Chapter Twenty-One
“What do I do, Aunt Essie?” Cat dipped her knife into the jar of blackberry preserves, then spread the rich, purple-black fruit over her biscuit. “Uncle signed the contracts.”
“I don’t know, dear.” Aunt Essie dragged her teacup to her mouth and set its rim against pursed lips. “He is your guardian, and they are legally binding marriage contracts.”
Cat stared at the biscuit in her hand. She knew it would be fluffy and light, the preserves sweet and tart and thick—but she could not bring herself to eat it. Her mouth was dry and tea already roiled in her stomach. She dropped the biscuit onto the patterned Wedgewood plate.
Wycomb had trapped her.
“My dear.” Essie reached over and set wrinkled, plump hands over Cat’s wrist. “I worry for you. Are you ready for marriage?”
“No.” Even if Jones discovered Wycomb was doing something illegal, the contract was still binding. Ashdown Abbey would be Hedgewood’s. “I suppose I have no choice.”
“I am happy to hear our earlier conversation has changed your mind, Mary Elizabeth.” The voice sliding from the shadows was wily and low. Wycomb strode through the hallway door and into the breakfast room. “The wedding will take place before midsummer.”
“Before mid—” Cat whipped her head up to stare at the man in the doorway. Her uncle appeared as unconcerned by her wishes as the well-cut coat sitting on his shoulders. “It is not even May.”
“The marquess does not wish to delay the ceremony.” Wycomb perused the sideboard, though he had no doubt breakfasted earlier as per his habit. He chose a ripe grape grown in the hothouse at Ashdown Abbey. “Hedgewood wishes to evaluate each of the newly acquired properties prior to the winter.”
She recognized the set of Wycomb’s shoulders and purse of his lips as studied disinterest. It felt as though something small with many legs skittered across her skin when he acted in this calculating manner.
“You lie,” she said, slowly coming to her feet. Essie squeaked and china tinkled. “You lie. It is not the marquess who has chosen the date. It is you, so that I will not yet have reached my majority by the date of the wedding.”
Silence fell, broken only by Aunt Essie’s nervous intake of breath.
“True.” Wycomb lifted a plate from the sideboard and leaned over biscuits to inspect them, not bothering to look at her as he spoke. “You are my ward, Mary Elizabeth, until August.” Now he turned his head and looked at her, as though she were no more interesting than the biscuits. “Before then, I legally control you.”
“Only if I allow it,” she said softly. Her heart bumped inside her chest, an erratic beat she could not control.
A cold light flared in his eyes as they narrowed on her. He straightened, chest expanding with the force of his fury. She braced herself for whatever assault he intended. Openly challenging him was a step he would not tolerate—they both knew it.
The onslaught of his anger never came. Wycomb pivoted to face the hall as a shout echoed, followed by running footsteps.
A man barreled through the doorway wearing a filthy homespun coat and breeches stained with black, sooty streaks. Wide eyes flicked frantically around the room—but whatever he intended to do was cut off by Wycomb as he leaped forward. Her uncle’s body twisted with ease and elegance, arms whipping through the air as though he regularly practiced slamming men into walls. Pictures rattled and one crashed to the floor as the man cried out.
“Milady! Mr. Sparks—” He was cut off by Wycomb’s forearm pressing against his windpipe.
“Wycomb!” Cat surged toward them, ignoring Aunt Essie’s short shriek and the clatter of her chair as it toppled to the floor. “He’s from Ashdown Abbey!”
She didn’t think, only curled her hands around Wycomb’s shoulder and tried to tug him back. He let go, jerking his arms in release. Cat ducked to avoid being hit and stumbled.
“Speak,” Wycomb commanded.
The stranger slipped to the floor and opened his mouth, gaze shifting first to Cat, then Wycomb, then Cat again.
“The granaries, milady. My lord.” The man slumped against the wall, rubbing his throat. “They’ve caught fire. When I left, they were nearly half gone.” He sucked in air. Wide eyes stared at Cat. “Mr. Sparks, he said he thought they would all go.”
Her heart rose into her throat. She swallowed hard, hoping it would slip back where it belonged. Crouching down, she brought her face level with the man’s. “Was anyone hurt?” Cat set her hand on the man’s shoulder—a gesture that had Wycomb lurching forward, then back again.
“No, milady.” The man shook his head and straightened, and she saw that it wasn’t dirt on his face, but streaks of soot. “When I left, only a few were hurt from burns an’ such, but no one badly.”
“How long ago?” she whispered.
“Early this morning. I rode hard, changed horses to be here quick.” Scrubbing a hand over his face, he smeared the dirt and soot over weary creases. “I ’as to get back, milady.”
“Go to the stables. Use a fresh horse for the return and tell them to ready the carriage. I’m going, too,” Cat said firmly, already spinning toward the door.
“You shall not.” Wycomb’s voice shot through the room, command a sharp edge on his words.
Cat stopped, drew a deep breath in through her nose and let it out through her mouth. It steadied her, that breath. “No?”
“Mr. Sparks will do what needs to be done. You are needed here, to secure your inheritance. Hedgewood will be announcing the engagement tomorrow.”
Cat turned to look at her uncle. His coat was wrinkled and lopsided on his shoulders from his efforts, but his hair seemed as elegant and his face as controlled as ever. His will was nearly palpable, weighing heavy in the room.
“Sir?” She looked at the sooty tenant, then her aunt. “Essie? Please excuse us, if you would.”
“Of course, dear.” Essie swept out, herding the tenant before her and leaving silence in her wake.
A clock ticked somewhere nearby, it’s rhythmic signal counting the seconds between Cat and—something. Wycomb ran a hand around the circumference of the plate he’d dropped onto the sideboard, finger tracing the outer rim in slow, thoughtful movements.
Finally, his words soft and careful. “You cannot help them.”
“Perhaps not, but I should be there.” It was her duty. They were her people, her tenants, and she would not fail when they needed hope. “My father taught me that in times of need, the tenants will look to the lord. Is he there? If not, they will despair and, perhaps, lose faith. Loss of faith breeds dissension and difficulties.”
Wycomb’s lips lifted at the corners with mocking amusement. “These are not feudal times, Mary Elizabeth. Nor are you the lord.”
She would not let his words rankle. “I may not be a lord, and no, these are not feudal times. The fact remains that my tenants look to me as the last Ashdown to lead them. Failing to do so fails them.” She squared her shoulders. “I will strike a bargain with you.”
“I am listening.” His fingers paused in their movements around the edge of the breakfast plate.
“I will say nothing more about the marriage to Hedgewood.” It was as if the jury at Old Bailey had ordered her death. Her skin became clammy, her ears buzzed, but she was bound by contract. She had little to lose. “I will not fight it.”
“You will say the words and sign the register?” He took a step forward, cocking his head as he approached. She fought the urge to retreat. “Do your duty by Hedgewood?”
“Yes.” The shudder tried to wrack her entire body, but she refused to give it rein. “Yes, I will do my duty.”
Something flickered in Wycomb’s gaze.
She’d won.
“We will leave shortly,” he bit out. And oh, she could see the words were bitter. “Be ready.”