Page 30 of The Scarred Duchess
Lord Matlock rose. At the door, he stopped. “The estate is Longbourn. The master is Mr Thomas Bennet and the mistress is Gardiner’s sister.”
“Mr Edward Gardiner, Gracechurch Street,” he read aloud.
Sir Percival Snell scratched at the card with his fingernail. Expensive stock, superior quality ink, and classic in its elegance.
“Show the man in.”
Sir Percival recognised many of the features of his visitor. A picture of an impertinent country solicitor rose like a phoenix.
“Sir Percival,” bowed Mr Gardiner.
Sir Percival stared at what was undoubtedly the son ofthe man who had insulted him over a decade ago. “What compels you to seek an appointment with me, Mr Gardiner?”
Mr Gardiner pulled several pages from his inner jacket pocket. “We have affidavits from several peers naming you in a retribution scheme. Fraud, as it were.”
Sir Percival jumped up; his chair crashed to the floor. He pointed a shaking finger. “I shall have you prosecuted for slander!”
Mr Gardiner did not react. He turned to the next page. “Snell Park, Birmingham. Mortgage for forty-three hundred pounds.” He waved the promissory note. “Pay to Edward Gardiner, Gracechurch Street.”
Sir Percival’s jaw dropped. The impertinence!
Mr Gardiner turned to the next page. “Sir Percival Snell, promissory note fifteen hundred pounds at four percent. A secured loan for the following assets.” He read the list of items Sir Percival had pawned from the city’s most influential law firm.
Sir Percival sank back into his chair, defeated, his anger fading into one last hope: Mr Gardiner’s mercy. “What might I do to set this to rights?”
Mr Gardiner tucked the papers into his jacket. “Surrender all your files containing works for those named Fitzwilliam, Darcy, Bennet, and Gardiner.”
He quickly did so.
Mr Gardiner smiled then turned and opened the door to several men. “Roark,” he said. “He is yours to remand.”
Bennet had scarcely left the outskirts of Meryton when he saw smoke through the trees. Judging from the placement ofit, he reasoned it had to be coming from one of the farms, someone’s home most likely. He changed direction and directed his horse towards what he hoped could be an innocuous blaze.
That hope would be in vain it seemed. He had not gone far before seeing the charred remains of a once humble abode, though the men of the village had, it seemed, extinguished the blaze as quickly as they could. Four bodies lay on the ground outside the still-smouldering structure.
“Mr and Mrs Steele are gone home to their Maker,” remarked a man standing nearby, another farmer from the looks of him. “As well as their little Susie.”
“Was she their only child?” Bennet asked. “Are there others?”
“Their boy, Bill. He dislikes Billy,” the man grunted and gestured to the left where a boy of fifteen or sixteen lay unconscious on a sheet. Bennet imagined the local apothecary had been quick with his bottle of laudanum. Most of the boy’s left arm and hand displayed differing hues of red and pink; his left leg looked far worse.
“He was away from the house?” Bennet asked.
“Out cutting wood. He run in after them. Looks like he got hit by a falling beam.”
Bennet nodded. A death sentence had been averted but grievous injuries had not. He stared at the unfortunate boy and listened to the apothecary outline the patient’s future—the meticulous attention and care necessary so that he would not succumb to his injuries. The healing process would be long, painful, and arduous even with constant attendance. Consistent attention would be required to stave off fever. In the apothecary’s opinion, a woman’s touch would lend much success; otherwise, the boy’s life would be forfeited.
Bennet listened to the hardships the boy faced. He hadno son, and now the boy had no family. His honour called for him to do what was right.
“Who will care for the boy? Who are his people?” Bennet asked.
Those who had helped extinguish the fire looked amongst themselves. All shook their heads. Resolved, he informed the group of his intent. “Attach a litter to my horse. I shall take the boy in.”
“Moving him could amount to a death sentence, sir,” declared the apothecary.
“According to you, that has already been declared. I shall make an effort to forestall the grim reaper.”
His declaration was greeted with positive murmurs. In minutes, they had poled a light litter to his mount and carefully secured the boy in the centre.
