“Thank you. We shall be leaving tomorrow
morning,” Millicent replied.
“Rest assured, m’lady, everything shall be
handled with the utmost discretion.”
“I know it will,” she said quietly, looking
out the small window of the carriage at the door of the shed where
the old woman had been taken. Millicent couldn’t help but worry
about how much more pain these horrible people would inflict on her
before she was delivered to the lawyer’s office that afternoon.
As they rode along in silence through the
city, she thought of the money she’d just spent. A hundred ten
pounds was equivalent to seven months worth of salaries of all
twenty servants she employed at Melbury Hall, not counting the
field hands. It was true that the purchase of the black woman would
cut deeply into her rapidly diminishing funds. And she wasn’t even
considering the money that she needed to pay Jasper Hyde next
month. Millicent rubbed her fingers over a dull ache in her temple
and tried to think only of how much good it would do, bringing this
woman back to Hertfordshire.
“Lady Wentworth,” the lawyer said finally,
breaking the silence as they drew near their destination, “we
cannot put off discussing your appointment with the Dowager
Countess Aytoun any longer. I am still completely in the dark
concerning why we are going there.”
“That makes two of us, Sir Oliver,” she
replied tiredly. “Her note summoning—or rather, inviting me—to meet
with her arrived three days ago at Melbury Hall, and her groom
stayed until I sent her an answer. I was to arrive at the Earl of
Aytoun’s town house in Hanover Square today at eleven this morning
with my attorney. Nothing more was said.”
“This sounds very abrupt. Do you know the
countess?”
Millicent shook her head. “I do not. But
then again, a year ago I didn’t know Mr. Jasper Hyde, either. Nor
the other half-dozen creditors who have endeavored to come after me
from every quarter since Wentworth’s death.” She pulled the cloak
tighter around herself. “One thing I’ve learned this past year and
a half is that there is no hiding from those to whom my husband
owed money. I have to face them—one by one—and try to make some
reasonable arrangement to pay them back.”
“You know that I admire you greatly in your
efforts, but we both know you are encumbered almost beyond the
point of recovery already.” He paused. “You have some very generous
friends, Lady Wentworth. If you would allow me to reveal to them
just a hint of your hardship—”
“No, sir,” she said sharply. “I find no
shame in being poor. But I find great dishonor in begging. Please,
I do not care to hear any more.”
“As you wish, m’lady.”
Millicent nodded gratefully at her lawyer.
Sir Oliver had already served her well, and she trusted that he
would honor her request.
“To set your mind a little at ease, though,”
he continued, “you should know that the Dowager Countess Aytoun is
socially situated far differently than Mr. Hyde, or your late
husband. She is a woman of great wealth, but she is rumored to be
exceedingly…well, careful with her money. Some say she is so
tightfisted that her own servants must struggle to receive their
wages. In short, I cannot see her lending any money to Squire
Wentworth.”
“I am relieved to hear that. I should have
known that with your attention to detail we would not be walking
into this meeting totally unprepared. What else have you learned
about her, Sir Oliver?”
“She is Lady Archibald Pennington, Countess
of Aytoun. Her given name is Beatrice. She’s been a widow for over
five years. She is Scottish by birth, with the blood of Highlanders
in her veins. She comes from an ancient family, and she married
well besides.”
“She has children?”
“Three sons. All men now. Lyon Pennington is
the fourth Earl of Aytoun. The second son, Pierce Pennington, has
apparently been making a fortune in the American colonies despite
the embargo. And David Pennington, the youngest, is an officer in
His Majesty’s army. The countess herself led a very quiet life
until the scandal that tore her family apart occurred this past
summer.”
“Scandal?”
Sir Oliver nodded. “Indeed, m’lady. It
involved a young lady named Emma Douglas. I understand all three
brothers were fond of her. She ended up marrying the oldest brother
and became the countess of Aytoun two years ago.”
That hardly sounded scandalous, but
Millicent had no chance to ask any more questions as their carriage
rolled to a stop in front of an elegant mansion facing Hanover
Square. A footman in gold-trimmed livery greeted them as he opened
the door of the carriage. Another servant escorted them up the wide
marble steps to the front door.
Inside the mansion’s entrance hall, yet
another servant greeted them. As Millicent shed her cloak, her gaze
took in the semicircular alcove at the far end of the hall and the
ornate gilded scrolls and rosettes that decorated the high
patterned ceiling. In a receiving area beyond an open set of doors,
she could see upholstered furniture of deep walnut by Sheraton and
Chippendale tastefully arranged about the room, while handsome
carpets covered the brightly polished floors.
A tall, elderly steward approached and
informed them that the dowager was waiting.
“What was the nature of the scandal?” she
managed to whisper as they followed the steward and another servant
up the sweeping circular stairs to a drawing room.
“Just rumors, m’lady,” Birch whispered, “to
the effect that the earl murdered his wife.”
“But that is—”
She stopped as the door to the drawing room
was opened. Trying to contain her shock and curiosity, Millicent
entered as they were announced.
There were four people in the cozy,
well-appointed room: the dowager countess, a pale gentleman
standing by a desk that had a ledger book open on it, and two
lady’s maids.
Lady Aytoun was an older woman, obviously in
ill health. She was sitting on a sofa with pillows propped behind
her and a blanket on her lap. Blue eyes studied the visitors from
behind a pair of spectacles.
Millicent gave a small curtsy. “Our
apologies, my lady, for being delayed.”
“Did you win the auction?” The dowager’s
abruptness caused Millicent to look over in surprise at Sir Oliver.
He appeared as baffled as she was. “The African woman. Did you win
the auction?”
“I…I did,” she managed to get out. “But how
did you know about it?”
“How much?”
Millicent bristled at the inquiry, but at
the same time she felt no shame for what she’d done. “One hundred
ten pounds. Though I must tell you I don’t know what business it is
of—”
“Add it to the tally, Sir Richard.” The
dowager waved a hand at the gentleman still standing by the desk.
“A worthy cause.”
Sir Oliver stepped forward. “May I say,
m’lady—"
“Pray, save the idle prattle, young man.
Come and sit. Both of you.”
Millicent’s lawyer, who probably hadn’t been
addressed as “young man” in decades, stared openmouthed for a
moment. Then, as he and Millicent did as they were instructed, the
countess dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand.
“Very well. I know both of you, and you know
me. That pasty-faced bag of bones over there is my lawyer, Sir
Richard Maitland.” The old woman arched an eyebrow in the direction
of her attorney, who bowed stiffly and sat. “And now, the reason
why I invited you here.”
Millicent could not even hazard a guess as
to what was coming next.
“People acting on my behalf have been
reporting to me about you for some time now, Lady Wentworth. You
have surpassed my expectations.” Lady Aytoun removed her
spectacles. “No reason for dallying. You are here because I have a
business proposition.”
“A business proposition?” Millicent
murmured.
“Indeed. I want you to marry my son, the
Earl of Aytoun. By a special license. Today.”