Oliver didn’t bother to correct her. In truth, he suspected she was correct. No doubt, Mr. Winters-Beaton was less than pleased at having to wait for the solicitor firm to address his issue.
Glancing at the room, it looked cozy—very homy—but there was nothing there to indicate that they had been behaving in any way that was improper. The last thing he needed was for the client, however untrustworthy he was, to fire him. Not that it mattered as none of them could safely go anywhere.
Stepping out into the hall, he opened the door. But any thoughts of questioning the man and his motives faded in light of the man’s appearance. He was positively blue with cold, shivering and his unfortunately protruding teeth chattering. “Mr. Winters-Beaton?”
“Let me in, man! Before I freeze to death.”
“Come in, Cecil. There is a fire in the parlor.”
Oliver glanced over his shoulder at Polly who stood in the doorway to the parlor. Her voice was far colder than even the frigid air outside. But he stepped back and allowed Cecil to enter. The man immediately brushed past him and headed for the parlor, dropping his sodden coat along the way. It landed on the wooden floor with a plop.
Oliver stooped to pick it up and carried it through to the kitchen where he placed it on a peg to dry. The stone floors there would weather the drips better than the wooden floors elsewhere in the house.
When he returned to the parlor, Cecil was seated on an upholstered chair that he’d pulled over before the fireplace. Polly paced back and forth before the windows, alternately glowering at the man and ignoring him entirely. She was impossibly tense, her shoulders and back rigid and her jaw clenched tight. To say that Cecil rubbed her the wrong way would be, to put it mildly. But then he could hardly blame her for such a response given what he knew of their past interactions. Cecil had done nothing to endear himself to Polly over the years and could be accounted, by any stretch of the imagination, to be the villain of the piece.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Winters-Beaton? This is hardly the sort of weather one should be traveling in.”
Cecil looked up at him, one eyebrow arching toward his receding hairline. “Are you not the very solicitor I hired to address her squatting in my home? How dare you question me, sir! I will see to it that Denby and Clarkson terminate your employment with them immediately!”
“You may do as you wish. Before my obligation to any client is my obligation to my own conscience. It has come to my attention that your claims regarding ownership of Mansford Hall are presumptive, at best.”
“It doesn’t matter. Claymore will be here in the morning,” Polly insisted.
Cecil smirked. “She’s a mad woman. Clearly, you can see that. When your brother proves to be quite dead, I will assume ownership of Mansford Hall and I will petition the courts for guardianship of you, Polly, given your obviously diminished capacity!”
Oliver’s fists clenched at his sides. It was either that or breaking Cecil Winters-Beaton’s nose. The latter held far more appeal, but it brought with it complications that they did not need at present. Patience, in this instance, was definitely a virtue. “Do not threaten her. There is no documentation of her brother’s untimely death and that means, at this time, she is still within her rights to toss you back out into the snow.”
“And how would she manage? She is a woman!” Cecil protested.
“I did not say she would have to do it personally,” Oliver answered, the cool threat apparent in his voice.
Cecil’s eyes widened and his gaze roamed over Oliver with no small hint of fear. While they likely weighed the same, they were put together very differently. Oliver was significantly taller and the weight he carried was comprised of strong muscle rather than a softer midsection. From the look of Cecil’s bloodshot eyes and the broken blood vessels of his nose, he was a man who clearly enjoyed his spirits.
Then Cecil’s eyes narrowed and his gaze cut to Polly. It wasn’t hatred or even anger. It was ownership. Cecil did not simply think he owned Mansford Hall. He believed that Polly was already his.
“Polly, go upstairs to bed. I shall be up shortly. Mr. Winters-Beaton can sleep down here with Elspeth for the night,” Oliver said. “We need to have a word in private.”
“Oliver—” Polly began.
“Oliver?” Cecil repeated. “I see. It is no wonder you have decided to be her champion, Mr. Hawthorne. She is clearly paying you by means with which mere money cannot compete!”
“Polly, upstairs!” Oliver said, his tone now one of quiet menace. He turned to her and, more gently, added. “Your cousin and I will be having a conversation regarding how one treats a lady. It may require me to be less than a gentleman. I’d prefer you not see that.”
“I will go upstairs… not because you would, or even could, do anything to make me change my opinion of you,” she replied. Walking toward him, she placed her hand on his forearm and met his gaze steadily, “But because I find Cecil’s company so thoroughly disagreeable. Do not allow him to make you do something you might later find regrettable. He is not worth it.”
She swept from the room then, regal in spite of the ugliness of their current situation and all that Cecil had implied. When she was gone, Oliver turned his attention back to the man who had settled so comfortably before the hearth of the very woman he disparaged. His color had begun to improve, his complexion having lost the slightly blue tinge from the cold.
“Speak of her in that manner again and I will rip your tongue out,” Oliver warned quietly. “Further, you brought me here on false pretenses, Mr. Winters-Beaton. Your statements regarding the certainty of Captain Winters’ death were grossly exaggerated. I will be reporting all of these transgressions to my employers and I have no doubt that they will discharge you from their clientele.”
Cecil’s lips twisted in an ugly mockery of a smile as he chuckled. “What a naive fool you are, Mr. Hawthorne! I am a very wealthy man. They will never take the word of some junior clerk over a man of my considerable affluence.”
For perhaps the first time in his life, Oliver was grateful for the connections of his family. “And if that junior clerk is the son of a marquess who has been utilizing the services of Denby and Clarkson for decades? How will that fare in comparison, do you think?”
“A marquess?” Cecil parroted.
“A marquess. The Marquess of Folworth to be precise. I may only be the second son, but that still counts for something. My reputation and my honor are above reproach. Something tells me, Cecil, that your character is not so unimpeachable. I will bid you goodnight.”
Oliver turned then and headed for the narrow staircase. He paused at the parlor door, “There is a blanket on the settee. Normally it would be much too short to sleep on, but I think you will manage… oh, and Cecil, if these stairs so much as creak tonight—if there is even a hint that you dare to even breathe in the same vicinity as Polly—I will do more than just rip out your tongue.”
