The entire table was served, save Lucy. Not the least unusual. Father hadn’t allowed her dessert in years. If she wasn’t even permitted cake on her birthday, she certainly wasn’t going to be allowed a slice of lemon torte while being tossed at a suitor. No matter. Cook would have saved her a generous portion. She need only make her way to the kitchens after Father went to bed.
Lucy contemplated her father, the lemon torte she must wait for, the sparse meal, and her situation. Continuing to exist beneath Father’s care was a depressing, suffocating thought, but her options were limited. Her first choice would have been to find employment as a lady’s companion. Or possibly a governess, though her lisp would create an obstacle. Marriage was the only other alternative open to her, but that too seemed impossible with no dowry or suitors.
Lucy eyed Dufton,considering.
“How goes Pendergast, Waterstone?” Dufton drawled in a less than friendly tone as he toyed with the stem of his wine glass.
Not well.
Pendergast was an ironworks, one Father had absolutely no business owning. He had little experience and absolutely no interest in such an enterprise. His tastes ran more to horses,railways—because they were fashionable—and imports. Silk and cotton, mostly. Therefore, the purchase of Pendergast had been completely baffling and out of character for a man who chose his investments based on appearances.
Appearances mattered greatly to Father.
The ironworks had been thriving at the time of Father’s purchase, but now Pendergast languished from his poor decisions and lack of attention despite the growing demand for what it produced.
“I’m—planning to divest myself of it, my lord.”
“Given you’ve run the operation into the ground, some would say purposefully, I would agree.” Dufton’s eyes on Father grew flinty. “I do hope you don’t expect me to purchase the ironworks as part of…our agreement. I know about the contracts, you see.”
Every bit of color fled Father’s cheeks. “I’m not sure I take your meaning, my lord.”
“Yes, you do.” The threat was polite, but there all the same.
Lucy didn’t dare lift her chin or give any indication she was listening. Sally started babbling about a new gown, a tactic meant to deflect Lucy’s attention from Father’s obvious discomfort and the discussion at hand.
“Given our”—Father’s gaze flicked to Lucy—“agreement, my lord, I take offense at your accusation.” He lifted his chin, all pompous authority. “I’ve plans to offer it to another interested party.”
“Ah.” Dufton nodded slowly, his smile returning. “I assume Mr. Estwood, since he still wants it. Oh, the irony.” A short bark of laughter came from him. “Petty of you, Waterstone.”
Estwood.
Lucy’s hands twisted so tightly, the blood flow to her fingers was cut off.
Estwood.
She could still see him, standing before her at the ball Granby had hosted to end the house party at The Barrow. The words she’d been forced to speak, horrible and vile, while Father loomed a few steps away. The only time he had ever requested she not remain silent.
Lucy drew in a slow breath.
She’d trusted her father completely, never questioning his assertion that Estwood’s interest in her was merely a way to humiliate Gerald Waterstone. Cause him undue embarrassment. Estwood had already done damage to Father’s relationship with Granby, and now, Father had insisted, thatbaseborn curmeant to use Lucy.
She quite clearly remembered Father’s distressed tone. How he’d blinked, as if to banish tears, at Lucy’s almost betrayal. How could she possibly have run off and viewed the ruins with Estwood? Even with Lady Mildred in tow? Father had insisted she give Estwood the cut direct, in full view of the other guests. Put him in his place. Thankfully, only Lord and Lady Foxwood had been within hearing when she’d done exactly as Father wished.
What a naïve little idiot I used to be.
Lucy nodded at Sally’s incessant chatter about Belgium lace, pretending great interest, while keeping one ear cocked to Father’s discussion with Dufton.
“He still wants Pendergast,” Father said calmly. “No matter what state the ironworks is in.”
“And Marsden. I understand he’s made inquiries.”
Father flinched. “He has.”
“Because you’ve given him the impression it is for sale, Waterstone.IsMarsden for sale?” Dufton reminded Lucy of nothing so much as a snake, coiled and ready to strike. On the brink of sinking his fangs into Father.
Marsden.
A misty sort of familiarity settled over Lucy. She should know the name.
