The Spare (13 page)

The solicitor returned to his desk but remained on his feet with his fingertips resting on the desktop. "A most interesting case. Not my usual sort."

"I am happy to pay you a retainer for your services in the matter, if that will help you recall the details."

"I recall the details sufficiently well, my Lord. Though, perhaps a suitable retainer would not be out of order." He tapped a finger on his desk. "Say, a hundred pounds?"

Sebastian nodded and let the silence ripen.

"A widow's jointure of seven thousand pounds. As for the young lady, thirty thousand hers directly and twenty-five that would have been her brother's, all withdrawn from the funds within months of her father's death and invested in a series of ill-advised and miserably failed ventures, I am sorry to say. In addition, there's a small, unentailed estate on the border of Pennhyll left to her by her paternal grandmother. That estate I might mention, was mortgaged a month after Roger Willow's death for thirty thousand pounds sterling. About twice what it was worth, I'd say. And lost to the lender thereafter."

"Fifty-five thousand. A fortune."

"Yes."

"Yet, nothing came of all your work on her behalf."

"I do not make it a habit to work for free, my Lord, or upon a hopeless speculation. She has no money now, and any number of powerful interests against her." Melchior snorted. "She ought to have hired me thirteen years ago when she might have afforded the cost of a decent barrister. We could have done something then, though I suspect the outcome would not have been much different. Still, we might have gotten her something."

"The whole of her fortune is gone?"

Melchior looked down his nose. "Her guardian did nothing to protect her interests. Considering he allowed the mortgage at so inflated a price, one wonders if he did not have a hand in the robbery."

"Who is he?"

Melchior stared down his nose then glanced up. "You do not know?"

"No."

"None other than your father, my Lord. A relationship, of course, that terminated upon his death." Melchior's hawk nose twitched. "She has since been quite without the protection of the earls of Tiern-Cope."

Sebastian rose. "Have your clerk send me whatever papers are in your files, Mr. Melchior."

"My Lord."

"If she comes to you again, inform me immediately. A full accounting of any request she may make."

"Naturally," Melchior said.

"She, however, must be satisfied with some appropriate delay of the law."

"My Lord."

"Good day." On his way out, Sebastian paused to address the clerk. "By how much is Miss Willow's account outstanding?"

"Thirty-seven pounds, eleven shillings, eight pence."

"Be so good as to present the bill to me at Pennhyll Castle."

"My Lord."

During the return to Pennhyll, Sebastian let silence cover him, feeling all the while the weight of the beads in his pocket.

"What amuses you?" McNaught asked.

"Nothing."

"You laughed."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

He slipped his fingers into his pocket, touching the smooth surface of the coral. Once, these very beads had nestled against Miss Willow's skin, warm from the heat of her body. Was this how Andrew felt when he found out how she lived, and who was responsible for it? Had his benighted brother fallen in love with Miss Willow and against all his years of rakehell living, actually acted nobly? Buying up whatever she sold in order to keep a roof over her head and food on the table. And here he was, her beads in his pocket, and him paying off what must be to Miss Willow, a crushing debt to Melchior. Jesus.

Oh, he was in a fine fix. Like his brother with the rest of Miss Willow's possessions, he couldn't return the beads. Besides, the pawnbroker was right. She'd only sell them again as soon as she had some new expense to meet.

"Ah," said McNaught, delving into the basket again. "Here we are."

Sebastian eyed the potion his valet was mixing. The stench was worse than the last. "I don't want that. Besides, we have one last call to make."

McNaught handed him the glass. "To your health, my Lord."

"Splendid." He drank it down. "Just sodding splendid."

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A servant admitted Sebastian to a parlor that even in full dark possessed a stirring view of Pennhyll rising into the night sky. Dr. Richards had been his father's personal physician, and for Andrew as well, when he came to live at Pennhyll. Judging by the house, the occupation had served him well. Dr. Richards came in almost immediately. A man of some sixty years, he had white hair covering his head in a distinguished crown. Though his skin hung slack around his chin and eyes, he bore signs of having been handsome well into his late maturity.

