Page 52 of Becoming Lady Dalton
“I have no granddaughter.”
The baroness thumped the floor with her walking stick for emphasis. Mentally, Piers crumpled his speech and chucked it over his shoulder.
“You do have a granddaughter. Two of them, in fact. One of them is in desperate need of our combined assistance.”
“Mrs. Cartwright ought to have thought of that before she stole my money and tarnished my good name.” The baroness sniffed. “Her sister is determined to stand by her. I suggest you begin with Lady Briarcliff.”
“I have already dispatched a note to the earl and his wife,” Piers replied.
“Then I see no further need to take up my time.” The lady turned away. “If you will excuse me.”
“Your ladyship,” Piers continued firmly, but the old woman wasn’t having it.
“Are you still here?”
“Viola is your flesh and blood. How can you leave her imprisoned?” he demanded. If the baroness wanted a battle, he would give her one. Anything to see her fight for the granddaughter she loved. Baroness Landor’s pain was written in the soft wrinkles of her face that had etched deeper over the past few days and the heaviness of her step. Though he suspected the cane was a prop that she’d adopted, it was as if she needed the support because her legs had been metaphorically cut out from under her.
“I was not aware I had the slightest influence in the matter,” the baroness replied. “That woman imposed upon my good name to steal from my dearest friends. She is the opposite of goodton.”
Piers clasped his hands together behind his back and paced. Above the fireplace, a stern-faced man stared down at them, stern and judgmental.
“All she wanted was to allow her husband to die with dignity,” he declared.
“I don’t care whether she did it on her own or at her despicable husband’s request. Viola used me. She stole from me and her sister. Nothing excuses that.” The old woman glanced at the painting over the fireplace. Her expression hardened. “Her mother was soft-hearted and hard-headed. Though Viola resembles her father, God rot his soul, she is very much like her mother. Headstrong. I tried to see her settled with Admiral Saxon. His strength of character would have made up for the weakness in her own, had she married him.”
“It would have made Viola a bigamist,” Piers pointed out.
“Another lie,” Baroness Landor spat. “I believed her when she claimed to be a widow.”
Again, she glanced at the picture.
“Is this the late Baron Landor?” Piers asked, following her gaze.
“It is. He knew what Mr. Forsythe was, with his charming ways. He knew our daughter’s character. He insisted we cut them off after they eloped. I thought he was cruel, that we ought to support them. We had a terrible row over it. But he was right, Lord Dalton. My husband was clear-eyed about Mr. Forsythe’s ambitions. For more than thirty years, I had only the faintest clue about what happened to my daughter and her children. Until the day Viola, Harper, and Matthew arrived on my doorstep, I harbored doubts about my husband’s decision, but I honored it.” The baroness inhaled sharply. “I was a fool, Lord Dalton. I am an old woman, and I wanted to believe in second chances. I thought if I could forgive my granddaughters it might assuage the grief I’ve felt these many years without my daughter. And, for a while, it did. To discover that I have been made a fool after all…” She broke off. “Lord Dalton. There is no deeper blow I could have sustained. My only purpose on this earth is to see my grandson well-placed at school, and perhaps, a grandchild through Harper. If she will allow me to visit after I disowned her sister.”
The clock ticked by, seconds passing.
“You have suffered mightily, my lady,” Piers began. The old woman’s shoulders shook with a silent sob. He paced, his steps matching the sound from the clock as Viola’s last moments of life sped by. “I admit my distress at discovering Viola was still Mrs. Cartwright in truth, not only in name, made me furious. I had intended to make her my wife.”
The baroness’ head snapped up. Piers had her attention now.
“Yes. I wanted to marry her. Yet she refused me time and again. It was not my person she objected to. It was her worry that her husband might not be dead after all.”
“That scum,” seethed the baroness. “Did you know he married Viola with the intention of presuming upon our blood relationship? A forty-year-old man, marrying a fifteen-year-old girl so he could extort her family.”
“Has it occurred to you that your husband was wrong to cut off your granddaughters?” demanded Piers. “Had her mother not felt so disconnected to her own relations, her daughter might not have felt compelled to marry at such a tender age, simply to protect her sister. Where were the adults she could have turned to?”
The baroness turned ashen. Piers knew his words cut, but he refused to soften them.
“Viola prevented her husband from contacting you for years. She fought tooth and nail to protect you from Samuel Cartwright’s designs, and this is how you repay her? By leaving your granddaughter to rot in prison over a lot of hurt feelings?”
Piers’ shirt stuck to the small of his back, damp with the effort of holding back raw emotion. He withdrew a bank draft and held it out.
“What is this?” the baroness hiccupped. At once, Piers regretted his vehemence. He’d hoped not to have to resort to theater, but he was not above making his point using props.
“It is a blank bank draft. Take it. Ask your secretary to add up the cost Viola and Matthew’s keep since their arrival. I shall repay you, with interest. Then, you may disown her. But I intend to fight for her. Both you and I know that Viola Cartwright isn’t a pickpocket. She cares nothing for jewels. When she needed money, she asked for it, and you and Harper both gave it. Though she wasn’t honest about her reasons for needing it, Viola never stole a single penny.”
The baroness stared at him, then at the rectangle in his hand. He laid the paper on the mantle.
