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Regaining his composure, her solicitor ventured a small smile and continued their earlier conversation. “The farm is north of York.” He beckoned to his assistant hovering by the door, and the young boy hurried over with a map.
Her solicitor took it from him and pointed to an area near the Yorkshire moors. “The closest village is Bishop Malton, and the farm is here. It’s being run by the manager of the adjacent farm, an arrangement that has been in place for the past ten years, so you do not need to be concerned or rush to make arrangements.”
Ria felt the tension in her shoulders ease at his words. She hadn’t been looking forward to going north in the middle of winter. There would have to be a compelling reason for such a journey.
That left one more thing on her list of questions. “What about the house?”
“The farmhouse? I believe it has been locked up. There was a housekeeper, but she was left a bequest and has gone to live with her sister. There is, I believe…” He looked down at the papers on his desk. “Yes. Here it is. Your cousin’s solicitor writes that there is the wife of a farm laborer who would be suitable to be your housekeeper if you wish. However, she wouldn’t be available to enter your service until the spring as she is staying the winter with her daughter to help her in her confinement.”
Perwick leaned forward and gave her a beaming smile, “I trust, Mrs. St. James, in that regard I have been able to address your needs to your satisfaction?”
“Yes, thank you. You have answered all my questions.”
All he could. He couldn’t tell her why a cousin of her father, whom she had never heard of, left her his estate. Though, from what Perwick said, estate was too grand a word. Small farm was more appropriate.
He peered at her over his glasses. “May I enquire as to what you intend to do with the property?”
“I am not sure at present. I would like to visit it, but as you suggest there is no hurry, and traveling north in winter would be unwise.”
“Yes, indeed. At this time of year, it would take you a week, perhaps a little more. I believe waiting until the weather is more clement is the best course of action, and you will have more time to consider your options.”
Pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, the solicitor continued. “Regarding the other matter, setting up the St. James Trust, we will have the papers ready for you to sign within a few days.”
“Thank you.” Ria hesitated and then said, “There is one more thing, Perwick. I did not realize my father had a cousin. Do you know if I have any other relatives?”
Perwick avoided her gaze by looking at the papers on his desk. “Yes, well, it was most unexpected. At the time of your parents’ untimely demise, I did not know of his existence.”
He shuffled the papers. “I have since gone back through my father’s documents as he was your grandfather’s solicitor. From what I can determine, you have no other direct relatives. I have, however, identified two people that you share a distant ancestor with. One has the adjoining property up north, and coincidentally, another has a property that adjoins St. James Manor. I refer to the Marquess of Lyons. But, sadly, you would have to go back as far as William the Conqueror to find the connection.”
Disheartened, Ria thanked the solicitor, took her leave, and went out to the busy street, followed by Mary, her maid.
As a gust of frigid air swirled around her, she shivered and tucked her hands deeper into her sable muff, then clutched it to her for extra warmth.
Looking along High Street past the red brick buildings and the Norman church, she saw Geoffrey. He was speaking to two gentlemen standing near the stone obelisk erected recently to celebrate King George III’s jubilee.
Her stomach dropped as she recognized the men. Luc and Devon—who was, surprisingly, a distant relative. Though so far removed it did not make much difference.
Were they friends with Geoffrey? Surely not. If so, Luc was less discerning than she thought.
From this distance, they certainly seemed friendly.
Rubbing her chest, she took a deep breath. What if they were friends and Geoffrey told them he was contesting Monty’s will?
Oh, how silly! It wasn’t likely he would. After all, it wasn’t a usual topic of conversation. What would he say? By the way, I didn’t think my uncle’s marriage was consummated so I challenged the will, and damn it, I was wrong!”
Highly unlikely. Even if he did, Luc wouldn’t realize what she had done. Why would he?
The men parted company. Geoffrey walked in the direction of the inn, and the earl and his companion headed toward her. As the two men came closer, Ria compared them. Both wore greatcoats, but despite the cold they were open so she could see they were similarly dressed. Their cravats were tied simply, and their merino waistcoats were plain. They both wore breeches tucked into riding boots. Why then did they seem so different?
Luc was slightly taller, slimmer, and more elegant, his thick black hair neatly swept back.
Lord Lyons was more solidly built, his brown hair liberally streaked with blond and slightly longer and untidy, as though he often ran his hands through it. A habit she remembered he’d had as a boy.
If she were to liken them to swords, Luc would be a beautiful but lethal rapier, whereas Devon was a much less subtle but equally deadly broadsword.
Why, Ria wondered, was she comparing two fashionable gentlemen with something as dangerous as a sword? She considered them once again. There was something about the men that projected action, ruthlessness, even danger.
They were getting closer. Shaking her head at her strange thoughts, she sought refuge in the milliner’s. Much to her maid’s surprise, she pretended a fascination for a singularly hideous concoction made of puce feathers with, alas, a small stuffed bird perched on the brim.
