Page 3 of Baron in Check
But when it had ended, it led to the worst.
She’d been kept prisoner at Willowby Park and even though it was a lavish country estate with a pear and quince orchard, two ponds—one in the east near the village, and another behind the stables, she was lonely. And so, she spoke to Greg in her imagination, carrying on chess games and witty banter to pass the time while she oversaw the estate—her brother never deemed it necessary to come to her aid.
They’d grown up together, Hermy and Greg, children playing in the gardens, then youngsters pouring over games of chess for hours, sometimes days, and from child’s play to the most stimulating matches, it wasn’t a far stretch to first crush. With hours and hours to spare one July when Greg was summering with them on break from Eton, Hermy had what one may call a sexual awakening.
Greg was her brother’s friend and classmate, but he ranked lower than her brother and was never truly a contender to become Hermy’s husband. But he’d won her heart before the race for her hand had even begun.
The timing mattered little. She didn’t care about it then, and she wouldn’t care now except her brother wielded his authority, being all of two years older than Hermy, and locked her up in Kent, away from prying eyes. It was the same loathsome brother of hers—may he roast in peace—who’d done the most disgraceful thing ever imaginable by getting in the way of love.
“I hate him.” Hermy dropped her brother’s will on the table.
“Lord Chanteroy or your brother?” The solicitor gave a wistful smile and shuffled the papers, preparing to take his leave.
“Both!” She huffed. “Please! Isn’t there a way out of this?” Hermy grabbed his arm and he looked down as if a stray dog had bitten him—for that’s how she was seen, a ruined heiress. She’d been called every derogatory term under the British rainy sky and, until now, none of it had affected her as much as this.Now that her last living relative had died, she was truly alone. Being two years over the age of one-and-twenty should mean she could manage her own affairs and decide how and when to spend her money, except the will made her control over her fortune contingent upon her marriage. Her brother was cold-hearted as an ice sculpture but he wasn’t stupid. His talent had been cruelty, well-thought-out schemes to torture people within the bounds of the law.
Hermy, however, would be penniless unless she gave in to her brother’s conditions outlined in the will. As far as he’d be concerned, all would be well if she married David, bore him a series of heirs and spares, and did exactly as she was told.
Not even over his dead body.Hermy stood and showed the solicitor the door. “You may leave.”
She’d not give up her own life for her brother’s stupid sense of business duty. She’d lost her parents at the age of sixteen when they took a ship to Egypt and never returned. At eighteen, she loved Greg and lost him. Now her brother had passed, she should mourn him, but he had ended her life by the force of his pen. There was nothing but the validity of a will, an old betrothal agreement, and a chess game standing between her and doom. Peachy.
The solicitor sucked in his lips thoughtfully and averted his gaze. “There’s something else, Lady Hermione. Baron Stone lost the last match.”
“What?”
“He was traveling in India at the period of your brother’s demise. I forwarded the chess correspondence to him in a timely fashion, but the post is slow and transcontinental?—
“You can’t mean it!” Hermy’s voice faltered. “He lost?”
Greg couldn’t possibly lose in chess. Not to David!
“Well, he forfeited.”
“Because he didn’t get the letter with the next move?”
“Precisely. He was not exactly on notice of his obligations.”
Oh no!
“And is he now?” She regretted asking as soon as she’d uttered the question, willing the response to be something other than what she expected, which was the worst. Why couldn’t she get ponies and rainbows for once?
“As the executor of your brother’s estate, I had to inform Lord Chanteroy.”
“No! You couldn’t be so cruel!” Hermy shouted. “If you hadn’t givenhimtime to discover that he could come for me himself, you’d givenmetime to escape!”
The solicitor grimaced and shrugged.
Of course, whatever one could do to stab the fallen girl in the back was in his line of duty.
“Get out of my house!”
The solicitor planted himself firmly on Hermy’s precious silk rug, a handwoven heirloom that her great-grandfather had received from a Shah.
“I said, leave my housenow!”
“Technically, this house and all of your belongings are in escrow.” He cleared his voice and raised his chin and glanced toward the door, where the resident staff of five had taken position and were doing an abysmal job at hiding they were eavesdropping. “Held by me until your husband takes over the estate.”
Hermy was seething. “And the title?” Her brother had died without an heir so the Earldom would revert back to the crown.
