Page 4 of Stealing a Scoundrel's Heart
Lord Weathersbee glanced at Lord Dartman and then flickered his gaze to the door, but rather than leave, Lord Dartman sauntered around the settee and sat next to her. “Don’t keep us waiting, Weathersbee. Pray tell, has the Whalen heir been found? Is he making his return as we speak?”
Her natural instinct was to shift away from the man but she refrained from moving. Rather, she eyed the man who bandied about the terms “us” and “we” nonchalantly as if they were somehow in a partnership of sorts.
What little Marjorie could recall of the man was gained fromDebrett’sand snippets of gossip from those who belonged to the outskirts of the beau monde. Lord Dartman was an only child. He’d inherited his title at the age of six and had remained unwed. Was purported to be well versed in bed sport. His estate stable but in no need of a mistress.
She studied the man’s profile and searched her memory, but she couldn’t recall ever having been formally introduced to him over the course of the eleven Seasons she'd endured. Which meant he hadn’t been a part of the same social circle as she. She would have most certainly remembered the man with such striking blue eyes.
Clearing his throat, Lord Weathersbee answered, “We have received word that the heir apparent has gone to meet his maker early. We are now in search of his brother, a Mr. Barrett North. In the meantime, Lady Whalen, I suggest you prepare to relocate to Brighton and take up residence in the seaside cottage that Maxwell bestowed upon you.”
“Brighton? Do you have friends or family in Brighton?” Lord Dartman shifted to face her, his knee pressed up against hers.
She refused to back away and allowed the contact despite the intense heat radiating up to her cheeks. “No, but Maxwell knew of my wish to live close to the sea.”
Her husband had generously provided both a cottage and a trust fund large enough to ensure that she need not return to her parents or seek out another to marry. So long as no one discovered the real state of her union with Maxwell. If she maintained the farce of their marriage, and she retained her status as a widow, she could live quite comfortably if she lived a frugal lifestyle.
“Very well, Lord Weathersbee, I shall heed your advice and return to begin packing at once.” She stood and glanced down at Lord Dartman, who remained seated. “Are you staying?”
Lord Dartman nodded. “I’d like to have a word with Weathersbee. Foxton and the others shall escort you home.”
An irrational pang of hurt settled in her chest. She wanted to ask what he intended to discuss with the solicitor, but perhaps it pertained to his personal affairs and had nothing to do with her or Maxwell. She had been a fool for overthinking Lord Dartman’s references to them as “us”; he probably paid no mind at all to the terms he used. The man was a scoundrel for interjecting himself into her affairs and portraying a feigned level of concern for her welfare.
Good riddance.Marjorie marched to the door and without a backward glance left the gentleman to their discussion; she was going home to make ready for the journey south to her new home. Along the walls of various balls and soirees, she had overheard stories of the seaside town of Brighton, and she’d imagined herself taking long leisurely walks along the water. Marjorie’s steps faltered as she recalled the day when Maxwell had shared illustrations of the town he had drawn in his youth. They had spent the morning poring over maps, and Maxwell entertained her with amusing stories for each and every town along the seaside, but he’d had the fondest memories of Brighton. Marjorie had instantly fell in love with the idea of residing in a small town far away from London… and as far away from her parents as possible. She hadn’t shared her dream with her late husband, yet Maxwell had seen to it that her wishes became a reality.
Shoulders rolled back, Marjorie was determined to make the best of her new situation and her new home. She stopped for no one and headed out the door; however, she found herself once again surrounded by the three gentlemen who had apparently assigned themselves as her companions for the day. In no mood for chatter, she set off on foot for the Whalen townhouse. A nice long walk would help dispel the lingering effects Lord Dartman had upon her pulse. Every accidental touch, every side glance the man had attempted to sneak but she’d caught raced through her mind, increasing her pace. Blast Lord Dartman and his cronies who trailed on her heels.
Over her shoulder, she glanced at Lord Foxton, who remained the closest to her. Hmm. Eligible, titled gentlemen wouldn’t traipse about town after a lonely widow unless they were obliged to. She spun on her heel, and the Duke of Whistlestop and Lord Hurlington barreled into the back of Lord Foxton, who prevented them from running her over.
Hands on her hips, Marjorie waited for them to right themselves. “Go home or go do whatever it is rakes do.”
“We already are,” Lord Hurlington replied.
“Beg your pardon.”
Lord Foxton frowned down at her. “Rakes always seek out the company of a beautiful woman. You can’t blame us for wanting to become better acquainted with the woman who captured the heart of and married our boon companion, Maxwell, now can you?”
The Adonis found her beautiful? It was hard to believe. She’d been called, lovely, sweet, a nuisance more often than not, but most definitely never beautiful.
The Duke of Whistlestop offered her his arm and said, “You shan’t be rid of us anytime soon.”
Acting upon years of etiquette drilled into her, Marjorie placed her hand upon the duke’s arm and allowed him to escort her down the streets of St. James.The life of a widow is certainly more exciting than that of a wallflower.
Seated at the edge of the settee, Alister leaned back and glared at Lord Weathersbee. He scanned the office he rarely had cause to visit. The room remained the same but the gentleman occupying the space was different. “Where is Neale?”
“Which Neale are you referring to?” The older gentleman’s reply further confounded Alister rather than place him at ease.
“Mr. Christopher Neale, of course. I’m certain Landon is busy taking care of other matters since inheriting the Hadfield title.”
“Landon is indeed busy withother mattersthese days.” Weathersbee’s one-sided grin made Alister believe there was more to the man’s simple reply, but he wasn’t in the mood for games. He needed answers. “Well, where is Mr. Neale? And since when did you decide to… to work?”
Weathersbee stood and positioned himself behind his desk. “Christopher and his wife have ventured across the pond for a spell. I agreed to manage the firm until their return.” The solicitor opened a folder and withdrew an envelope that he presented to Alister. “It’s rather fortuitous that you accompanied Lady Whalen today. Saved me the trouble of tracking you down.”
Alister stared at the bold script that had belonged to Maxwell. He took the envelope, hoping the contents would provide the answers he sought, and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket as he stood. “I shall bid you a good day, Weathersbee.”
“Last wishes of the dead should never be ignored.”
“Did Maxwell share withyouhis wishes?”
“Unfortunately, Maxwell was in great pain in his last days, not that he allowed Marjorie to see… I acted as secretary and am well aware of his requests of you.” Weathersbee’s gaze never wavered. “If you could convey the message to His Grace, Whistlestop, Foxton, and Hurlington that I have correspondence awaiting them also, I’d appreciate it.”
