A Bewitching Governess

by Patricia Rice

  Willingham had been a drunk and quite possibly hadn’t bothered filing anything—which might explain why the earl had the audacity to declare there were no marriage lines. The noble scoundrel had done his research before flinging Olivia out, damn him.

  The solicitor adjusted his spectacles. “There are two sons, different mothers?”

  “The older lad was born on the wrong side of the blanket, when the viscount was young. He took care of the boy while he was alive,” Simon explained, tapping his foot nervously. “His legitimate son died a year ago.”

  “Ah, I see.” Rothberg returned to reading the oldest document. Holding his finger to a point on the yellowing page, he flipped through the newer version. “Yes, yes, the late viscount was well advised under the law that existed at the time. You do understand that until two years ago, all land belonged to the Crown? It could not be willed but must follow the deed of trust?”

  “Yes, so the late viscount did all he could within the boundaries of that deed. I understand. That’s why the earl brought the sheriff and threatened the lady with a Chancery hearing.” Simon had a bad feeling about that. The old laws didn’t allow a lot of leeway for women.

  If he clutched the chair any tighter, he’d snap off the arm. Not wanting to resort to his flask, he gritted his molars and released some of his energy that way.

  “The deeds are all in good order. I’m sure we’ll find them in the records now that I have the land details. The original deed of trust gives wives a life estate in the Hall, so the current viscountess is quite right. She has the use of the property for life.”

  Simon knew what a life estate was. It wasn’t enough, but maybe Olivia would be content to have the house back. “And the land and the tenants?”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose.” The lawyer adjusted his glasses and read more. “Most women prefer to leave the business to the heir, of course. He’s the one who actually owns the property, outside the Crown. He’ll need to have a new will written. He could conceivably leave the estate to the current viscountess now that inheritable property can be distributed according to the owner’s wishes. If the lady’s son had lived, she’d have had every right to run the property until he reached his majority. Now, it’s up to the new heir.”

  Shit, shit, shit. Simon tamped down his temper. “The ownership only goes to a male heir?”

  “Yes, just so, medieval primogeniture was how all these old deeds were written. Since the viscount’s grandfather did not have a son, the trust descended first through his eldest daughter, then through her to his grandsons. Had Owen’s son lived, it would have descended to him, the way his trust was written—to male issue.”

  “What happens if Hargreaves chooses to sell the land?” Or gamble it away—Simon didn’t think Rothberg needed to hear that.

  The older man smoothed his thinning gray hair. “Well, it’s not entailed, so there’s no reason he can’t. It would be awkward, of course. The viscountess is legally entitled to live in the house for life. She can argue that gives her the right to direct how the estate is run for her lifetime since that duty is not specified in the trust. Most people wouldn’t wish to buy an estate so encumbered, especially if the lady showed signs of wishing to control the land.”

  Simon did a hasty calculation—if he mortgaged his mines and his home—could he pay off Hargreaves’s gambling debt? Gambling was a soulless evil and paying such debts went solidly against the grain, even for Olivia’s sake. But he should inquire into the amount at least.

  “Male issue.” He returned to an earlier thought. “That could be young Aloysius?”

  “The bastard?” Rothberg’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Hmm, most unusual. The original deed mentions legitimate male issue, but interestingly, the late viscount’s trust does not. Since there is a legitimate male descendant, it might be difficult to override the old deed in favor of the new.”

  Simon’s hopes sank. Olivia did not have the legal right to sell him the strip of land he needed. He might persuade Hargreaves to sell it before he exchanged the estate for debts. But Olivia would spend the rest of her life battling scoundrels unless Simon found the funds to buy out the young viscount.

  “Is there any way the trust can be changed if we take it to court?” Simon asked, grasping at straws.

  Rothberg studied him over his spectacles. “Land disputes are argued in Chancery all the time. I’d be happy to take on any legitimate case if you have one.”