"My Lord." He bowed. "My deepest sympathies for your loss."

"Thank you."

"Please sit." Richards gestured to a chair.

"I'll stand by the fire, doctor. You, of course, must sit if you wish."

"I've already dined, but I am happy to give you something. I had a most excellent pork loin tonight."

"Nothing, thank you."

"Something to drink? I had a fine Bordeaux with my dinner."

"Thank you."

Richards called for the wine. When it came, he poured two glasses and offered the first to Sebastian. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

"A matter of some sensitivity." Exhaustion seeped into his bones. He'd be glad to see the inside of his room.

"My Lord." Richards nodded. "I was in the service of your most illustrious family for over thirty years. Believe me, you may rely on my discretion even today. Whatever you say to me now stays between these walls."

"I have come about Miss Olivia Willow."

"Ah." He lowered himself onto a chair. Richards' massaged his misshapen knuckles. "Perhaps I might relieve your curiosity about a few matters."

"Such as?" He finished his wine and placed the glass on the mantel.

"More?"

He shook his head. Richards poured himself another glass. "Miss Willow is her mother's sole source of support, and I would hazard the guess that the cost of hiring a woman to look after her mother whilst she is at Pennhyll means she will go without necessities for some time to come."

"What of her mother?"

Richards's hand, resting by the bottle, curled into a fist. "Her brain is irredeemably compromised. The centers of speech and reason—damaged. She cannot walk and has difficulty moving her arms. She sits for short periods and can feed herself with assistance. In the last two years, she's become markedly worse, which brought Miss Willow home from Land's End. You were a boy when she was injured. Perhaps you don't know the full story." Sebastian tightened his hands behind his back. "You know your brother Andrew was married at Pennhyll."

"I was at the wedding." He kept his impatience at bay. Just.

"And your brother Crispin came to his untimely end two days later."

"An accident. He fell from his horse." Jesus, he was tired.

The doctor drank more wine. "I'd have done the same myself, I suppose, sending you back to school after the accident. Your father did the right thing."

"Explain."

Richards sighed and rubbed his hands. His dark eyes lifted to Sebastian. "My Lord, your brother Crispin died as a result of the same accident that crippled Miss Willow's mother and took the lives of her father and brother."

He could have sworn the air thickened, but Richards seemed unaffected. "And what of Miss Willow?"

"Essentially unscathed."

Sebastian drew a breath. "An accident nevertheless."

"In a manner of speaking."

"Either it was an accident or it was not."

"The Willows were on their way to church, Crispin on his way home. One family beginning its day, another man ending his evening. For good or ill, the road was deserted that morning. Your brother was elated, shall we say, and, no doubt, driving too fast for the conditions. Your father was a proud man, my Lord. Rightly so. He would not have a word breathed against his heir, and he had the money and influence to see that any who knew kept their knowledge to themselves."

"Well done."

Richards shook a finger at him. "The morale, young man, the very fiber of our nation depends upon the infallibility of those who rule. You've been in command. Once your authority comes into question, there's no hope of men following you and that way lies peril. Your father understood that."

"Did Andrew know?"

"That, I cannot say. I never told him about Crispin, if that's what you're asking. Perhaps I ought to have." He crossed one thin leg over the other. "Your father did what was required of him, never doubt that, my Lord."

"Does Miss Willow know?"

He pulled his chin closer to his neck, shaking his head. "I hardly think so. She was a child at the time. Nine or ten years old. And your brother, though injured, did not linger at the scene. He might have survived his injuries if not for infection."

"You're certain?"

"Quite. I attended his last hours."

"Certain the road was deserted."

"Of all but the Willows and your brother."

Sebastian stared at the tops of his boots. "To your knowledge, was Miss Willow ever my brother's mistress?"

Richards breathed deeply, a long nasal inhalation.

