Miranda had given a slight nod in reply, indicating him to go on, her heart beating painfully within her stays.
“Sir Geoffrey wrote this some time ago. In fact, it was originally addressed to my father, Mr. Silas Pratt, whom you must know departed both his office and this mortal coil twenty years since.”
The impulse to tell him to “get on with it” had arisen. She was feeling not only uneasy, but also impatient. If he had any sort of bad news to impart she’d far rather he spat it out straight away. But manners kept her from saying so. She gave him another nod. “Pray tell me what is in the letter, then.”
He cleared his throat again, which habit had fast been becoming irritating. “Sir Geoffrey wrote this letter some time after the deaths of his first wife and son, and before he married you, my lady.”
Irritation had grated at his ponderous rendition of information she wanted to grab hold of, but she remained politely calm. “Go on.”
Mr. Pratt had unfolded the letter. “It is a letter from a man who was convinced he would himself go to his grave without ever marrying again and therefore without heirs. He was most attached to the first Lady Madeley, I am told, and their small son. I was myself just a junior with the firm at that time, so was not privy to your husband’s affairs. But I remember well when the boy died.”
Miranda frowned. She knew all about Geoffrey’s beloved first wife, whose saintliness had too often been held up before her as an example. And there was a portrait of the little boy, who’d died at the age of four, hanging on the wall in the room they were sitting in. A little, dark-haired angel. Not that Geoffrey had ever spoken of him and she’d never pried. Instinct had told her it would have been unkind to intrude on the grief he still had for them both.
She also knew perfectly well that Geoffrey had only married her for the sizeable dowry her late father had been offering and the prospect of her giving him the heir he so desperately wanted. Although of course, he’d also been quite smitten by her blonde good looks, or so he’d told her at the time. Not that she’d been in the least bit smitten by his. But, in general, he’d been kind to her and pleased with each healthy child she’d produced, despite her knowing that he’d rather at least one of them had been a boy.
Her patience with Mr. Pratt had finally snapped. “Just tell me what the letter says, please. I would rather not be kept in suspense.” Or she’d be choosing another solicitor for any further business, that was for certain.
“This letter contains directions for finding his heir in case of his death without one.”
Miranda swallowed and sat up straighter, her hackles raised. “He already has three heirs.”
Mr. Pratt had the grace to look awkward. “An heir for the baronetcy and the estate, my lady.”
At this point, a cold claw had wrapped itself around Miranda’s stomach, a claw that had remained in place for the intervening three and a half months. “I was under the impression there were no other heirs than my daughters.” How she managed to quell the quaking she couldn’t imagine, but she did it.
Mr. Pratt appeared to be quaking himself, and quite visibly. “I had no idea whatsoever of the history of your husband’s family, I assure you, Lady Madeley. I, too, thought him the last remaining Madeley until I read his letter.” She must have given away her irritation because he hastened on. “It seems that Sir Geoffrey’s great grandfather had two living offspring—Thomas, who was to become your husband’sgrandfather, and a second son, John. This John quarrelled with both his father and brother and ran off to sea when he was quite young.” He cleared his throat again. “Ahem. Most romantic.”
An odd remark from so prosaic a figure. Perhaps he possessed a softer heart than she’d expected.
However, Mr. Pratt, perhaps embarrassed by having strayed into the territory of ladies’ novels, had hurried on. “Apparently this John Madeley rose in the Royal Navy to become captain of his own ship and acquitted himself well. His brother, who had become baronet on his father’s death, kept an eye on him from afar. John married and got himself a son, William, who also entered his majesty’s navy and did equally well. This was the man your husband named as his heir in this letter.” He gave a little shake of the offending article. “However, I have ascertained that he is no longer living, as he was one of the few killed at the Battle of Genoa in 1795. Sir Geoffrey didn’t know this, of course, as he wrote the letter a few years before this battle occurred. Perhaps he never found out, or he might have amended his letter to include a different heir.”
Why had Geoffrey never vouchsafed any of this information? She’d had no idea any other members of his family existed. He’d never given the least hint he even had family serving in the Royal Navy. And she’d never come across any portraits that might have hinted that his great grandfather had possessed more than the one son. It was as if they’d been wiped from the face of Windrush Hall when this John Madeley ran off to sea.
Mr. Pratt cleared his throat yet again and she experienced a strong impulse to pat him on the back. Hard. She’s had that same impulse every subsequent time he’d called to update her on the search for the elusive heir.
“The letter states that at the time it was written, your husband was aware his cousin Captain William Madeley had a son.” He paused. “I would like to take the liberty to ascertain the whereabouts of thisgentleman and if he is still living.”
And this was what he’d done. For now here he was, ready to inform her who the new baronet and owner of Windrush Hall was. The man who would be able to evict her and her daughters from the only true home they’d ever known with scarcely a penny to their name. Perhaps that was being a little melodramatic, but it was true for the girls, if not for her. She’d feared this day was coming since that first post-funeral visit. But she’d told herself that the long-lost heir would turn out to be lost or dead or both. And when, on a previous visit, Mr. Pratt had confided that he’d discovered the missing Madeley heir had become a soldier, this hope, which she felt both guilty and embarrassed for harboring, had grown only greater.
Mr. Pratt cleared his throat and opened the document case. “I, er, I have here some details about the gentleman who is your husband’s heir.”
The sound of carefree laughter, interspersed by excited barking, carried from the gardens. The girls must be playing with the dogs, not riding. How she wished she were out there with them with no mysterious document that would affect their future hanging over her head.
Tippo, deaf now in her old age, ignored the barking and kept on snoring as though no catastrophe was taking place in her cosy home.
Miranda stared at the piece of paper Mr. Pratt was taking out of the document case as though she were confronting a poisonous snake. Her heart experienced the terrifying sensation of having jumped into a bottomless mineshaft. So Captain William Madeley’s son hadn’t perished in battle. A male relation of Geoffrey’s he’d never thought to mention was going to sweep in and take almost everything from her little family. How unfair life could be.
And he was going to be a total stranger who’d never even seen Windrush.
Something more than annoyance rose in her chest, but she bit herlip and restrained herself. There was no point in taking her feelings out on poor Mr. Pratt. He already looked as though he was expecting her to vent her anger on him. But she was a lady born and bred, and she knew better than to castigate someone who worked for her for something that was not his fault.
She kept her voice level and polite. “So you have found him at last?” There was always the tiny hope that he might have found a grave instead of a living person. She crossed her fingers in as unobtrusive a fashion as possible.
Mr. Pratt nodded. “I have, my lady. It took my hired man some doing, I must admit, which is why I have delayed visiting you again for so long. But I have found the lost heir. He is a captain, like his father and grandfather, but not a naval one. Until recently, he served with the Rifle Brigade and was their regimental surgeon. He was wounded at the Battle of Waterloo and invalided out of the army and sent home to recuperate. All of which led to it being remarkably difficult for me to trace him.”
“Waterloo?” She frowned. That was three months ago now. “Where has he been all this time?”
Mr. Pratt nodded. “Yes, Waterloo. I gather he was hit by shrapnel, which is a shell that explodes and sends shards of metal everywhere, while he was tending to wounded soldiers on the battlefield. A most commendable undertaking. His commanding officer, when I located him, referred to him as a hero. And as to his whereabouts since then—he was hospitalized in Brussels, then discharged from the army on medical grounds into the care of his older sister. She lives on the coast in a small Suffolk village. Another factor that made the finding of Captain Madeley harder for my man.”