  Simon shoved himself from the chair, wincing as he heard it crack. “I’ll have to consult the viscountess. You’ll take care of verifying all that’s properly filed and keep them safe for her?”

  “Yes, naturally. I’ll have my clerks make clear copies the lady may keep on hand, witnessed by me and my staff as to their authenticity. They’re perfectly safe here. We even have a steel vault with a Chubbs lock,” the lawyer added proudly.

  “Excellent. Men have tried to deprive the lady of her rights once. I would not wish it to happen again.” Simon popped his hat on his head and pretended to be a gentleman, while he seethed with anger and fretted with worry.

  He wanted Olivia to have her home. He wanted the scoundrels arrested—although he had no idea on what charges. He wasn’t seeing a lot of legal leeway to do anything.

  Rothberg finally had the sense to look worried. “If the heir is attempting to sell the estate, and the lady is all that’s in his way—”

  “Precisely.” Simon strode out, eager to catch the next train back to Olivia.

  How would he persuade her to believe someone might want to kill her now that the documents were out in the open?

  Twenty-six

  “We’ve sent for the sheriff,” Drew explained, pacing the parlor and doing a poor job of hiding his concern. “Ramsay and Glengarry refuse to leave the property. Jameson had keys, so we retrieved Hargreaves’ trunks. Phoebe left the rats alone.”

  Olivia managed a small smile imagining Phoebe’s creatures running rampant over the human rats, but she twisted her handkerchief anxiously. She was still furious with Simon for leaving without her, but after last night’s argument, she could see she’d overstayed her welcome. This was his way of getting rid of her.

  Still, she couldn’t abandon her former home. She simply couldn’t. “They won’t leave, even though they must know I have the documents proving I’m owner?”

  “You’re not, y’know,” Hargreaves said from his seat beside the fire. He huddled under a blanket like an old man. “M’father would have seen to that. Life estate is most you have.”

  “And if I drown you?” Olivia asked acidly. She’d lost all patience with the man-boy.

  “Then it goes back to the Crown,” he said with a shrug. “The bastards will still present my vouchers and claim it. They’ll make life miserable if you try to live there.”

  Drew looked apologetic. “Simon and I are wealthy on paper, but to come up with that much cash, we’d have to sell most everything we own. It’s not a wise investment. We own income-producing property. The Hall isn’t.”

  She nodded. “I’d never ask that.” But the mention of the viscount’s gambling vouchers started a new train of thought. “Hargreaves, do you own anything at all that you could use as a stake?”

  “In a card game?” he asked, so incredulous that he forgot to whine. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because that is how gentlemen win back vouchers,” she said impatiently. “You wager your stake against the vouchers they hold.”

  “I’m not drunk enough to do that,” he said with scorn.

  A kitten leaped on his lap and licked his pale jaw. Phoebe rose from her silent trance to smile magnanimously. “You’ve not seen Olivia play cards, have you? Would you come with me, Olivia? I’d like a word with you, if I may.”

  “You don’t want to say those things in front of Drew,” Phoebe whispered as Olivia followed her out. “He and Simon will never allow you to hold another card party ever again.”

  “I thought the last one went quite well. I can’t help it i
f Hargreaves chose to make a scene,” she said indignantly. “Besides, I would never invite scoundrels into a proper parlor.”

  “Worse yet,” Phoebe said with despair. “Playing cards in an improper parlor! What are you thinking?”

  “That I’ll not let those foul varlets have Owen’s home,” she said, angry enough to hiss like a steam kettle. “I’ll hope Hargreaves is wrong, but I won’t count on it.”

  Olivia hurried up the stairs to the nursery. She liked children. She liked teaching them. She didn’t want to offend or upset anyone.

  But if Simon thought she was teaching his children to be abnormal. . .

  She needed the Hall back so she had a home of her own.

  Evie wobbled over on her bowed legs to greet them as they entered the nursery. “Baby!” she cried.

  Olivia swept her up and hugged her. “Is there a baby here?”

