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She glanced at Blackwell, “You will understand why I won’t be furnishing you with a reference.”
Before her erstwhile estate agent could find his voice, Ria swept from the room and made her way to the thankfully empty morning room. Feeling suddenly very hot, she stumbled over to a window. Opening it, she took a deep breath of the frosty winter air.
She couldn’t believe what just happened. What she had said and what she’d done. Taking another deep breath, Ria straightened her spine. She was proud of what she had done, proud she had stood up for herself.
And at least two mysteries were solved. Geoffrey had told the truth—the list of so-called improvements were not his but Blackwell’s. Still, she was certain Geoffrey would have acted on the list.
She also now knew where Geoffrey got his information about her marriage.
Less than two hours after John Blackwell left, she was unsurprised to be told by Flowerday that Mr. Danielson was enquiring if she was at home to visitors.
Ria was tempted to say she wasn’t, but she wanted to find out what Geoffrey knew and judge his reactions. That meant she had to see him. The chances were it would be safe; Geoffrey surely wouldn’t attempt anything here at the manor. Though to be certain, she asked Flowerday to station footmen outside the drawing room door.
After a moment’s hesitation, she went and retrieved the case holding her pocket pistol.
Swallowing hard, she reached for the ramrod, powder, and lead balls and proceeded to cautiously load the gun. Then, after making absolutely sure she had slid the safety catch in place, she carefully placed it in her pocket.
Next she hunted for Monty. He wasn’t in the library or morning room, so she went upstairs to the portrait gallery. The long, picture-lined room was quiet. Ria surveyed the line of St. James ancestors, wondering if any others haunted the manor. Just because she hadn’t seen them, it didn’t mean they weren’t there. Did they know of recent events, and if so, what must they think?
Standing in front of Monty’s portrait, she looked up at her husband. Her eyes began to burn and misted slightly. Having his spirit close by was a relief, but… how she wished he were here in the flesh. She sighed heavily. It was all just so very hard.
As she continued to look at him, his face wavered before her eyes, and he stepped from the portrait. Monty’s kind gray eyes looked searchingly at her. “What is wrong, my dear?”
Briefly she told him about Blackwell and that Geoffrey had arrived to see her.
Monty shook his head. “I am so sorry, Ria. So very sorry.”
She frowned, unsure why Monty was apologizing. “It isn’t your fault.”
“That is kind of you, but I must take a share of the blame for all that has occurred. I had the will written, I have some responsibility for Geoffrey’s expectations, I hired John Blackwell, and I haven’t helped you with estate matters.”
Monty raised his hand when Ria began to protest. “I thought it best that you work with Blackwell, take his advice, learn from him. I don’t know how long I will be here and didn’t want you to come to rely on me. And now this…” Monty shook his head. “It is most disheartening to discover when dead that you were nowhere near as clever as you thought when alive. Most disheartening indeed.”
Monty shook his head again, then looked at her and said in a heartier tone, “Well, there is nothing to be done about that. I shall just have to be smarter now to make up for it. Let’s go and see that bacon-brained coxcomb of a nephew of mine, shall we?”
Ria entered the drawing room, Monty close behind her, to see Geoffrey Danielson closely examining the maker’s mark on the back of a Wedgwood platter. He looked up as she entered, smiled, and placed it back on the honey-hued marble mantelpiece. Gesturing to the plate, he told her, “I have always admired this piece. It is a particularly fine scene of classical ruins.”
She arched an eyebrow but ignored his comment, tempted though she was to say she had purchased it just that week. “Good afternoon, Mr. Danielson. How lovely to see you.”
She must have done a good job of hiding her irony because he approached her with a smile, hands outstretched. “Mrs. St. James”—taking her hands in his, he squeezed them—“I have heard a rumor that I can scarcely credit to be true.”
Slipping her hands from his and taking a step back, she looked at him quizzically. “What rumor?”
“You are putting the estate into a trust. Giving up ownership, in effect. Surely this cannot be true?”
Through her skirts, Ria felt the reassuring weight of her pistol. Taking a further step back, she nodded and confirmed his statement. “It is.”
There was a mom
ent of stunned silence, and then he asked, “But why?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued in a cajoling tone, “Do you think it wise? You are young and will surely marry again. The estate will be your dowry. You cannot hope to marry if you are impecunious.”
“But I’m not penniless. I have my own property, recently left to me by a relative.”
He waved his hand, the gesture dismissive. “A small farm in the north cannot compare to St. James Manor, the estate and the London town house.”
How, Ria wondered, did he know where the farm was? Then she answered her own question. Blackwell had been even more forthcoming than she’d suspected. “Perhaps, but it is sufficient for my needs.”
“What if you marry and have children? What about them and their inheritance?”
