Page 19 of A Countess of Convenience

“Please tell the footman to inform Mrs. Harper that I will be delighted to wait upon her at three o’clock this afternoon.”

“Very good, my lord.” Sayer bowed and left.

John stood idly tapping the letter against his hand. “A matter to put before you.” What matter could that be? Not the matter of a possible affection between them. That would certainly be most dear to his heart, but she’d given absolutely no indication of any regard for him other than that of dear and cherished friend. Such an idea was stupid to contemplate at all, especially with Judith so freshly widowed. Still, he was intrigued. The day had just become much more interesting.

That afternoon, as he arrived at Ruecroft Manor, he reflected that the day had, so far, gone very much to his advantage. His ride with Westcott to a tenant farm at the farthest edge of the property had revealed the farmer hard at work maintaining his plows in anticipation of the sowing that would occur next week. The farmer, Harris, was newly come to the property and might have been showing off a bit for the master, but John thought not. Two boys, twelve and thirteen if he had to guess, had been respectful and well-behaved without prompting from their father. They had been working quietly side by side, inspecting and sharpening the plowshares when John and Westcott had ridden up. Mrs. Harris had emerged from the house, a toddler on her hip and three other children coming behind her. A beautiful family. Harris should be proud. That kind of tenant made his and Westcott’s jobs so much easier.

He knocked on the door and his stomach rumbled.

Lord, he should have taken something while he was changing for this meeting with Judith. Hopefully, the sounds would cease. It would be exceedingly embarrassing to have that gurgling erupt during their conversation.

The family butler let him in and showed him through the house and out the back to the garden, a path he’d taken untold numbers of times in his youth. He straightened, puffing out his chest just a trifle, and strolled into the Welbournes’ lovely rose garden. Winding through the garden to the gazebo at the end, he finally allowed himself to speculate about Judith’s request. It could be a matter pertaining to her health, although he dismissed that as unlikely.

The next most important topic would be information regarding her efforts to recover her child. She might ask for legal advice, although all he could suggest would be to allow him to contact his solicitor. John had less than no interest or proficiency in the various courts of law.

A similar matter might involve assistance or advice about the upcoming journey to recover the child. Of course, he would do anything at all to aid Judith and her parents in their quest for justice for them and the child. If Mr. Welbourne was not familiar with the bests inns for them to stop at, he could easily provide a list. In fact, if this turned out to be the matter Judith spoke of, he would offer his horses at the various inns where it was prudent to change. He spent so much time journeying between London and Marholm, he’d stabled teams of horses along the way. He could see to it that, for most of their journey, they would be well taken care of.

He reached the gazebo to find Judith sitting at the table, pouring tea, wearing her mourning weeds, of course. Oh, how he wished she were allowed to wear colors. He remembered her vividly in a soft yellow gown that set off her complexion and dark hair perfectly. But then he’d never seen her look otherwise than exquisite. Even now, attired in unrelieved black, she managed to convey a lightness, a grace that the mourning clothes could not cover.

“John.” She looked up from the teapot and smiled. “How good of you to come.” She indicated a chair next to her and John sat, enthralled. “I’m afraid I have a rather large favor to ask of you.”

* * * *

Lord Downing looked up from the letter he held, dumbfounded. His chin had dropped almost to his chest after opening the letter, addressed to him in an unfamiliar hand, to find it had been penned by his half-dead daughter-in-law. She should have been his dead daughter-in-law by now, but the woman had apparently held onto life with the tenacity of a mosquito. A shocking injustice that his only son could not have done so as well.

Mouth set in a grim line, Downing read through the missive again. The damned wench had the audacity to beg him to relinquish the guardianship of his only grandchild, take her from her safe and protected life here at Harper’s Grange—the only home the girl had ever known—and send her north to live with her mother. The woman should be grateful that he had lavished so much attention on Anna. When the girl came out in ten years or so, she’d be the toast of London, an heiress to make the family proud with a brilliant match. Downing had made up his mind. If Simon could not carry them forward, his daughter would do so.

Unless this woman could get the child back. The thought made his stomach drop.

Utter nonsense. Surely the courts would rule in his favor over a woman, even if she was the child’s mother. Tapping the letter against his polish mahogany desk, Downing contemplated the pros and cons of his suit. First and foremost, he was a man, the child’s grandfather. That fact alone should tip the scales in his favor, but the courts had grown soft. Mothers accounted for something in their eyes.

An even better argument for his guardianship was his action of settling the bulk of his wealth on the girl. Anything that was not attached to the entail had now been put in trust for Anna when she attained her majority or when she married with his approval. Which meant that little Miss Harper would be the match of the season. The courts couldn’t fault him for that decision. Money always trumped sentiment. If he refused to settle the money on her if he was not granted guardianship, the courts would have no choice. They could not rule to beggar the child.

He smirked. Judith had no such resources nor wealth, save her jointure, to bequeath to Anna. Her father’s estate was small, much more so than the Grange. Even if her maternal grandfather settled all he owned on Anna, it would not be half of what Downing had done. If nothing else, the courts would take that into consideration. There was no cause for worry.

About to tear the letter into pieces, Downing stopped as the phrase “journey to Wiltshire” caught his attention. The woman was insisting on coming here to try to persuade him to do what she called “the best thing for Anna.” Her folly, more like. A fool’s errand if she believed she could persuade him to give up Simon’s only child.

Again, he made to rip the sheet, but something stayed him. Perhaps he should tell his wife Harriet, allow her to read the letter and make her judgment. Women so often understood other women better than a man could. What man would waste time trying to understand the workings of a woman’s mind?

Lord Downing rang the bell and the wizened little butler scurried in. “Tell Lady Downing to attend me now, Eccles.”

“Very good, my lord.” The ancient servant bowed and retreated as quickly as he’d entered.

In sudden need of fortification, Downing rose and made for the sideboard and its wealth of libations. He lifted the decanter of his favorite brandy and splashed some into two crystal tumblers. His grip tightened on the bottle’s neck. He’d been so used to pouring for both him and Simon… He set the carafe down and emptied the contents of the second glass into his own. Grief for his son washed over him, leaving an ache in his heart he knew from experience would not retreat for some time. He’d been able to hold it at bay most of the time, but every so often the memory of Simon surprised him, tearing the makeshift bandage off the wound he doubted would ever heal.

The door opened, and Lady Downing crept in as if wishing to avoid his attention.

“You wished to see me, my lord?” His wife’s haggard face looked as though she’d not slept in a month. Indeed, she may not have. She’d taken their son’s death as hard as he.

Downing tossed the brandy down his throat, relishing the burn that had kept him going the past months. “Yes, my dear. I’ve received a rather remarkable letter. I thought you might like to read it.” He gestured to the piece of paper on his desk.

“Who is it from?”

“Take a look.”

Harriet sidled over to the desk and picked up the letter. As she read the first line, her jaw dropped. She jerked her head up to stare at him. “So it’s true. She has recovered all of her faculties?”

“Apparently so, more’s the pity.”