  Evie’s head bobbed. “Baby.” She pointed at the cradle someone had brought in. The twins were dangling soft toys over the cradle for Lily’s son to bat with tiny hands.

  Olivia breathed a little easier. The men had rescued her former maid’s infant.

  Enoch and Aloysius must have just returned from school, bringing Joe with them. The boys pretended disinterest, but they were quick to rescue toys that fell and to stop kittens from climbing into the cradle.

  Olivia bounced Evie in her arms and thought sadly of the day she’d have to leave Simon’s children behind. She loved them as her own, but they needed a real mother. Simon would have to find a wife who suited his bigoted preferences—which wasn’t her.

  He’d most likely despise her, anyway, if she had to carry out her plan to rescue the Hall.

  Maybe she should simply return to Edinburgh—

  No, she couldn’t do that. She wasn’t running away like a scared rabbit this time.

  Simon arrived home later that afternoon to a collection of carriages and wagons in the stable yard. The funeral, of course! With the Hall reduced to soot and rats, the Willingham family needed a place to gather.

  He hadn’t formed any cohesive plan for telling Olivia the bad news, so he was almost grateful for the cushion of a house full of strangers.

  He took off his hat and coat and found Drew taking apart his chimney cleaning machine in the study. “Am I expected to pay my respects to Willingham’s family? Because I don’t have much respect for the man.”

  Drew shrugged and examined the brush he’d attached to the mechanical contraption. “Olivia ordered the viscount to pull himself together and make himself known. It’s not a large crowd, mostly former tenants and the like. If you’re looking for staff or tenants, by all means, go in and shake hands.”

  Simon poured a shot of whisky. “If they’re working for Hargreaves and his scoundrel friends at the Hall, they’ll need positions before long.”

  Drew grimaced and set aside his machine. “That bad, is it?”

  “How do I tell her that she can’t have her home back unless she wants to risk her life? I’ll ask Hargreaves how much he owes, but I can’t buy the damned place for what it’s worth.” Simon tossed back the drink. It didn’t warm his insides the way he needed it to.

  He hoped the liquor held his energies in check, because he was near close to boiling.

  “I’ve already talked to Hargreaves. He owes far more than the Hall is worth. Buying it back won’t happen. The physician was with him earlier, but he can’t prove poisoning. He does confirm the symptoms Phoebe mentioned, but they could point to any number of other ailments. He prescribed breathing exercises in the fresh air. Hargreaves sniveled,” Drew said in disgust.

  “We could still call the sheriff and have the scoundrels removed until such time as they file for collection of the debt,” Simon suggested. “Maybe the court won’t believe them.”

  “Glengarry was sent by the earl as a respected agent, with powerful friends in the Association. The earl approved Ramsay,” Drew reminded him. “And we sent for the sheriff. He’s dragging his feet. Glengarry has undoubtedly had his friends apply pressure.”

  “All right, then, I’ll just stuff the man up a chimney.” Frustrated, Simon stalked out.

  He didn’t particularly want to mingle with funeral guests, but he wanted to see Olivia. She might throw a bowl of fruit at his head, but he still needed to see her. It might take away some of his building fury.

  To his surprise, Aloysius was there, along with the new schoolteacher and his own steward, Jeremy Hill. Mr. Napier, the minister, had also joined the family and Willingham’s former congregation. Olivia discreetly moved along the outskirts of the milling guests, directing refills of drinks or stopping to talk to anyone standing alone. Had he any interest in entertaining, which he didn’t, she would be the ideal hostess. She belonged in Edinburgh, in the highest society, not in these rural environs.

  So, maybe he didn’t lie to himself any better than he could lie to others. These people respected her. Greybridge was where she belonged. He was the one who didn’t want her here, underfoot and tempting killers.

  Simon helped himself to a plate of oatcakes and headed for Jeremy Hill, by way of Aloysius. The boy was gnawing at his bottom lip and watching the guests through lowered lashes. Simon had been that age once. He knew troubled when he saw it.