Sebastian's pulse skipped. "If I must, I'll find a midwife whose discretion may not be as trustworthy as your own and have the matter proved beyond doubt."

The doctor slumped on his chair, leaning his forearm on the table. "The lives of the Willows and the Alexanders seem destined to intersect in the most unhappy of ways."

"Speak plainly, doctor."

"My Lord, it has already been my unfortunate task to perform just such an examination of Miss Willow as you have mentioned."

"And your findings?" Sebastian felt his heart sink when Richards said nothing for the time it took for ten deep breaths. The disappointment surprised him. "Well, then."

"My Lord." His lifted his hands. "Her injuries were severe."

"The night my brother and his wife were killed, you mean."

"Yes, of course. Coma resulting from a bullet wound across her left temple. Broken clavicle, compound, which I set. Her other contusions, though many, were not life threatening." His mouth twisted. "Fever set in. The wound in her head suppurated. You're a fighting man, so you must know she is lucky to have survived. I did not believe she would. Loss of memory from the blow to the head, but I've seen it before after this sort of insult. I'd be surprised if she ever regains full memory of the night."

"In your opinion, would she be in any danger if she were to recall?"

Richards looked out the window. "Perhaps it's best she does not."

"Why?"

"I cannot predict what would happen. She might well suffer a complete breakdown."

"She does not strike me as a weak-minded woman. Quite the opposite. Furthermore, I fail to see how the loss of her memory has anything to do with the loss of her virtue."

"This is most difficult. Most difficult."

Sebastian felt a hand squeezing his heart. "You examined her the night Andrew was killed."

"My Lord."

He tilted his head, puzzling out the reason for Richard's reluctance to speak. "You said she received a blow to the head. Separate from the bullet wound?"

"Ah." Richards drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "A deep and copiously bleeding wound to the left of the occipital bulge, which I stitched."

"There was no mention of this at the inquest."

Richards blanched. "The coroner accepted my findings."

"A full and complete disclosure will go a long way toward ensuring I make no mention of perjury. Between us, at least, I should like to have the facts of the case as they are in truth."

"I performed a thorough physical examination of Miss Willow earlier in the day at which time I stitched her head." Richards lifted a hand, but let it fall to the tabletop. "The back of her head, my Lord."

Sebastian stilled himself, kept his face free of emotion, but his belly tightened with a premonition of what he would hear. "What else?"

"Hysteria brought on by a traumatic assault." The doctor met his eyes without flinching. "I was worried she might be a risk to herself."

"Do you mean a suicide?"

"She was badly, badly used." Richards grimaced. "Indecently, my Lord."

"That opinion is nowhere in the records."

Richards gestured.

"You gave false evidence under oath."

"Discreet."

"A nice distinction, I should say." He locked his fists behind his back and stared at Richards. "Upon what ground did you withhold this evidence at the inquiry?"

"Upon my longstanding obligations to your family, sir. Upon my duty to see the Alexander name continue in its high regard. I knew her father and considered him my friend." He stared at his fingers, stretching them out. "I did not see what was to be gained by revealing the girl's shame."

Jesus
. He squeezed his fisted hands, tucking them tight against the small of his back.

"By the time of the inquest, I was certain there had been no additional consequences. And, to be quite honest, given her fragile mental state at the time I first examined her, I feared for her sanity if she were to recover the extent of what had happened to her." His voice rose. "It's a mercy, my Lord, a mercy, she does not recall. Had I revealed all that I knew, the damage to her reputation and to the reputation of your family would have been irreparable. There was no one to charge with the assault. No witnesses to corroborate my physical findings and testify to the necessary elements of her ordeal. And whoever killed your brother and his wife would still be at large." He lifted his hands and let them drop to the table. "I didn't see the point."

"When you examined her before, had she already lost her memory?"

"No."

"Did she name her attacker?"

This time, the doctor looked ill.

"Who was it?"

"I did not ask."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "For the simple reason, my Lord, that it was your brother."