couldn’t put off his peers, ones like Somerville. Not for much longer. They were starting to ask questions. He had to pay his gambling debts. What he needed was some luck.
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