Page 6 of Baron in Check
Greg interrupted him. “Then you have seen the extensive ledgers and records we kept of all the transactions?”
“Fakes!” List roared, red-faced, veins popping up on his forehead, his blond hair standing up.
“Not even the Bailiff Nagy has been able to prove that. The Prince Regent appointed the Crown Jewelers not because they are Jewish, not because they are British, not because they are honest businessmen, but because they are the best.” Greg put a hand on his chest. “And I don’t know about you, leaders of this great nation, but the critics who have nothing to show but empty criticism are suspicious in their motives.I’d rather associate with the best.”
Gregory left the speaker’s podium to no applause, without support, but with hope that his words had planted a seed from which justice could sprout. He listened as his peers debated the Jewish Disabilities Bill, voices echoing off the gilded walls, each a sentinel to the status quo. The chamber was a whirlpool of contention—a seething crowd intent on maintaining the thickbarriers of intolerance that Greg felt rather alone trying dissolve in parliament.
A death stare from List reached him from across the room. All the sacrifices of his forefathers upon the altar of assimilation—to don the cloak of Christianity—in vain. Where was the acknowledgment of his family’s endeavors? Had the businesses they’d founded, the fleet he’d commanded, and the trade routes they’d pioneered been lost to the gales of arrogance?
Tension simmered, revealing a more profound conflict of ideologies than either side dared to voice. Today, frigid disparagement was served colder than the February air gnawing at London’s cobblestones. The session was almost over and after the pause for spring and summer, it would be even harder to make progress in parliament. The truth brandished its steel, cleaving Greg’s illusions. He was a marionette in a theatre where strings were pulled by hands cobwebbed in antiquity—not the sort Fave had studied, but the rigid misinterpretations that divided nations. Sparta and Athens had not taught these great scholars anything but bred arrogance from Eton to Oxford and Westminster.
And Greg wasn’t sure his family’s sacrifice had been worth this seat.
CHAPTER 4
While Parliament was in session and London’s season in full swing, Hermy couldn’t think of a worse time to show her face there—the outcast who’d been locked away in shame for five years. And yet, it was the last resort.
Until this day, she’d fallen out of society’s good grace, but without her fortune, she was rapidly landing in disgrace. The drama was unfolding rather like a bad theatrical drama.
She hadn’t had time to pack after the solicitor gave the staff instructions to turn the house down, cover the furniture with linens, and sweep the fireplaces. Willowby Park was being shut down.
Until further notice from your husband.
But it was Hermy’s house, not Lord Chanteroy’s and especially not the solicitors. Her clothes hung in the armoire, along with her china, crystals, and silver. He had no right to hold in escrow for a man she’d never agreed to marry and never would as if none of it belonged to her. How could it be legal in a country like England to pass her over and give her family’s fortune to a man whose only claim was a betrothal? With one piece of paper, her brother had destroyed her life. And it was irrevocable, held in “trust.” Trust had been lost between herand her brother since he’d caught her with Greg, although that wasn’t a betrayal as much as hiding her love from the one person who was certainly going to begrudge her even that. Her brother had been jealous of Greg’s friendship and his love. Now, she was the last Ellsworth, yet the solicitor and her staff pretended she’d died along with her reputation.
Hermy looked to the butler, the housemaids, and the cook. They turned and shuffled around, pretending to dust the furniture.
“Thank you for your service and complete lack of loyalty!” With these words, she took her pelisse from the stand in the foyer, clutched Gambit tightly, and refused to let any of the tears of shame roll.
Not again. Not now.
“Come on, Gambit.” Hermy picked up her cocker spaniel and the butler held the door open. “Thank you, Simmons.” She inclined her heat to the butler, but he just snuffed.
“After over twenty years of service to my family, Simmons, I ought to thank you.”
He looked away, at nothing in particular.
“And yet, words fail me because I wasn’t taught what to say when the head of my staff considers it a disgrace to work for me. It appears that my money was all you cared about and now it’s frozen, may you get what you deserve.” Hermy straightened her back, held Gambit close to her chest, and stared at the basket. “I don’t suppose you’ll want to keep my companion?” The solicitor turned his gaze to the handwoven basket and Scottish quilt that made the dog’s bed.
Simmons bent down and carried the dog’s basket to the end of the steps. “My service ends here.” No milady, no Lady Ellsworth. Nothing.
“I will remember you, Simmons.”
He smiled self-indulgently.
“Not fondly.” Hermy pivoted and carried Gambit away, dragging the basket after her.
Apparently, the coachman had already received instructions not to allow her to “remove the estate’s carriages from the premises.”
“Fine, I’ll walk.”
And so she did. Head high.
Five years she’d been locked up in this house.
Five years she’d run the household at a profit!
After five years and as the only Ellsworth left, she had been dismissed.
