LYING IN HER bed, Maddie retouched one of the many drawings of Hector, adding more layers of shadows and light to make his striking features stand out. Not an easy task since her fingers couldn’t trace all the nuances she wanted, and the more they stiffened, the angrier she became.
Some lines looked barbaric to say the least. She frowned so hard her brow muscles ached. The more she tried to be precise, the less she succeeded. How frustrating. She wanted to toss the pencil across the room. Bother. She sat upright. Another unfinished sketch. Verity always said it was a matter of practice and exercise. Maddie wasn’t sure. She’d practised and exercised until her fingers had cramped, and nothing had changed. She’d given up the exercises after a few weeks instead of practising for months as the physician had suggested. Whatever. Her hand would never be the same.
“Miss?” the maid asked from the other side of the door.
“Come in.” She closed the sketchbook, utterly unsatisfied with the result.
The maid inched the door open. “There’s a gentleman who wishes to meet you.”
Maddie shot to her feet, her pulse racing. “Lord Hector?”
They’d been separated for a couple of days, but she was eager to see him. In fact, she should visit him. She hadn’t wanted to intrude into his life while he tried to get accustomed again to London, but she needed to know how he was faring.
“No, Miss. It’s Mr. Merriweather. He’s waiting for you in the drawing room.”
Ernest wanting to see her? “Are you sure he asked for me and not Verity?”
“Yes, miss. Besides, Miss Verity is out at the moment. Her piano concert.”
Oh, right. “I’ll see him in a moment.”
After she fixed a wayward strand of hair in her chignon, she straightened her dress and went downstairs to the drawing room. As a solicitor, Ernest’s impeccable dark suit and neatly styled, bronzed hair marked him as a gentleman. A nervous one, judging by how he paced on the Oriental carpet that had cost a pretty penny. Mother would be horrified.
“Ernest.” She curtsied, hoping to hide her blushing.
Since she’d read his letters to Verity, she found it hard to meet his gaze without flushing. Who would have guessed Ernest, so serious and practical, hid a passionate soul under his stiff suits?
“Maddie.” He bowed, snapping his heels together. “I appreciate you receiving me immensely, even though I didn’t have time to announce myself.”
“You’re part of the family.”
“Not in this instance.” He flashed a sad grin. “I’m here for business, not as your future brother but as the late Lord Robert Wentworth’s solicitor.”
She wrung her hands together. “What is the reason for your visit?” She sat in the armchair.
“I won’t take a lot of your time. I’ll be gone in a minute, and I can’t wait for Verity.” His expression didn’t soften when he mentioned his betrothed. He took the armchair in front of Maddie but remained perched on the edge. “I’ll go straight to the point. Lord Robert wasn’t only my employer, but a friend. Before leaving for his fatal trip to the Americas, he left me with precise instructions to help Lord Hector lead the dukedom.”
So far, nothing new. Maddie nodded, failing to understand what she had to do with the Wentworth family’s legal problems.
“Lord Quentin has no intention of surrendering the dukedom to his cousin.” Ernest’s voice acquired a sharp tone. “He invoked the Righteous Bill, an act approved decades ago when King George III showed signs of mental instability. Before gaining a title, the person must be deemed mentally sane by a physician.”
That caught her full attention. “Mental instability? But King George III was indeed troubled. Hector isn’t.”
“Lord Quentin wants me to prove that Lord Hector is perfectly sane and has the mental capabilities to become a duke. The process of being reinstated as a duke requires two things.” His voice sounded strained. “The first is proving Lord Hector is sane and in full possession of his mental capabilities, which implies a certificate signed by a trusted doctor. The second is finding a peer who’s willing to champion Mr. Wentworth before the queen.”
“It sounds rather complicated.” The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “Forgive me, but I fail to understand how I can help you. I can give you my opinion on Mr. Wentworth and assure you he isn’t insane. He’s traumatised by his experience, but who wouldn’t be?”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I saw Lord Hector this morning, and I couldn’t help but notice he has acquired some peculiar habits during his stay on the island. He doesn’t wear many clothes, for example.”
“Peculiar habits?” She straightened. “He was stranded on an island for eight years, relying only on his resilience and strength to survive. It makes sense that he doesn’t behave normally.” Whatever normally meant.
“He considers a bird a person.” He tilted his head.
Oh, Thomas. “I’m not a physician, Ernest, but I don’t find it hard to believe that a person, who is completely alone, might find solace in talking to himself, or in Hector...Mr. Wentworth’s case, to a bird. People talk to their pets all the time. Pets are considered family. It seems perfectly normal to me.”
“He also became quite aggressive when Lord Quentin tried to take a worn, stained, book from him.” Exasperation edged his voice.
“I guess the book is Mr. Wentworth’s personal diary. It’s precious to him because he recorded his whole ordeal in those pages.”