  “Did you know the reverend well?” he asked, holding out his plate.

  Aloysius helped himself. “No. He didn’t much like me.”

  “You, in particular, or bastards in general?” Simon asked, not putting too fine a face on the problem.

  Aloysius threw him a vaguely startled look and puzzled it out. “Maybe in general?"

  Simon nodded. “That would be my guess. Old people were raised with different notions. These days, it’s what a man does that matters.”

  The boy scrunched up his nose. “There are a lot of old people here, and I’m not big enough to do anything except clean stalls.”

  Simon chuckled. “You’re practical. I like that. But I’m not old and Lady Hargreaves isn’t old, no matter what you might think of us. We like you. And the schoolteacher and the minister like you, don’t they?”

  “Except when I don’t study, I suppose.” The boy straightened his shoulders and looked Simon in the eye. “Lady Hargreaves wants the Hall back. I want to help her. That’s what my father would do, right?”

  “Ah, now I see. Yes, I’m sure the late Lord Hargreaves would have done whatever he could. And you helped a great deal last night. But you’re too young to hire lawyers or obtain loans, so now you’ll have to trust me and the other adults here to do what we can. It won’t be easy, though.” It didn’t even sound possible, but the lad was right. They had to do everything they could, if only for the sake of the village and the tenants who relied on the Hall.

  “Did Reverend Willingham lie to me?” Aloysius demanded.

  “I’m afraid so, lad. The documents the lady found last night prove your father left funds for your mother. My solicitor is looking into what happened to them. If we can prove those funds were stolen, then we might have a case of theft. Just don’t talk about it, please?”

  The boy frowned but nodded curtly. “I want to be a lawyer and make people do what’s right.”

  Simon sighed. “The law is a start, I suppose. But it’s not always enough. Sometimes, people have to stand up and be heard.”

  Simon continued on his way to his steward. Hill looked troubled as well. It was as if the stink of the rats in the Hall was spreading and affecting everyone.

  “Even killing Hargreaves won’t save the lady’s land,” Simon said jovially, trying to lighten the delivery of bad news.

  “Aye right,” Hill grumbled. “I’ve been wondering if you have an abandoned mine to drop a few bodies down.”

  “That’s one solution, I suppose, but I don’t recommend it. You heard what they plan to do with the Hall?” That was the only reason he could think that the steward would be feeling murderous.

  “A den of iniquity,” Hill spat out. “And the Association is supp
orting it. You won’t see Lord John or Sir Harvey helping the lady. They don’t want her back in the Hall.”

  Simon shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “That’s the way of it, is it? They’d rather have a gambling hell than a woman who stands up to them. Charming, two-faced bastards, but it’s to be expected. People smile and shake your hand when they want something, but only so long as you have the power to give it to them.”

  “Not all people,” Hill protested.

  “No, no, of course not. There are good people. But the tenants and villagers rely on Lord John and Sir Harvey and the Hall for their living. If you tell them to bite the hands that feed them—they’ll turn their backs on you. It’s the way of the world.” Simon gloomily surveyed the small crowd and wondered how many of them would back Olivia if she asked them to.

  Taking a deep breath, he eased his way toward the lady.

  “Yes, I’m well aware of the impropriety,” Olivia was telling the minister and the schoolteacher when Simon walked up. “I am simply looking for neutral ground. Let me know if you have any suggestions.”

  She was plotting. He had no right to question her. Hell, even when he’d been married, Letitia had plotted and refused to tell him everything. He didn’t have to like it.

  She glanced up at him warily. “If it had been good news, you’d have been shouting it to the world when you entered.”

  He did, however, have to tell her what he’d learned. And these two men he trusted might as well be the messengers to the rest of the village. “You have a legitimate claim to the Hall for your life.” There, he’d said it fair and simple.

  She closed her eyes briefly, as if in prayer—or to hold back tears. “Which is meaningless if criminals decide they want it.”

  The lady wasn’t stupid by any means. Simon let his silence agree for him.